Saved By Steven (the first story)

25. Back to square one... I need Steven

"Good morning, everyone. Let's welcome Lauren—she just arrived yesterday," the counselor said, his voice deliberately calm. "Lauren, if you feel like sharing your story, know that this is a safe space."

Lauren stared straight ahead, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She really wasn't feeling well. Her head pounded from withdrawal, her stomach twisted. The dull throb behind her eyes hadn't eased since she'd arrived. She hadn't slept last night—her first night in this place. Not really. Every time she closed her eyes, her body jolted awake, twitching with craving and shame.

She didn't feel safe. She felt cornered.

She could barely remember how she got here—only flashes:
Steven's panicked face.
Mick's quiet worry.
The airport bathroom where she'd taken two hits in secret.
The feeling of the plane wheels lifting off the ground while she gripped a tiny vodka bottle in each fist like lifelines.

She had been gagged when Steven and Mick brought her here. Literally and figuratively. She kept fading in and out on the flight—half from exhaustion, half from the vodka she sipped defiantly, daring them to stop her. They hadn't. They'd just exchanged helpless glances over her slumped form and let her drink.

What were they supposed to do? She would've made a scene. Screamed, clawed, twisted herself into a tantrum. It was easier to let her spiral.

In the car from the airport, she'd snuck hits when they weren't looking—thin lines of coke tucked in the lining of her bag. She'd spent weeks mastering the art of the disappearing act.

Now she was in a circle of strangers, under fluorescent lights that made everyone look ten years older and five shades grayer. Her eyes flitted around the room. A skeletal woman in a hoodie kept pulling at her sleeves like they might vanish. A twitchy teenager sat picking at her cuticles until they bled. A broad-shouldered man in a collared shirt stared down into his coffee like it held the secrets of the universe.
Is this it? Is this what I've become? One of them?
Lauren adjusted her posture and looked away. They're not like me. I just had a bad few months. I lost control—fine. But I'm not like this. I'm not that far gone.
Her thoughts spun louder than the doctor's voice. How the hell did this happen? What will the students think? My colleagues? I've lost my job—again. Second time in six months. Great record, Lauren. God. I just want to go home. I want to be numb. I need a drink. I need Steven.
The counselor was still speaking—something about routines and accountability—but Lauren couldn't hear any of it. She stood up suddenly and walked out, not acknowledging the soft calls asking her to stay. Her feet carried her to the front courtyard.
The sun was too bright.
Her hands trembled as she lit a cigarette—unsuccessfully, three times."Here, let me help," a man said gently.
"Thanks," she muttered, barely looking up as he lit it for her.
"It's good to see you in here."
"What?" Lauren asked, only half-listening.
"I said, it's good to see you in rehab," the man repeated, a bit more clearly.
She squinted at him. "Do I know you?"
"You don't remember me, do you? I'm Richard. Sydney's dad."
"Sydney—divorced parents, straight-A student?"
He nodded. "That's the one."
They stood in silence for a while, smoking. Richard eventually broke it.
"I've seen you around," he said. "We had the same dealer."
Lauren flinched slightly.
"I hoped you'd find treatment," he continued. "Life's better without—""Don't," she snapped. "Don't you dare. "I'm sorry, but you don't know a fucking thing about my life. You don't know a fucking thing about me. You don't get to stand here with your sad little inspirational speech and pretend you're some kind of guru. You're a washed-up drunk who lost custody and is now trying to win brownie points from a bunch of strangers."Richard blinked but didn't flinch. "Maybe. But nothing you're running from will look better through a bottle.""Fuck off with your AA crap." Lauren flicked her cigarette into the grass and turned on her heel, stalking back inside.

She crushed the cigarette beneath her heel and stalked away without waiting for his response. Back in her room, she lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. Her heart pounded under her ribcage like it wanted to claw its way out. She wanted a drink so badly she could taste it—vodka, something cold and sharp to slice through the fog in her brain. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

You tried to kill yourself the night of the concert. That's why you're here.
She didn't want to think about it. About the fact that Steven had found her passed out next to the couch with vomit on her shirt. That the party had ended in silence and ambulance lights.I ruined everything. Again.
She didn't want to talk about it. She just wanted Steven.
Where the hell is Steven?