The Rhythm Of Our Lonely Hearts

Chapter Twenty-Three: Rehab in Rifle Rounds

Chapter Twenty-Three: Rehab in Rifle Rounds

Two weeks later

Andy laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He searched for patterns in the raised bumps that decorated it. It had become a daily ritual for him, without his phone to occupy his time he had to make due. Unlike many of the other guests he wasn't into laying by the pool or playing tennis; he'd spent the majority of the two weeks writing lyrics, drawing, and talking with his therapist. He hadn't been the best patient, often refusing to eat lunch whenever it featured a dish made mostly of vegetables and things he couldn't pronounce. He wasn't one for group therapy or getting to know his fellow addicts. Despite everything, he had tried his best. He had some 'breakthroughs' as his therapist put it and he was sober, so he assumed he did something right. He still had to come back three times a week for sessions with her but today he would break free from the confines of the center.

Hitting rock bottom had done more for him than anything, vowing to never let himself get that low again. For the first week, he had nightmares about that day, they all followed the same plot; Matt walking in on him dead. He could see his body, lifeless on the bed; all he could do was watch as Matt tried desperately to wake him up, his screams going unheard. His therapist said it was PTSD. One of the doctors prescribed him medication but didn't want to take the pills.

He didn't know if he considered himself better, he ate three meals a day and had names for the things wrong with his brain. He'd learned about why he reacted the way he did when things got hard, and he was working with his therapist on healthier coping strategies. He learned that he'd formed an unhealthy attachment to his suffering, which led him to perpetuate a never-ending cycle. He learned about co-dependency and why it made it hard to be alone. The hardest part of the two weeks, however, wasn't the sessions where he found himself sobbing uncontrollably, reliving painful memories, or being cut off from the outside world. The hardest part was being away from Matt. Two weeks of zero communication. He had no way of knowing whether Matt would be waiting for him today or if he had high-tailed it to Florida by now.

He didn't realize until he was forced to face the consequences of his drinking that he'd lost out on so much of their relationship. So much of their time together was a blur, memories were photographs stained with black ink. There was no removing the stains, he had to cope with that.

At the heart of their problem was the fact that he didn't know how to love himself so he never understood how Matt could. Matt would never know how much it meant to him that he didn't leave that morning he found him at his lowest. Andy didn't know where he would be if he had

Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-

"Andy, your ride is here." The nurse's voice interrupted his counting, bringing him out of his daydreaming.

Matt tapped his foot nervously as he sat in the front lobby of the center. It was hard to believe two weeks ago he was dropping the singer off, unsure if he would actually stay. Now here he was, ready to pick him up and bring him into what would be their new home. He rubbed at his tired eyes; sleep had eluded him for the most part. Between viewing apartments, signing a lease, and moving he hadn't had a day off.

He lucked out, finding a two-bedroom apartment in the city within days of looking. It was a cute little one-story house, only a few minutes from where he'd be producing. Pricey, but that was the nature of renting in Los Angeles. There were still boxes to unpack, but for the most part, he was moved in. Andy's things were in boxes in the guest bedroom, Jake had brought it all over a few days prior. After all the chaos of their relationship, it was odd to think they find peace together.