Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [58]
“Spiritually dead?” I ask, exhaling smoke. “Well, I’m not religious. And,” I add with a smile, “I’m not remotely offended.”
For once, Tommy doesn’t smile. He stops walking and steps in front of me so that we’re standing face to face. “Spirituality doesn’t always have to do with religion,” he says.
I know what he’s doing. I know that sober people are obsessed with everyone else believing in God—even though they called it a “higher power” so as not to put off people who weren’t Catholic or whatever—and Tommy is going to try to do the God hard-sell on me.
“Absolutely,” I say and hope that’s the end of the conversation and we can just walk back to the rehab in peace.
“Going to the beach and staring at the ocean can be spiritual,” he says, standing perfectly still. “Going to a pet store and getting on your hands and knees and playing with puppies can be spiritual. Going on a walk and smelling flowers can be spiritual.”
For a straight guy, Tommy is pretty dramatic, and something about his heartfelt spirituality lecture makes me smile. I have to admit that sitting on a beach, playing with puppies, and smelling flowers sounds pretty damn nice. And I can’t remember the last time I did any of those things.
Group that afternoon isn’t all that different from group the day before, but this time the person who speaks gets to decide who talks next. I sit there picking my cuticles, feeling fairly safe that I’m doing a decent job of remaining mostly invisible. And I’m glad for it once the meeting gets going and I start hearing the bullshit coming out of people’s mouths. A “pink cloud” is apparently a space you get in when you’re sober and everything seems so good that you have to pinch yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming, and roughly half the Pledges residents claim to be there. I can’t for the life of me figure out why everyone is claiming something so ridiculous—it’s not like they’re being graded on their rehab behavior and performance. They’re probably all actors, I think. Like everyone else in L.A.
Finally it’s the hot guy’s turn to speak. After introducing himself as “Justin, alcoholic,” he says, “I have to be honest—I’m really not feeling all this pink cloud shit.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes, and I basically fall in love with him on the spot, for both his cheekbones as much as the fact that he seems like the only honest one in the room. “I miss using with every pore in my body. I fucking hate being sober. It just feels so…unnatural for me.”
“That’s just your disease talking to you,” Tommy says.
I expect Justin to snap that diseases don’t talk, and that most people don’t believe all this alcoholism-is-a-disease crap, anyway, but he actually nods.
“I know it is, and I know this feeling will pass because it did the other day, but I guess I’m just…pissed off that I’m an alcoholic, a drug addict, whatever. It just doesn’t seem fair that my friends can party and not end up in here with all you crazies.”
Even though I expect people to be offended, everyone nods and laughs and Robin even claps. She’s probably trying to sleep with him, I reason. But I can’t begin to explain what’s going on with the rest of them. They know they’re crazy and find it funny? People who know they’re crazy should be seriously alarmed and not amused, I decide. Even Justin starts laughing, and I find myself incredibly confused by his behavior. He seems so cool, but maybe he’s just as weird as everyone else. I mean, why is he looking so damn cheerful when he just shared about how pissed off he is?
Just as I’m deciding that Justin may not be worth my adoration, I hear him say my name. I’m simultaneously shocked, flattered, and horrified but try to remain cool.
“I’m Amelia, and I’m a drug addict,” I start and pause for them all to say my name in unison like they’re students in some sort of special ed class. My fear of speaking suddenly evaporates and I feel annoyed and angry and unable to be fake like the rest of them.