I should have come back for you.

I’m so sorry that I didn’t.

I’m sorry that I turned out this way, I’m sorry for letting you down. Out of everybody, you’re the only one that matters, the only one that ever has. I’m so fucking sorry I disappointed you-hell, I’m sorry that I’m disappointing you NOW, wherever you are.

If this is the price for leaving you alone in that darkness, I’ll pay it, gladly, till the day I die.

Unfortunately, that may be soon.

S’agapo. I’m so goddamn sorry.

Alan got to Starbucks fifteen minutes early, so he wasn’t really expecting to see Lance there. His heart beat furiously in his chest, but it wasn’t from fear of being caught anymore. Since the meeting at Lager’s, he and Lance had met up at least six different times in six different places, and nobody had recognized them or paid attention to them in the slightest. Alan hadn’t expected it’d be that easy-after all, Lance was pretty easy to pick out in a crowd, but if people knew who he was, they stayed away for politeness’s sake. To the casual observer, Alan and Lance were just two guys grabbing a beer. Nothing about their actions suggested that the pair were any more then friends. Alan still wore the hat and still picked places that were a reasonable distance away from Orlando’s main vein, but he had long since gotten comfortable.

If he had any nerves at all, it was because of Lance and Lance only. Nothing had happened, no kiss, no touching under the table, no come on, but the implications were still there and Alan felt them.

Lance was never anything but polite and funny and wonderful, and most of all-understanding. He never tried to push Alan further then he was willing to go, and that was the most endearing thing to him.

Nyx had laughed as Alan had come home after one of their outings to tell her all about Lance. He had been breathless and happy and otherwise completely “poofu’d” out, as she had termed it.

“So he’s a perfect Southern gentlemen, then?” She had asked, amusement in her eyes, and Alan had rolled his eyes and flipped her off. “Yes, he is.”

“That’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. I’m going to buy you two parasols and big floppy hats.” She had teased, and Alan had shoved her.

“Shut the hell up. I’m having an epiphany here!” Alan scolded, and her eyes had widened.

“You’re in love with him?”

Alan shrugged, his jaws hurting from the huge smile that would not vacate his face.

“I’m in something with him.” He had admitted, and Nyx had reached over and ruffled his hair, a little grin on her lips.

“You’re in like with him.”

Alan considered the words, sinking down into an armchair.

“Yeah,” he mused softly. “I could be in like with him.”

Alan could not help grinning to himself as he located an empty booth (always in the back and never near a window) and slid inside. These past few weeks had been like being released from a cage-even Christobel was easier to deal with, though she was still on her rampage of getting Nyx out of the house. Alan was able to endure her fits of rage and her threats only because he had Lance to look forward to-most of the time everything else was white noise. The monotony of work, the fear of his parents, the fear of being outed-it was almost worth this, whatever it was.

Like. I’m in like with you.

“What are you smiling at?”

Alan started and looked up to see Lance raising an eyebrow at him, smirking, and his heart did a swooping dive.

“Nothing. Having a blonde moment.” Alan said slowly, and Lance chuckled. It was deep and warm and Alan felt like a foolish girl who couldn’t stop blushing.

As they always did (to keep up friendly appearances) Lance stuck out his hand and Alan shook it, trying to ignore the little bolts of excitement that the contact sent through his body. Lance sat down and Alan couldn’t help but marvel at how good and loose and comfortable Lance seemed to be. It was something he couldn’t get over every time they met. He seemed to be so at ease with everything that it transferred over to Alan, at least for the time being.

“Did you order yet, or…” Lance tipped his head towards the counter, questioning, and Alan shook his head. “No, not yet. I don’t know what you like.”

Lance shrugged. “Coffee is coffee.”

Alan guffawed. “Not in this place. There’s at least sixteen different kinds of foam and at least a thousand ways to mix it and shake it. Nyx would kill me if she knew I was here. She has a personal vendetta against this place.”

Lance snickered. “She doesn’t seem like the coffee type.”

“Only if she’s throwing it in your face.” Alan admitted, and the other man laughed again.

“Speaking of Nyx, Chris told me she’s been sick lately. Is she okay?” Lance peered at him from across the table and Alan hesitated.

Nyx is not sick. She’s an alcoholic.

God, how good it would feel to get it off of his shoulders, he thought. To tell somebody, anybody, how scared he was for his best friend. Nyx wasn’t sleeping and she wasn’t eating and she barely spoke except to scream at people to leave her alone. Alan almost grimaced as he thought of the horrible sounds that came out of her bathroom these days. To tell Lance-wonderful, understanding, nonjudgmental Lance, to share the burden, to admit fear-it would be a godsend.

But Alan couldn’t. Lance was one of Chris’s best friends and he doubted very much that Lance would keep a secret like that from a man who was almost his brother. Plus, Nyx had been very understanding and very discreet about Alan’s own situation, and he owed her as much.

Yeah, but your situation won’t kill you.

Alan met Lance’s eyes. “She just caught one of those bugs that are going around. Plus, Christobel is kind of giving her shit about staying at the house, so she’s kind of stressed about finding a place to live.” It was a bald-faced lie and Alan hated himself for it, but what was he supposed to do?

Lance nodded in sympathy. “I hope she gets better, man. Chris sounded really worried about her. I like Nyx a lot-she strikes me as the type of girl that can handle herself.”

Alan smiled distantly. “Yeah, she’s tough.”

He apparently didn’t sound too convincing, because Lance, perceptive as he was, cocked his head to the side.

“Does it bother you to talk about her?”

Alan shook his head. “No. Things aren’t like that anymore.”

Lance nodded, playing with his car keys, waiting for Alan to elaborate.

He took a deep breath. “It’s just…well…I’m worried about her, that’s all.”

Lance look concerned. “She’s that sick?”

Before Alan knew what was coming out of his mouth, he blurted out the truth-well, as close to the truth as he would allow himself to get.

“The past few years have been…difficult for her. Combined with her…well, her disposition, sometimes she can’t be tough. That’s why she’s sick.”

Every word was a stab of betrayal against Nyx and Alan cursed himself; goddamn it, how could he have said that?! Lance wasn’t dumb, he was anything but! What the fuck was wrong with him!? Alan almost groaned aloud and could not bring himself to meet Lance’s eyes, knowing that if he did, the other man would see everything. And everything was enough to get him killed.

Instead, Lance did the most wonderful thing. He remained adorably ignorant and merely nodded in that nonjudgemental ‘Lance’ way that Alan was starting to love.

“Well, you don’t need to worry. Chris is going to take care of her, trust me. He may look like a hardass on the outside, but helping people is what Chris loves to do.  It’s like an involuntary action on his part by now.” Lance’s words were intended to reassure Alan, but they didn’t.

He shook his head, smiling grimly. “Nyx isn’t the kind of person that accepts help.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “I know you’ve known her a lot longer then I have, Alan, but she didn’t seem that militant when I met her. In fact, she seems pretty levelheaded.”

Alan looked down at the table.

“When we were in high school, I was being harassed by a bunch of assholes. It was mostly standard hazing shit-why I was such a little freak, why I thought I was better then everybody else because my parents had money, why I hung out with people like Nyx. It was annoying but I mostly ignored it when I could. One day, they got tired of me not playing their stupid little game. They drove all the way out to Lakeview to find me, because that’s where I hung out most of the time, with Nyx and her family.” Alan stopped to take a deep breath-this memory was something he tried to block out, especially now, but Lance’s eyes on him were too penetrating and too warm to ignore, they made him want to spill everything. Dangerous. He forced himself to continue.

“They passed by, didn’t see us, but evidently Nyx saw them pass by, because the next day after school, she approached them in the parking lot. She didn’t say a word. She walked straight up to the biggest one, swung her backpack, and when it hit his face, his entire mouth was shattered. By the time I got to her, she had already attacked the other one, the one that harassed me the most. Once she started…” Alan swallowed and could not continue for a few seconds, and was all too aware of Lance’s eyes widening at this recollection.

 “Once she started, she couldn’t quit. She got on top of him and started scratching and punching and hitting him in the head with her backpack. Nobody was stopping her. Nobody was helping him because he had been an asshole to most of them. But nobody was cheering or laughing. When the cops got there, it took two of them to drag her off, and they broke her arm in the process. That was the only time she ever made a sound, and it was like she was laughing as she was screaming. Sometimes when I look at her, I hear that goddamn noise. I hear her laughing as she’s being dragged away.” Alan didn’t realize he was trembling, didn’t know why he was telling Lance Bass this, didn’t know why he picked this particular memory to share with a boyband popstar, did not know why he was giving his best friend’s secrets away like poisonous candy. He had tried all these years to not give people reasons to judge Nyx, but if Lance did, so be it. It was out of his system.

“What happened to the guys?” Lance asked quietly, and Alan took a deep breath. Get it out, get it all out.

“When they got to the hospital, all three of them, it wasn’t pretty. The guy that went down first is pretty much okay as far as I know. He had to have complete dental surgery afterwards and never fucked with me again,” Alan laughed mirthlessly. “but the other guy, he’s almost brain damaged. Their families pressed charges, and Nyx almost went to jail, but she…she got out of trouble, someone helped her out. I remember being in the triage room with her when the cops came to talk to her. Christobel was there, she was the one the family sent to watch over the situation. I remember Nyx wearing her school uniform, sitting up on the table, someone putting a cast on her arm. She didn’t have any remorse, she was totally calm, totally removed from the situation. I remember the cops holding her backpack. When they opened it and pulled out at least five bricks, she started laughing. Like it was all a huge joke.”

Bile rose in his stomach as Alan’s brain yanked out those images and plastered them in front of his eyes, forcing him to remember that horrible moment, that sly, mocking laugh. In front of him, Lance’s eyes were so wide they looked like dinner plates, and Alan chuckled wryly despite himself.

“When we went back to school the next week, I thought people would give me shit for having a girl fight my battles. But nobody said a word to me. Nobody ever called me a rich little shithead ever again.”

Lance took a deep breath. He looked nauseous and uncomfortable and Alan felt a pinprick of remorse for sharing this with him. The memory was too sick for therapy, so what the fuck was he doing telling Lance Bass, of all people?

“You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding.” Lance swallowed, hard.

Alan sighed. “I wish I was.”

“Does…Chris know all of this?”

Alan shrugged. “I doubt it. Nyx says she doesn’t remember most of it. She’s not the type of person to air her dirty laundry.”

Lance shook his head. “I just can’t see Nyx doing that to anybody. She doesn’t seem that violent.”

Alan bit his lip. “You wouldn’t think that when you look at her.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Lance said slowly, and they fell into tense silence as people laughed and conversed around them, typing on laptops and talking on cell phones. The setting was way too surreal for the situation, the story, the whole goddamn bit. Alan could tell that Lance was struggling to find a way to ask a question, and before he could open his mouth, Alan shook his head.

“She’ll never fuck with Chris that way, Lance, so don’t worry. Trust me, if anything, nobody better ever fuck with Chris.”

Lance bit his lip, but he looked relieved. “I didn’t want to ask it.”

Alan smiled. “I know. I get it. Look, Nyx only did what she did because those guys fucked with me and then they rode by her family’s house. To Nyx, that’s an implied threat. You do NOT fuck with her family. Ever.”

“Yeah, but don’t you think that’s a little extreme? I mean, one of the guys is brain damaged, dude.  I mean, I’m sitting here trying to separate the girl I met from the girl you just described and I can’t. I just can’t do it.” Lance sighed and tugged at his hair in frustration.

Alan met his eyes. “Extreme,” he said softly, “is assuming that the two are different.”

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I was forcing myself to walk away from the toilet. My head was swimmy and my stomach felt tender and moody and I wanted to lay down, just for a little while. Five minutes, even. Christobel’s words ricocheted around my brain and banged around in there and I knew she had a point, even though I hated to admit it.

I avoided the kitchen and slowly made my way up the steps, but halfway up I couldn’t do it anymore and I slowly sat down to catch my breath. I was sweating as if I had been in the gym all morning except having a nervous breakdown and puking my innards out. I yanked my cell phone from my pocket and forced myself to straighten up. I had to call Chris back or he’d come over here and I didn’t think I could handle seeing him right now or having to lie. I hated to lie to him and I tried to avoid it at all costs.

I pressed send and put the phone to my ear and closed my eyes. The cicadas were there, they were always there. My entire body felt sticky and my mouth tasted like rancid pizza. Insanity. That’s what this was. Fucking insanity.

Chris picked up on the fifth ring and he sounded breathless, as if he had been running around.

“Hey you, why didn’t you pick up?”

I cleared my throat. “Sorry, I was in the bathroom and didn’t hear it ring. What’s up?”

“Just taking a break from the studio. I’m about to go back in, but I’m glad you called. How are you feeling, babe?”

His concern and his voice and the sound of his breathing made my heart constrict and for a really bad moment there I thought I’d start bawling. But I didn’t, of course.

“I’m feeling okay. It’s just hot as balls out there and I feel sticky and gross. I’m glad you called me, though.” Lies.

Chris laughed. “Of course I’d call you, woman.”

Just then, Christobel started screeching from the kitchen about the mess I had left and I clenched my teeth, pressing the phone harder to my ear. But Chris had ears like a bat.

“What the hell is all that noise?” He asked, and I sighed. “Christobel is having a hissy fit.”

“About what?” He asked incredulously, but Christobel’s yelling reached new volumes and I groaned, trying to stand up without puking all over the staircase.

“Lord only knows.”

Chris sighed in exasperation. “Why don’t you just pack a bag and come to my house and get away from that crazy bitch? I’ll be home in a few hours and you know where everything is.”

I stopped my slow ascent up the stairs, the noises from downstairs becoming faint. Chris’s house, alone. Chris’s house had liquor. Liquor. Tons of it. A whole fucking barroom of it. My mouth felt like the Sahara desert. Fuck.

“Nyx, you there? I gotta go soon.” Chris’s voice was anxious and I yanked myself back to the present, though everything still sounded like it was coming from another room.

“I don’t have a key.” I had to force the words out. It felt like someone had coated my throat in vinyl.

“Come to the studio, I have mine. You know where it is, right?” I heard Chris cover the phone and say something to somebody on his end,  and after a few scuffling noises I heard him say something like ‘dub’ and then his breath was loud in my ear again.

“I’m back, sorry. Do you know where the studio is?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, get your fine ass over here. It’s studio number six. I gotta go, babe. Muah!” Chris smacked into the phone and I laughed despite myself, smacking back.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

“Hurry!” The phone clicked off and I shook my head, pocketing it. I didn’t realize that I was smiling but as soon as I hung up the phone, I remembered what going to Chris’s house would entail. The smile faded. I grasped the railing on the stairs and took a deep breath, but it didn’t work.

I was going to be all alone with liquor in Chris’s house. I hadn’t had a drink in two weeks. I was a recovering alcoholic.

This was not good. This was the opposite of what was good. In fact, the whole idea scared me so much that I almost called Chris back and told him I wasn’t coming after all, that I’d wait till he got home to visit.

And then I realized it was the first time I had ever been scared of drinking the liquor, instead of automatically doing whatever it took to get it inside of me. This epiphany did not invoke any sense of pride-in fact, it scared me even more. Who am I without liquor, I thought, dazedly stumbling to my room. Who am I if I cannot drink? What kind of PUSSY am I when I am scared of something that makes me feel so good?

At the time, it escaped my notice that the same principles could also be applied to Chris and I, but I was a dumbfuck back then, so I’m not surprised.

I got to my room and I went to the bathroom and I leaned against the mirror and looked at myself. In the reflection, I saw the toilet and I laughed mirthlessly to myself. Fuck you, toilet. I fucking hate you. Go fuck yourself, you goddamn porcelain piece of shit. I refocused on myself and almost got sick again at what I saw.

My eyes looked so dull that I might as well have had cataracts. Bags hung from underneath them and my skin was ashy and my cheekbones were showing. My hair looked dirty and lank, my lips were chapped. This is what an alcoholic looks like, I thought to myself. This is what you get when you try to do the right thing about the wrong thing. This is where your decisions got you.

This made my stomach rumble uneasily, but I ignored it.

“This is not a face that Chris could love.” I said aloud, to the toilet and the bathtub and to the sink and to the fucking mirror, the goddamn mirror that shows you the face behind the face behind the face. Saying Chris’s name reminded me that I had to hurry, had to go, had to get the key and go to the big house with all my poisons to wait on a man who I loved but could not tell. This is heaven, goddammit, this is love, is it worth it?

I splashed cold water on my face, stripped, flipped off the toilet again and stepped into the hot spray of the shower. When the water hit my body, it was like someone had taken a towel and smacked me on the back of the head. I took a gasping breath and water dripped into my mouth, I felt the layers of dull bewilderment melt away.  I had forgotten how good a shower felt, how it felt to be clean. The only thing that had been on my brain lately was simply, endure. Don’t bother getting clean when you’re going to get dirty again. Get it all out, endure it, get through it, whatever it takes.

I washed my hair and shaved and made sure to douse myself in satsuma shower gel. I rinsed my face with apricot scrub. I tried to make the best of what I had, even if it wasn’t much. By the time I got out of the shower I was already ‘late’ by Chris’s standards and I had to force myself to ignore the toilet, get ready. Chris is waiting, Nyx. Life is waiting. Get ready. Hurry.

I blowdried my hair and put on a little makeup and tried my best to hide the bags under my eyes to the best of my ability. By the time I was dressed, the need to puke was almost blinding, but I held it back. As gross as it sounds (and it is) I swallowed it back down. No, goddammit. You stay down there. I’ve got shit to do.

I threw some clothes into a bag and made sure I had my sleeping pills, even if they were worth nothing. The clothes I had selected to wear were way too baggy but I had no time to change. By the time I had grabbed my shit and approached the front door, Chris was already calling my cell phone.

The bright sunlight hurt my eyes and it was too hot and life was too real and my fear was painful and immediate, but I swallowed it back down. No, I won’t do this anymore. I’m not going to give in.

Endure.

Chris was waiting outside for Nyx when she pulled into the parking lot. He hopped off of the guardrail (where he had been sitting for the last ten minutes, checking his phone and tapping his feet, goddamn that girl, where was she?) and was across the parking lot before she even stepped out of her car.

Seeing her these days was like a three way assault of emotions-relief, torment, and concern, and they all fought for first place. When she faced him, Chris could not help noticing how her clothes hung off of her in places where they used to cling, how makeup couldn’t hide the weariness in her features, how her actions seemed sluggish when she used to dart around like a hummingbird. But try as he might to be concerned, the sight of her smile still twisted his stomach around and he could not help smiling back. The words tried to escape but Chris bit his tongue and wrapped his arms around her instead.

“What took you so long, woman?” He teased, and Nyx rolled her eyes. “I had to take a shower, Kirkpatrick. I smelled like an ashtray, for Christ sakes.”

Chris leaned over and sniffed her hair. Nyx made a face and gently punched him in the side. It felt as substantial as a puff of air.

“What are you doing, you freak?”

“Smelling my woman.” Chris teased, and Nyx snorted. “Let’s not get down to Eminem’s level, now.”

Chris gasped in mock fear. “You can’t say that! He’ll write another song about me!”

The side of Nyx’s mouth turned up. “Let’s hope he’s not that desperate for material.”

He mock scowled at her and she rolled her eyes and nudged him with her shoulder. “Stop your pouting, Baio, and give me your key.”

“I see how it is, don’t even want to come and hang out with me for awhile.” Chris sighed dramatically.

“I would, but I have some errands to run before I go back to Boyband Land.” Nyx shifted her stance and her eyes were focused on Chris, but she seemed to be somewhere else and he had the very unpleasant feeling that he was being lied to. Again.

But instead of confronting her (as he should have done, the Undisputed Truth reminded him AGAIN) Chris merely dug in his pocket and handed her the key, which she slid into her bag.

“What time are you going to be home?” She asked, and Chris tried to push away the nagging voice of distrust, but to no avail. It was hard to look her in the eye and not show that he knew she was fucking with him.

“Around 8 or 9. Eleven at the latest. If you get hungry, order a pizza. What kind of errands?”

Nyx shrugged. “Gotta stop by work and ask for my schedule. Run to the bank. Grab a paper. You know, usual shit.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him and Chris closed his eyes and hated the way he automatically forgave her when her mouth was anywhere on his body. He could not help himself.

Her lips were soft and familiar and Chris smelled satsuma and mint and the chemical smell of makeup, the fabric softener she used on her clothes. Everything about her smelled right and felt right, but Chris could not shake the horrible feeling that he was holding someone else.

Their mouths separated and he didn’t want to let go of her, didn’t want to allow her to go and do whatever she was planning on doing, which was probably not as innocent as running to the bank. He didn’t think she was cheating on him-she had too much honor in her to do that, and besides, Nyx had been scared enough to be with HIM, of all people. Suddenly the album seemed insanely unimportant and Chris wanted to take her to his house and be with her in any capacity and not let her leave. This crazy thinking almost caused him to blurt out the words, but he made himself release her waist and step away.

Nyx did not seem to sense his reluctance to let her go. Instead, she turned her cheek towards him and tapped it, and Chris pecked her.

“Go back in the studio and rock out. I’ll see you at the house when you get back.” She smiled and squeezed his hand and Chris made himself return her grin, even though the action felt strange on his face. She turned with one last wink and walked back to her car.

Chris took a few steps back towards the studio, but could not let himself go back inside until after he watched her pull out of the parking spot and turn out onto the street, a wave in the rearview mirror, and then she was gone.

Gone to wherever Chris could not follow.

I don’t do the things I told Chris I was going to do. You probably already know that by now. I go to Lagers and I sit there and order three things off of the menu that I don’t even eat. I sit in our regular booth and I get served by our regular waitress, who asks me if I want my usual beer. It takes every last piece of strength I have left to tell her no, to bring me plenty of bread and water. I look at the bar behind her and I gulp, thinking about a tall perspiring glass of wonderful beer, the smell of tequila in a small shot glass, the smell of it clearing out my sinuses.

As I wait, I stare across the table at the back of the booth, where Chris’s head usually is. We come here a lot and it’s weird being here without him and for the first time in my life I wish I was weak so I could go back and see him and not do this. Out of all the ways I use to trick myself into not needing a drink, he’s the best one. I close my eyes and I think of his dark eyes and his smile and the way he laughs and moves and touches me. Chris Kirkpatrick, I need you. I need you to remind me who I am, tell me I’m not a monster. Chris, you’re worth all of this pain, all of this fear, these nights in front of the toilet. Chris, I need to let you go for your own good but I’m too selfishly addicted to the way your voice feels in my ear, the way you sang that night at that bar along to Def Leppard, the way your fingers find their way into my hair. I need you to tease me and to make me believe, even if it is a lie, that I’m better then the life I’m living. All these things I should tell you but I cannot. Fucking joke. A girl like me has no place in your world. I’m a fucking waitress. You’re goddamn rich and famous and talented. What a joke.

There’s suddenly water and bread in front of me and my waitress bustles off and neither looks appetizing; in fact, looks anything but, but I pick up the bread and I tear it in pieces and I stuff a piece into my mouth.

My stomach does not like this and tries to send it back up, but I can’t puke in here and I can’t help but notice there’s two guys in a booth across the restaurant looking at me with curiosity. Chris has taught me how to recognize paparazzi, and these two fit the profile. They’re wearing loose clothing with lots of pockets and I can’t see a camera but I get a weird feeling that there’s one around. I avert my eyes and I try to look inconspicuous. They eye me closely once more but go back to their burgers. I’m not fooled by this.

Oh, I’m so sick. So sick. My eyes dart back to the bar and I make myself look away. I came here for a reason and that reason is not alcohol but I wish I would have ordered to go. I want to try and combat this withdrawal. I’m prepared to eat till I burst and puke it back up, but if my plans are going to be carried out then I have to gain weight. I have to get back to looking normal again, even if I’m just pretending. My stomach lurches and I wish the paparazzi would leave so I could eat in peace; I don’t know how Chris bore it all those years.

My burgers come and my cheese fries come and the smell and sight of them make my stomach turn. I almost ask the waitress to box them up for me but the place is getting busy and I know if I run from paparazzi, they’ll follow me wherever I go. I don’t want to lead them back to Chris’s house. I slowly pick up a fork and I eat.

You know when you eat a lot and you physically cannot put any more down your throat or else you’ll gag? That’s what my first bite felt like. And my second. And my third. I force myself to eat every fry loaded with bacon and cheese and every piece of burger and onion rings; I scarf them down like I haven’t eaten in days, months, years. With each bite, it feels like my stomach will burst. Fuck it, you know the drill-I need something in me besides liquor, any substitute will do. My eyes keep going back to the bar and I keep making myself eat and eat and eat. When I have two bites of my burger left, I almost slump over, catching myself just in time. I beckon over my waitress and ask for the bill, trying not to look desperate, trying not to stare back at the paparazzi in the corner. The bill comes, I pay, I count to thirty five, I leave.

I drive away from Lagers as fast as I can and my heart is pumping and I’m sweating profusely. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die. My phone rings-I ignore it. I’m almost out of gas-I ignore it.

Despite my pain, in my head, I start to make plans.

Necessity. That’s all they are. That’s what I think most people didn’t get about me.

I did what I had to do.

Wouldn’t you, if you had to?