Hollywood Hit by Maggie Marr Page B

the terra-cotta stone floor. The downstairs housed a library, a sitting area, therapy rooms, and giant nooks where a patient might curl up and read or journal. The Clarity vibe rebelled against any institutional appearance of rehab and instead “catered to the overstimulated, overstressed creative artist who might find the deeply tarnished bit of their true self that had survived their addiction.” The entire facility could pass for a luxury spa and not the place addicts came to get clean.
    Christina walked out onto the lanai. Giant palm trees brushed the blue sky and the ocean glimmered in the distance. Adam sat on a crimson-colored couch near the pool with an overlook of the Pacific. He stood and kissed both her cheeks. A scruff of a beard decorated his cheeks and his smile was fuller today. He’d regained some of the weight he’d lost. His cheekbones were no longer skeletal protrusions nor was his skin the gray pallor of the walking dead. He looked healthier. Happier. Stronger.
    “Thanks for coming,” Bradford said. “I know it’s a long drive.”
    Christina tucked her skirt beneath her and sat across from Bradford. She’d visited him twice since dropping him off. The first visit he’d been quiet and remote. It was as though the act of being present at Clarity, the admission itself, had sucked every bit of energy from him. His expression had been glazed. They hadn’t talked.  They had sat side by side, staring at the expanse of the ocean. She’d left and once in her car, she’d fallen into tears, certain the Bradford she’d once known—the ebullient, funny, charismatic man—was dead and gone forever.
    The second visit he’d been agitated and paced like a caged cat. He never sat and again barely spoke except to express frightful thoughts about death and addiction that burned like a hot fire through his mind. His eyes had seared into her. Eyes filled with anger that caused a distortion to his face. That day she feared he’d ask her to take him away from rehab, away from this place. She’d left quickly. She’d ducked her head and exited, not wanting to absorb the fury that seemed to course through him.
    Today, looking at Bradford, she was thankful that he hadn’t asked to leave. The reawakening of the jovial Bradford that she remembered peeked out from behind the clouds of his addiction.
    A lightness filtered through her chest. A buoyancy that lifted her heart and lengthened her breath as her eyes lingered on Bradford’s sure smile. Today she was hopeful he could reclaim the happiness that flowed through the man she remembered.
    “You’ve been better than a good friend,” Bradford said. He took the latte from her and a smile teased his lips. “I suspect you have loads of questions that you’d like answered but were afraid to ask.”
    Heat flooded Christina’s neck and she wished the sunglasses that sat atop her head now covered her eyes. Of course she had questions. Of course she wondered what had happened. Of course she wanted to know when the trajectory of Bradford’s life had taken the dangerous turn. Did he see it coming? Did he try to avoid the crash? Did he know? But this was his life. The way he’d gone to rehab indicated how private this was to him.
    Christina shook her head and reached for her coffee. “I…” She looked at Bradford and met his gaze. “Of course I want to know, but this is your business, and I guess I thought that whenever you wanted to talk about it, you would.”
    Bradford leaned back into the cushions. His gaze darted upward and raked against the overhang that provided shade and shelter. He closed his eyes.
    “How did I fuck up so badly when it came to you?”
    He opened his eyes and focused his bright blue gaze on her. His ragged expression pulled at Christina’s heart. The corners of his lips pulled down and lines of remorse rimmed the edges of his eyes. “You were the best thing that could have ever happened to me, and I completely fucked it up.”
    “You