Addicted

“What do you think of this whole rehab thing? Do you really think it’s going to change the public’s perception of me? And what if I do it and the Zombie Prom investors still hold their ground and I end up doing this whole thing for nothing?”

Syd puts both her hands on my shoulders like she’s a coach giving the star football player a pep talk during halftime. “You’re going to put in your two weeks and it’ll all work out. I’ve got a good feeling about this.” She shakes me gently and a piece of her straight brown hair falls out of her ponytail.

“Really?” I brighten at the thought. “So you think this’ll work?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

“Hell if I know,” Sydney remarks, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But it’ll be fun to watch you and find out.”

* * *

We make it to the plane two seconds before they close the gate, Sydney shooting me that I-told-you-so look she’s been perfecting lately as we take our seats. Because we bolted from the limo to the gate—Sydney’s clompy black shoes no doubt leaving tire mark-like tracks on the airport’s shiny polished floor—none of the paparazzi at LAX saw us. But when we land in Nashville, it’s an entirely different story.

Once we pass through security, a sea of eager faces begin yelling at me and thousands of cameras flash like a lightning storm. The crowd is mostly comprised of men with scruffy beards and scraggly hair that looks like its been unwashed for days. Many of them wear all black from head to toe, squinting one eye closed, concealing half of their faces as they draw large cameras to their cheeks. I recognize a few of them, having seen them lurk around Los Angeles many times before; I’m a little shocked that they’d come all the way out here, waiting for me. In true Dottie fashion, she must have tipped everyone off.

“Talia! Over here! Smile for me, Talia! You look beautiful—pull your shirt down a little!”

“We heard you’re going to sex-addiction rehab, Talia. How many guys have you slept with?”

“You look a little skinny, Talia—are you eating? Doing any drugs?”

I roll my eyes, never surprised by their brashness and bold questions. How would they like it if someone said that to their sister or their mother? I can’t help but think. I feel an elbow press against my ribs and, as always, they’re too close. I want to yell at them to back it up, give me some space, but if I do I know they’ll instantly turn on me. My face will be on the front cover of a newspaper with some sort of damning headline—Bad Girl of Hollywood Assaults Photographer—and that’s not what I signed up for. I’m nice Talia now—naive, virginal—and so I lower my head with a meek smile.

I was told to always leave them wanting more—including the paparazzi—and so I silently follow Sydney, who is carving a path through the throng of people like Moses parting the Red Sea, saying “Out of the way, out of the way” in a raised but bored voice like she’s done this millions of times before, which is because she has.

I lift the complimentary blanket I stole from the plane over my head and for a split second wonder if I should frame it around my face like a nun, but them decide that may be a little over-the-top. Instead, I drape it over my shoulders and my arms outstretched in front of me, looking like a child’s impersonation of a ghost on Halloween. Shielding myself from the camera flashes, I look down and follow Sydney’s steps as I scuttle behind her blindly.

After a few hundred steps, the paparazzi still swarming on either side of me, the drone of questions being shouted at me so loudly I can’t differentiate one from the other, I feel the mild Tennessee weather momentarily surround me, realizing that we’re finally outside, before I hear the click and swoosh of a car door opening. Suddenly, I feel Sydney’s hand on my elbow as she leads me into the private car like a blind person.

I flop myself on the plush leather backseat.

“Woo! I haven’t seen a crowd as big as that one since the day I quit my show.”

“That was madness back there,” Sydney remarks, swiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She exhales and lets her head fall back, closing her eyes briefly. “I still don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. I’m exhausted.”

I, on the other hand, feel nothing but exhilaration. After hearing the thunk of our bags being loaded into the back by an airport worker and the trunk being slammed shut, we’re off. It isn’t until the private car passes through the airport exit and merges onto a highway that I finally remember to turn my cell phone back on since I had it off during the flight. It lights up every few milliseconds, pulsing like a strobe light. Ding, ding, ding. Every bell and whistle on my phone goes off, sounding like I’m playing slots and just hit the jackpot. Hundreds of email, Twitter and text-message alerts chirp and beep. I open Twitter and scroll through all the Tweets mentioning me, my thumb cramping after a few minutes of nonstop scrolling. There are thousands of them.

Stay strong, Talia! You can do it! #WeSupportTaliaTruman

We love you, Talia! #WeSupportTaliaTruman

So proud of you, Talia! #WeSupportTaliaTruman

And just like that, I’m trending worldwide. Jackpot indeed.

I open my inbox and there are at least twenty news articles from major publications and networks forwarded from Dottie’s account. Beloved Child Star Enters Rehab; Talia Tries to Get Her Life Back on Track; Talia Truman Repents for Boy-Crazy Lifestyle, Gets Help in Nashville. One of them is accompanied by a picture of me from my children’s television show days—my hair is in two braids so long they fall on either side of my rib cage—juxtaposed with a photo shoot I did last year for an alternative magazine that barely anybody saw. In that photo, I’m in slim-cut leather pants and a lacy purple bra, my pointer finger drawn up to my pouty lips as if I was a sexy librarian telling the reader to be quiet. Shhhh.

Will Talia Truman Kick Her Sexy Habit? one rag mag asks with urgency, as if the answer to that question would cure cancer.

I shake my head slowly back and forth, whistling low. “Dottie, you crazy son of a bitch. We did it,” I whisper to myself.

“What is it?” Sydney asks and I show her my phone.

“See? What did I tell you?” she laughs, shaking her head.

I’m in a daze for the rest of the trip, in awe that the plan showed results so quickly. I scroll through my email once again, finding nothing about the Zombie Prom franchise. I sigh.

A text from Dottie pops up on my screen.

You land yet?

Yes, I write back. The crowd of paps was enormous.

Good. I’ll let the rehab know to expect you in twenty minutes or so.

Wish me luck! I write back with seven smiley-face emoticons, knowing Dottie will pick up on my sarcasm.

DFIU, Talia. Just promise me that one thing. Please make an effort to ensure this whole thing goes smoothly. This place has a zero-tolerance policy for any breach of the rules. One strike and you’re out.

I make an annoyed noise at the phone and Sydney asks what’s the matter. I flash her my phone.

“DFIU?” she asks.

“Don’t eff it up.” I can’t count how many times Dottie’s ever texted me that. I turn to Sydney. “Trust me,” I say, “the sooner the investors come back, the sooner I get to go back to Los Angeles and hopefully start filming. I will not eff this up.”

Got it, I text Dottie back.

I watch as the cityscape rolls by through the private car’s blacked-out windows and though I miss being able to see the ocean, it’s kind of pretty, actually. The sun has started to set. There’s a lot more green out here than I expected for a city and the air smells cleaner, sweeter somehow. Nashville itself is pretty small and soon enough the restaurants, storefronts and apartments start to give way to the more residential outskirts. It seems like every house we pass has a sprawling, pristinely kept yard. All of the neighborhoods have a charming and homey feel, not to mention much more character than the immaculate carbon-copy mansions on either side of the palm-tree-lined streets of my neighborhood. Though I’m hundreds of miles away from where I call home, I’m surprised by how quickly I feel pretty comfortable here. I roll down my window and take a deep breath of the air that is certainly not the smog of LA.

We turn off a main road and, after passing a well-manicured hedge, roll up to a large white gate. Our driver leans out the window to press a white keycard to a panel. The doors slide open and the white Colonial house I saw in the brochure comes into view.

When we stop in the round driveway, Sydney says, “And this is where I say goodbye.”

After giving me a hug she hands me a piece of paper folded in half. “I’ll be staying in a hotel just ten minutes away. Call me if you need to. Otherwise, I’ll see you in fourteen days.”

I give her a mock salute. “See you then, Captain Organized.”

I get out of the car and realize the driver has already left all my bags in a neat pile on the porch. I turn back and watch the car drive away. I’m all alone at rehab. This is real.

I turn around and face the house, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin. It’s gotten fairly dark out—I’m not even sure what time it is—and there’s a faint sound of crickets chirping coming from the bushes and flowers at the bottom of the steps. I feel the cool spring breeze on my face and I take in a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with,” I say to myself.

I walk up the steps of the white wraparound porch and open the door at the top. Inside, the foyer looks like it’s been decorated by a very cheerful grandmother. The hardwood floors are immaculate and large potted plants sit on either side of a light blue antique-looking desk. There are framed cross-stitch patterns with sayings like One Day at a Time and It Gets Better! surrounded by candy-colored flowers hanging on the walls. There’s an ornate carpeted staircase right in the middle of the entrance hall and a vintage-looking upholstered settee at the bottom of it.

I plop my carry-on duffel on the blue desk and discover a chubby woman with a streak of white in her short red hair is sitting behind it.

I jump. “Oh! You surprised me,” I say dumbly.

The woman smiles to herself like she had planned that sneak attack. She’s wearing sparkly bright purple cat-eye reading glasses and looks up at me from her creased paperback book. “Name, dear?” she asks with a slight drawl. She looks more like a sweet Southern grandma than someone who’s in charge of preventing people from touching themselves.

“Talia Truman.”

She gets up from her chair and I easily tower over her by a couple of feet.

“Hi, Talia. I’m Doctor Brothers, but all my patients call me Judy. Welcome to New Beginnings,” she says, shaking my hand. It’s the most generic name for a rehab facility they could have picked and I almost laugh. She shuffles around her desk and picks up a manila folder with my last name written in block letters on the side. “We’ve been expecting you!” she exclaims delightedly. “You’re the television star, right?”

I snort. “Hardly. Haven’t worked in a year.”

“Right,” she says merrily, as if she didn’t hear me. “For now I’m going to be working with you in group sessions and I’ll give you your schedule first thing tomorrow morning. But for right now, I’m going to search your belongings for any type of contraband and then you can come with me for our last meeting of the day, the community meeting. Unzip all of your bags, please,” she orders as she snaps on a pair of rubber gloves.

I unzip my duffel and then bend down to open my larger bags on the floor. Judy comes out from behind the desk and starts ruffling through my things after setting a clipboard down next to her.

“Now,” she says, wiggling her fingers as if she’s just itching to go through my stuff. “Do you have any weapons—guns, knives, bombs, box cutters, pepper spray—”

“What?” I say, taken aback. “No, of course not.”

Judy gives me a slight smile. “I’m sorry, but I have to go over the entire list, dear. Standard procedure. You’d be surprised what people try to sneak in here.”

She looks back at the paper on the clipboard. “Drugs, alcohol, prescription drugs, any illicit substance that could hurt yourself or others?” she says brightly, as if she was asking me to join her for a tea party.

“No.” Though I wished I had some right about now.

She lifts a bra from my bag, inspects it for a second and then puts it down. “A little too lacy for this place, but I’ll let it slide.” Next, she pinches my electric toothbrush between her thumb and pointer finger as if it was the pin of a grenade and tsks her tongue.

“I’m going to have to take this, Ms. Truman,” she says before slipping the toothbrush into a clear plastic bag.

“What? I can’t brush my teeth?” I ask, confused.

“It’s not your teeth I’m worried about you using this on, dear,” Judy says as she pulls her glasses down the bridge of her nose and glances at me over them.

I suddenly get her meaning and laugh. “No, no, no. I swear that thing only goes in my mouth. I wasn’t planning on—”

Judy raises a hand to stop me. “I’ve heard every excuse in the book, Miss Truman. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re given a nonbattery-operated toothbrush before you go to bed.” She cocks her head to one side, smiling tightly as she puts all my stuff back into my bags. “Wonderful. You’re all set for our community meeting, then. It’ll be a nice introduction to the people you’ll be joining in group therapy during most of your stay here.” She looks over my shoulder, behind me. “Oh, here comes one of them now. We can all walk down together. Matthew?”

I turn to see who she’s talking to and my breath catches. Sauntering down the hallway, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his chin held high—almost in defiance—is one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen. He’s tall with broad shoulders, a tapered waist and jet-black hair. His sweatshirt sleeves are pushed up to show off his meaty forearms. As he eyes me up and down, I feel a shiver run through me. Then our gazes meet. Despite his punkish gait and facial expression, he has a young-looking face complete with baby blue eyes and two dimples that flash on his cheeks when he smirks at me before he looks away so fast I wonder if I imagined it.

“Talia, this is Matthew Skylar. Matthew, would you mind showing Talia to the community meeting room? I’ll be right behind you two.”

Matt shrugs his shoulders, turns and begins to walk down the hallway. For a moment, I’m frozen in place and then I realize, oh, right, I’m supposed to follow this guy. I start to move, but Judy calls out after me.

“Oh, wait. Talia?”

“Yeah?” I answer distractedly.

“Before we go, I forgot to ask you for your cell phone. I need to lock it up. Cell phones are used for one hour each night under supervision.”

“What?” I ask, still not quite hearing her.

“Your cell phone?”

“Oh. Sorry,” I murmur before taking my cell phone out of the kangaroo pocket of my sweatshirt and look at Dottie’s text one last time before placing it in the doctor’s plump, outstretched hand.

DFIU, Talia.

It’s then I realize that I am completely and totally fucked.

Chapter Three

Don’t look at his ass. Don’t look at his ass. Don’t look at his ass. I keep repeating the mantra to myself, but as Matt walks down the hallway in front of me, it’s the only thing I find myself doing as I shuffle down the corridor behind him. Even in his sweats, the fabric stretches over his lower body in such a way that I see his muscular butt and the little indentations on either side of it. I was told this place has a gym and it’s obvious that Matt has been putting it to good use. His ass is hypnotizing.

I feel as if Judy, who’s walking a few steps behind me, is studying me as I stare at Matt. I glance back to check and she eyes me from over the top of her glasses again, giving me the same warning look that she gave me when she thought I was going to jack off with my toothbrush. I jerk my head back around and snap to attention, chin parallel to the floor, eyes forward. Like I’m in the army or something. My staring at Matt feels forbidden, dangerous under this doctor’s watchful eye, and a sense of giddiness—dare I say a thrill?—runs through me.

We pass a room, its door slightly ajar, and I get a brief glance of a massage therapy table with fresh white linens on it, the top sheet pulled down slightly as if in invitation. Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I see myself facedown on the table, Matt shirtless above me, his large hands—which are currently in fists by his sides—massaging my naked body thoroughly.

Farther down the hallway, we walk by the sauna, its frosted glass door covered in condensation, and I think of Matt pressing me up against it in an embrace, my hand leaving a steamy print just like Rose—or Jack? no one knows for sure—did in the scene with the car in Titanic.

I hear Judy clear her throat loudly behind me as if she overheard my thoughts and I jump. I turn back around with a sheepish smile. I consider how this woman thinks all I do all day is daydream about sex and that’s exactly what I’m doing. Thankfully we don’t have to go past any more rooms because suddenly there is a group of people coming from the other end of the hallway and, like a school of fish, they turn abruptly and enter the door in front of me. “Here we are, Talia,” Judy says as she falls in step with me and gestures to the doorway with one arm as if she was presenting a game-show prize.

The room has cheery yellow walls and smells like a combination of fresh paint, hospital disinfectant and something waxy. About ten bright blue folding chairs have been arranged into a circle on the cherry-red carpet. Taped to the large picture windows are some hand-drawn pictures, the products of art therapy, I assume. Stick-figure people, a triangle on top of a square to make a house, large scribbles of gobbledygook as if the artist abruptly changed his or her mind—all of the Magic Marker creations faded and bleached by the sun. Coupled with the primary color palette, the room looks like it belongs in an elementary school classroom more than a rehab.

The group takes their seats and, like a game of musical chairs, I sit in the only one left that’s vacant, which, of course with my luck, happens to be right next to Matt. Dammit. I can’t look at him anymore, I have to be the old Talia—nice and pure, her pigtails swinging as she sings and dances with a puppet. And so I survey the people sitting around me instead. The woman on the other side of me is tall and thin, sitting ramrod-straight in her chair. She has a pixie cut and large doe-like eyes that frantically dart from one person to another like a pinball. The only other woman besides manic-pixie girl and me has platinum-blond hair with a loose curl that reaches the back of her kneecaps. Rapunzel has her head down as she picks at her chipping yellow nail polish, her lips in a perpetual frown, like a trout.

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