Best Friends Forever

“I know, I know. It’s hard to believe and it doesn’t make any sense how it got there. But I know Ian. We’ve been through a lot of shit together and if he fucked up like that, he’d tell me. He gave me his word that stuff didn’t belong to him, and I believe him. He’s been sober for five years. You don’t throw that away when everything’s going good for you. And I’ve spent time with him this morning. He doesn’t show any signs of using again. And after the night he’s had, I think that’s more a testament to his commitment to sobriety than anything else. He’s a mess, but it’s not because he’s using again; it’s because he’s torn up about what happened between you two.”

I purse my lips, trying to hear everything he’s saying without actually listening to it. Because I know it’s dangerous to start to believe what an addict tells you. I know where that road goes. Questioning yourself, your judgment, your own memories. I can’t do that.

“Please, just think about this. Don’t just throw away whatever it is you guys have. It clearly means a lot to Ian—I’ve never seen him like this over a woman—and I hope that it means something special to you too. Isn’t that worth fighting for? Or at least hearing his side of things?”

There’s a lump in my throat, but I refuse to cry. I nod and say, “It does mean something to me, but I can’t watch another person close to me go through that. You don’t understand.”

“I probably don’t,” he admits. “I’ve only ever really seen the other side of things. I don’t know what people go through when their loved ones are out getting wasted and they’re waiting for a call to give them the news they’re dreading. But I’ve learned that anything worth having isn’t easy to come by. It’s not without challenges and trials.”

I’m holding onto the door like it’s a life raft and I don’t know what to think. Serge sighs and shakes his head.

“Just think about it, will you? Talk to Ian, keep an open mind and an open heart. If you still don’t believe him, fine. But give him a chance. He’s earned it.”

There’s still really nothing for me to say. I’m not going to agree to talk to Ian just to get this guy away from my door. I’m not going to say something I don’t mean just because he makes a good case. I know better than to make rash decisions like that. And truthfully, I don’t trust my heart to be smart about things at all, so I just shut it down and keep my mouth shut.

He looks at his watch. “My five minutes are up. I hope you’ll think about what I said.” And before I can respond at all, he’s heading back down the hall, away from the room.

I close the door and take the latch off so Rosa can get in later. Then I go back into the living room and try to sit on the couch, but my head is spinning, my mind racing, and I can’t sit still. So I stand and go to the window, but it’s such a pretty day outside—blue skies, puffy white clouds, sunshine and birds singing—that I quickly close the curtains with a frown and turn away. I’m not in the mood for a pretty day. Especially not after the visit from Serge.

So then I’m pacing back and forth, just replaying the conversation over and over again in my head. Obviously, Ian’s best friend is going to take his side. Obviously, he’s going to have his back. Obviously, he’s going to plead his case for him. But I wonder if Ian knows his friend came to talk to me. I wonder if he put him up to it or if he’d be mad knowing.

I don’t even know that it matters one way or the other, but I would like to know if I’m being manipulated in some way.

It’s not terribly long before Rosa’s back with the Chinese food. She puts it on the table and starts to unpack, but I can’t even look at it. What little appetite I had before is totally gone now. There’s no room for hunger in me, not when every spare cell is consumed with thoughts of Ian and whether or not I’m making a colossal, gigantic mistake not believing him.

Rosa tries to talk to me, but it doesn’t take her very long to realize that she should just leave me alone. I don’t actually say as much, but I’m thankful when she finally gets the hint and leaves me alone to my thoughts again.

I just don’t know what to think. I found that stuff in his bag. Who else would be putting things in his bag other than him? But he did look legitimately surprised when I showed it to him. He didn’t look guilty like someone who’d just been caught. He looked confused, and that seemed promising. But what other explanation could there be for what I found?

I want to believe that Ian wasn’t using drugs. In my heart, I feel that he’s telling the truth. Because I want to believe that I’d notice if he were acting different. I want to believe that he doesn’t have any reason to use when he’s with me and happy. But I know that’s not how these things work. I know anything can set off an addict and send them spiraling out of control again, and it hurts to think that he could be going through that and dealing with it when I

didn’t know a thing about it until it was too late.

And, I hug myself at the realization, we’ve been having a lot of sex. Quite a lot of it unprotected at this stage. I’m on the pill, we’ve both been tested, so it seemed fine. Except… if he’s using needles, who knows what he could have exposed me to?

I don’t want to think the worst of Ian, but I can’t be naive either. Twice Eric convinced us all he was clean. Twice, our entire family was sure he’d kicked the habit. The second time especially. We were all hopeful the first time, but when he had to go into rehab again, we knew to be wary. But his progress was promising. The staff had so much faith in him. And when he died, as far as we knew, he’d been clean for months.

I just can’t bear to go through that kind of agony again.

Of course, being without Ian is a different kind of agony. I’m stuck in this limbo of uncertainty, not knowing if I can trust him or believe anything he’s ever told me. That’s the worst part about this disease of addiction. It makes you question everything. Because addicts are master manipulators, they’re fantastic liars, and they’re so damn convincing. It’s hard to ever trust yourself, especially when love is involved.

But when I really think about it and really focus on the details, I know I can see the places where we overlooked Eric’s struggles. Where we told ourselves he just needed time to adjust and it would be fine. We ignored the problems, hoping for the best, having faith in the system, and it let us down.

If I look at my time with Ian with the same microscopic scrutiny, I don’t see the same things. I can’t actually think of a time when something Ian said or did made me wonder. I can’t pick out a moment when I thought he might be lying to me. He’s been nothing but honest and forthright with me about everything from the very beginning. And I have no real reason not to trust him. Just prejudice.

I sink down into the couch, head in my hands. Should I really give him a chance to tell his side of things? Is that really a smart decision? I don’t know how smart it is, but I do think it’s fair. Ian’s past mistakes are just that: past. What he did before shouldn’t be held against him any more than the fact that I introduced Eric to the people that got him into drugs. It is being held against me, though. Almost every piece about our split has referenced Eric, speculating whether I was the one to drive him to drugs, and drive Ian out of sobriety.

So, if I want to say it’s not fair for them to treat me like that, it’s no better for me to treat Ian the way I have. If nothing else, all our time together means I owe him a chance. I owe it to him to at least hear him out.

Blowing out a heavy breath, I stand and wonder if this is really what I’m going to do. Am I really going to open myself up to him again? To let him have a chance to sway me? To convince me that he’s really clean? What if he’s not? What if he dies suddenly?

There’s always going to be that chance though. He could get hit by a car this afternoon. And if that happened and I never talked it out with him, would I really feel good about that decision?

Hell no. I have to see him again.

Before I leave, I grab a spring roll, my appetite suddenly returning. I eat it on the way to his room while telling myself that I’m not going to back out before I get there.

And then I’m standing in front of his room, my nerves jangling, my heart racing, my hands sweaty as I lift one to knock. A deep breath, and I bring my knuckles down on the door softly. It’s almost so soft I think he might not have heard it. I can still turn around and leave and pretend this didn’t happen. But then the knob’s turning and the door opens a crack.