Page 168 of Becoming Us

The door closed behind her.

Alone again.

Good.

This part I was used to.

I reached for my neck, searching for the medallion—then froze. I sat up, heart in my throat, eyes darting around the room.

It was gone.

I didn’t have it on.

Did she take it?

I hit the call button and tugged at the IV in my arm just as the nurse walked in.

“What is it?”

“My necklace—it’s gone. I had it last night. Did someone take it off? I need it back. Right now,” I said, too fast, breath catching.

A placating look softened her features. “Please calm down. I have it.”

My chest deflated. I sank back against the pillows, heart still pounding.

“We had to take it off, and you asked me to keep it safe. I’ll bring it back in just a minute,” she added, hands up, like I might shatter.

I nodded. She stepped out.

When it was back around my neck and I was alone again, I clutched it between my thumb and forefinger and tugged gently.

You knew what you were doing. You married her. And you still left me with her.

I let myself miss him for one second before sinking back against the pillows.

It hadn’t worked this time. But I’d make sure the next one stuck.

Maybe then I’d get to tell him to his face just how fucked up his parenting really was.

Rehab had been hell.

They didn’t let me sleep all day or waste time staring at the ceiling. I had to go to meetings, sit through therapy, and participate in a bunch of exercises I wanted nothing to do with—because, as far as I was concerned, I didn’t have a problem in the first place. What I wanted was to get the fuck out, crawl into bed, rot in peace, and have a fucking drink.

And a smoke.

And maybe a bump.

Go out. Pretend I was fine.

My mom kept me there for an extra four weeks, backed by the staff, who claimed I was uncooperative and emotionally unavailable. By the time I got out, the semester was already halfway over, and I was forced into weekly therapy with someone I hadn’t picked and didn’t plan to speak to.

I did my best to ignore her—dodged her calls, blocked her number more than once. Eventually, I took off to New York. I could’ve stayed there, wasting away, if Holly hadn’t begged meto come back to LA. I was still technically enrolled, even though I had no intention of showing up to class. Why would I? I just needed a little more time.

Then maybe I’d finally find the courage to be done.

I’d tried. I really had. Every night, I stood in the bathroom, lights dimmed, hands shaking. The bottles waited for me on the counter—full, silent, patient. But I always backed down. Took one more drink. One more bump. Left it to chance.

Maybe it could just happen. Maybe one night, my heart would give out and spare me the decision.