The house that Mary pulled up to was both exactly what I would have expected and completely foreign to me. It was one of those old, old Florida houses; big jalousie windows, clamshell shutters pulled back. The exterior was a warm, cheery yellow; the door was painted a deep, sharp red. “Do you own this place or rent it?” I asked, more to make conversation than anything else.
“I own it,” Mary said, shifting the car into park and turning off the ignition on the car. “It’s always just a little too warm in the summer and a little to chilly whenever there’s a cold front, but it’s my place outright.”
I nodded and followed her up the walkway, glancing around the sleepy-looking neighborhood her house was in; the south Florida sun beat down like a hammer, the humidity like a sauna. It was impossible to forget, even in winter, that you lived in a coastal swamp. Mary unlocked the door and opened it, and her security system shrieked as she took the few steps to the console. “Come on in,” she said over her shoulder, punching in her code.
I stepped through the door, feeling—weirdly—more apprehensive even than I had when I’d walked through the doors of Recovery Now. The floors had almost certainly been redone at some point in the house’s many decades of existence; they were hardwood, instead of standard-issue tile or carpet. There was a beat-up, worn-down rug on the living room floor. Mary had an old, scarred leather sofa with an old lady Afghan thrown over the back, a much newer armchair, and a flat-screen TV on an entertainment center that I guessed probably came from IKEA. The thing that shocked me, though, was the sight of an acoustic guitar, settled on a stand, its strings gleaming. “You play?” I asked her, frowning as I pointed.
Mary shrugged, and I saw the color rise in her cheeks. “Not very well,” she said. I grinned. “I had pretensions of playing folk-rock when I was a teenager, but I’ve never really been either good enough that my looks didn’t matter or pretty enough that my talent didn’t matter.”
I laughed. “Which category do I fall under?” I asked, throwing myself down onto the couch. It was even more comfortable than it looked, the cushions almost suspiciously plush under the scarred and scratched exterior. Mary looked at me for a long moment.
“That rarest of breeds: talented enough and pretty enough,” she said with a wry smile. “Want something to drink? Coffee? Water?”
“It’s too fucking hot for coffee, but after what just happened, I really want the buzz,” I said, thinking out loud.
“I’ve got cold brew,” Mary suggested.
“That, then,” I said, lifting a hand in approval. “So, you’re really willing to let me stay here for a while?” Mary shrugged, kicking her shoes off and padding into the kitchen. I managed to get my shoes off as well, kicking my feet up onto the arm of the couch and sprawling over the length.
“Until you can find somewhere equally safe, I don’t really see much choice,” Mary said from the other room. “I mean, what am I supposed to do? Let you put yourself in danger?” I heard movement from the kitchen: the fridge door opening, the clink of glasses, and the clatter of ice, liquid pouring. “Do you take milk? Sweetener?”
“I’ll take it sweet, but no milk,” I called back. I looked up at the ceiling; after the shock of being kicked out of rehab, the prospect of my imminent demise was starting to filter through my mind. “You know, it’s weird,” I said, turning my head as I heard Mary coming back into the living room. “Without the stuff in my system, I think…” I paused, trying to figure out what it was I wanted to say. “I think clearer but also muddier. It doesn’t…” I shook my head and sat up.
“A lot of people notice that,” Mary said, handing me a glass with pitch-black coffee and islands of ice. Her own coffee was a deep caramel tan, and for a moment I almost regretted my choice of no milk. But I didn’t like milk in my iced coffee; there was just something about the texture of it that made it so nasty. Mary sat in her armchair and took a long sip. “Your brain is used to working through the drugs; it has to re-learn how to operate without them.”
“It’s like I don’t have any fucking filter anymore,” I said, looking around the room. I hadn’t noticed the line of bookshelves that hugged the wall, leading to the hallway that I assumed went to her room and the bathroom. “Is there more than one bedroom here?” I asked, looking at Mary once more. “Not—I mean—the couch is more than I deserve, but I’m just curious.” Mary laughed, and I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at the question or at my self-correction.
“There’s another bedroom, but I mostly use it as a home office,” she said. “There is a futon in there, though. You can sleep in there if you want.”
“This couch is pretty fucking comfy,” I pointed out. “I may not even get off of it for the next hour.”
“Well you’re going to have to get up eventually. You need to get in touch with your band mates, your label, and whoever else needs to know you’re out of rehab,” Mary said, setting her glass down and looking at me with that level, matter-of-fact expression on her face that I both loved and hated.
“Why do you always look like that?” I licked the lingering sweetness of the coffee off of my lips.
“Like what?” Mary raised an eyebrow.
“Like you know what I look like underneath my skin.”
Mary’s dark eyes flashed with amusement. “I think you’re interpreting more in my face than I’m putting out,” she told me.
“You just look like you know the fucking thoughts in my head.”
“I watch people,” she said, looking into her glass for a moment, watching the ice shift as it melted. “I don’t know. It’s not…” I watched the color rising into her cheeks again. “I’m not purposely trying to make you feel uncomfortable.” Mary sighed, “I should probably get my laptop and start filing for unemployment.” Her lips twisted into a grimace of distaste.
“Don’t let me get in your way,” I said, taking another big gulp of coffee and fumbling in my pocket for my phone. Mary was right; I needed to get in touch with people, let them know what was going on, where I was. It occurred to me that probably Dr. Farber had already notified my manager or the label—whoever he was reporting to—about the fact that I’d been kicked out of rehab. “I’m never going to hear the fucking end of this.” I sighed as I turned my phone on. “Go do your thing.” Mary gave me another one of those looks—as if she was peering into my brain—and then stood, taking her coffee with her into the hall. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath; whoever I talked to was almost certain to be completely and totally pissed at me for getting myself kicked out. Nick first. He’s the most likely to think that if I got kicked out for fucking my counselor, it’s not a complete waste. I opened my eyes and unlocked my phone to get to my contacts list.