Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
“I guess he’s going back out on tour,” I say, leaning against the counter as I drink my tea.
I’m still thinking about Ashton Banks, the rock star I spent the past month trying to help kick his drug habit. In the end, though, he just didn’t want to. He’s pushing sixty years old and has lost touch with his entire family over his poor choices. If that didn’t make him wise up, I’m not sure anything will.
“Well, he was sober when he left Beckett,” Amelia says. “Maybe something you said will stick.”
I give her a sad smile. “I hope so. He’s not going to live much longer if he doesn’t make changes.”
I never told Amelia my “rock star” patient was Ashton Banks. We talk about our client cases, but never use their names so we can respect their privacy.
“I’ll get some coffee during my lunch hour,” Amelia promises.
“I’ll get it. I have to get some other stuff anyway.” I push off the counter. “I better go get in the shower.”
I’m still thinking about Ashton Banks as I wait for the water to get hot. He seemed like a genuinely nice man who’s been wrapped up in drugs for forty years now and just can’t imagine an alternative lifestyle.
Could I have done more? Was I too bad cop and not enough good cop? These aren’t just the questions I ask myself in the shower when a patient doesn’t make it through the program—I ask them while riding the El Train to work, lying in bed at night staring up at the ceiling or wandering the aisles of the grocery store.
My work is my life. I want it that way, but it hits hard when I feel like I’ve failed a patient.
As I lather coconut-scented shower gel onto my arms, I try to envision washing away the lingering feelings I have over Ashton. The statistics on beating addiction are bleak, but I pull for every patient to beat them.
Not everyone makes it. I know that, but it’s still hard. And it’s one thing when a patient is belligerent and nasty, but when I can see the pain in their eyes—how badly they wish they could beat back their demons—it’s tough.
My new session of patients deserves to get the very best of me, though. This work is emotionally taxing, and several of my colleagues take a break in between sessions to recharge themselves mentally.
Not me, though. Where would I go? What would I do? I’m in debt up to my eyeballs with student loans, so I can’t justify time off.
I finish my shower and dry my unruly mane of long dark blond curls, wondering yet again why I don’t just get a practical, short haircut. I keep it pulled back in a ponytail more than half the time, anyway. And my last date was more than a year ago, so it’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.
I put on my favorite black pants, a maroon blouse, black booties and some light makeup, then grab my toast and lunch bag on my way out the door.
“You’re good enough, you’re smart enough and doggone it, people like you!” Amelia calls after me.
She’s been saying that to me when I leave for the day since I was in grad school. We have a thing for SNL reruns.
My walk to the El Train platform is chilly this early November morning. I button up my wool coat and put on my gloves as I cover the three-quarters of a mile walk as quickly as possible.
While walking up the stairs to the platform, I rifle through my shoulder bag, looking for the notes that detail the four clients in my new small group. I meant to review them over the weekend, but the pull of Netflix was too strong. Even though I’ll have time during my commute to read them, it usually takes the whole first week of actual interaction to get a read on new clients.
“Hey gorgeous, you dropped this,” a male voice says as I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I’ve just reached the top of the stairs when I turn to see a polished man in a dark suit grinning at me. His hair is combed back neatly and his smile is bright enough to be featured in a toothpaste commercial.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the earbuds he’s holding out to me.
They must’ve fallen out of my bag when I was digging for the notes. I shove them into a pocket and resume my walk when the man’s hand returns to my shoulder.
“You need some help?” he asks me. “I can carry your bag if you want. All I’d need in return is your number.”
He flashes the perfect grin again. I cringe inwardly. He reminds me of all the men I’ve gone out with and felt like I should like. Handsome, professional, confident and well-mannered.