I shove my phone back into my pocket, ignoring the fizz that started in my stomach as soon as I pressed "send", and glare at my hands, breathing deep, the way my counsellor taught me. But as the weight of my hatred for myself inches back, my fear edges into the space it leaves behind.
I close my eyes. Aiden is not Lester. I'm done with that asshole.
I haven't taken a single drug in nine months. Usually that thought makes me feel good. It's been a battle. I know I've earned the sense of accomplishment. But it's just hit me that even after being sober this long, I'm still miserable most of the time.
Will it always be like this?
I sit there in that meeting, hands shaking and head spinning, my anxiety's about to take hold when my phone buzzes, muffled between my ass and the chair, but from the corner of my eye I catch Chase glance at me. (He's in a midnight blue shirt today.) So, I pretend my hands aren't shaking with the urge to pull it out and see what Aiden said.
