Page 8 of Outspoken

“Fake it until you become it.”

“Each reluctant ‘no’ will eventually become a ‘hell no’.”

They fed me so many generic lines in rehab, and I hope they're right because affirmations are all I can cling to.

I face Miguel and study the softness in his gaze. He doesn't question or shame me or say things like,“What were you thinking? Why do you even have these?”He pockets the pills and then smiles like he's proud of me.

His kind, silent gesture and accepting brown eyes are all it takes for me to break. I can't stop the tears as I sniff and lick at my lips, trying not to ugly cry while he watches.

His eyes tense with concern and he brushes a few tears away with his thumb. “Where's your room?” he asks.

“All the way back,” I choke out.

He takes my hand and leads me down the hallway, then I direct him to my bedroom. I lean down to grab the lamp from the floor, but Miguel is quick to grab it first. He sets it on my nightstand, then plugs it in.

“Thanks,” I say softly, clicking the lamp on, not wanting to sleep in darkness.

I slump onto the bed, sitting upright with my last ounce of energy. I'm sure I smell, but I don't have the energy to shower. I don't even have the strength to kick off my shoes.Guess they stay on.Unable to move, I stare at my feet.

Miguel kneels to unlace my sneakers, and I weakly shake my head as fresh tears pool in my eyelids.Stop being so sweet. I don’t deserve this.All I’ve done is fail. I took someone’s life. And I was just thinking about getting high instead of staying sober to help my brother and best friend.

I’m awful.

Unaware of my swirling thoughts, Miguel slips off my shoes and pushes them under the bed. Then he meets my gaze without judgment.

I wince at myself because I must look so pathetic—blotchy skin, puffy cheeks, a weepy expression. A woman who can’t handle her shit.

With a soft smile, he stands, encouraging me to shift so he can grab the covers. I roll under them and he tucks me in. He fucking tucks me in with such tenderness that I completely lose it, covering my face and sobbing. I curl onto my side to hide myself.

I become even more pathetic as I choke out, “Don’t leave. Please don’t. I can’t be alone.”

I hear him kick off his sneakers, then the bed dips from his weight.

“Come here,” he says gently, urging me to face him.

When I do, he pulls me into a bear hug. Since I’ve already fallen this low—begging Brody’s friend, who I just met, to stay with me—I relax into the warmth of the hug and breathe in his comforting vanilla scent.

He caresses my hair. “You're safe, Amber. I know you’re strong. You’ll get through this.”

If I wasn’t crying, I’d laugh. With all the stories he’s probably heard about me, he should know I never get through anything.

I only relapse.

My fists grip the front of his shirt as I cry into his chest, getting snot everywhere. I'm not sure how long I sob—minutes, an hour—but he holds me firmly the entire time, soothing me with tender caresses along my back and shoulders. Eventually, the tears stop and I drift asleep in his arms.

I may slip into peaceful dreams or nightmares. I never know which.

Chapter Three

Amber

I ADD RED TO THE unicorn I'm coloring at the kitchen table. I feel like I'm five, but coloring sometimes distracts me, and it's part of my 'trigger toolkit' that the therapist in rehab helped me assemble. The kit includes items like sudoku puzzles, nail polish, a journal, and coloring books. There’s also a list of feel-good activities: taking a hot shower, doing a hobby, messaging a friend.

I already took a hot shower, I don't have any hobbies, and my only real friend is dealing with her own issues from being moved to a different group home. At least Paige got her phone back. We’ve been texting these past few weeks, which has helped us both. But she’s got a lot on her plate today, and I don’t want to bother her with my gloomy mood.

Thus, I'm coloring. Then I'll try to mend my chipped and cracked nails. I'd love a manicure but salons are off the table. Searching for a job is my top priority. I've applied to over a hundred positions, writing targeted cover letters for each one. So far, no callbacks. Tough market.

I stare at the stack of letters across the table. The top one is a yellow envelope with big red words: 'Final Notice'. Every time I look at it, the pressure inside me builds. This morning, I even opened one of my old cam girl sites, scrolling through some of my previous top clients: BarneyBearLove, OxfordComma34, and allinthehand. I almost opened a live feed and got to work since the bills are piling up and money is running out.

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