Clare and I end up going to a little Italian dive a couple of blocks from Ma's house. We walk since it's so close, and we make small talk until we're inside sitting at a tiny table for two. Then shit gets real.
"I'm sorry, Gustov. From the bottom of my heart. I was a mess. For a long, long time I was a mess." She smiles, but it's apologetic, like her words. I can tell that she's being sincere. Some things just can't be faked. "I actually just got out of a rehab facility a few weeks ago."
"How long were you there?" I ask. She needed it. I knew that before, but seeing her here now and seeing the transformation that's taken place, it's apparent the benefit is pretty goddamn miraculous.
"Six months. I checked myself in as soon as I got back to the states. Initially it was at the request of my employer, but before I even got there, I knew I needed it. I'd needed it for years, but I couldn't face it. I had been acting recklessly. Sometimes, punishing yourself is easier than facing down your demons, you know?"
I do. I nod. "I'm with you on that, sister."
She raises her eyebrows to acknowledge my admission. "I know you are, and I also want to say that I'm so sorry for your loss. I didn't know at the time what was going on with you, I just knew from the first moment I saw you that you were hurting. You were hurting like I was. I think that's why I was so drawn to you. I needed to feed on that agony. I needed my pain to commiserate with someone else's. I felt like I had a partner in grief, you know. Someone that got me, even though I knew you didn't like me."
I nod. I understand. Addicts don't choose tragedy. Tragedy chooses them. And addiction is the result. "Like I said, I'm with you. I don't blame you for anything that happened, Clare. Please don't think that. I accepted whatever you gave me. I could've turned it down. I should've turned it down. But I didn't." I take a deep breath. "We used each other. It filled a void we both had. I'm sorry for that. No one deserves to be used."
Her clear eyes are welling up with tears. "Thank you. Thank you for not hating me right now. I was so scared to call you this afternoon. I was so scared to face you. I'm still in follow-up therapy. I probably will be for a very long time. I've got some major issues I'm still working on. I've apologized to everyone in my life that my addiction hurt; you are the last person to whom I felt I owed an apology. So again, I'm sorry, Gustov."
I hand her my napkin, and smiling, she takes it, blotting her eyes. "Apology accepted," I say. "And right back at ya. I'm sorry, too. I knew you had something major you were contending with and I never tried to help you, because I was selfish and drowning in my own shit."
She dabs her eyes again and smiles. "I'm good now. I'm clean. Clean for six months. I haven't been clean since I was eighteen, if you can believe that. It feels good. I'm dealing with my eating disorder, too, which is harder than it sounds like it would be. I mean, I don't need coke to live, but I do need food. It's a daily struggle, but right now I'm winning. Today, I'm winning. I'm healthy and that's where I want to stay. I still can't give up the goddamn cigarettes though," she says, laughing. "But someday I will."
I huff in agreement. "They're evil. I can't give them up either." I think twice about asking, but then I give in to my gut. "So, what happened?"
"What do you mean?" She looks confused.
"What happened when you were eighteen?" I have a feeling that she brought me here for more than an apology. That maybe she has more she wants to talk about, more she wants to explain. And I'm a fantastic listener.
Her eyes drop to her plate in front of her. "I was raped."
That word makes me feel nauseous. Always has. The thought of someone forcing himself on another person without consent is sickening. I wait for her eyes to meet mine again before I speak. "It wasn't your fault. And I'm so sorry." God, am I ever.
The corner of her lips tip up slightly. "I know that now. For years I blamed myself, but I know now that it wasn't my fault."
"It wasn't," I reassure. There's no situation where rape is the victim's fault. It's not possible. Ever.
She nods. "Back to you ... how are you doing? Any better? I don't want to ask if it's getting easier, because I can't imagine losing someone you love ever gets easier, but are you dealing with it better now?"
"She was my life. My best friend. She was everything, you know?" That's as honest as I can be and it makes me swallow back the lump in my throat that's suddenly appeared.
She nods. "Franco told me all about her. I asked him on the last day of the tour."
"Yeah. I don't know. I mean some days I'm just living, just doing what I need to do. Functioning. And other days it hits me and it hurts so bad, it's debilitating. I don't know if that makes any fucking sense? Some days I'm good and some days I'm not."
"Are you talking to someone about it?" She's prompting in a kind way and I know where this is going. She's going to suggest therapy.
I try to counter her with humor to divert. "I'm talking to you. That counts, doesn't it?" I smile, but she doesn't buy it.
"I'm glad you are, but I mean people in your life that you see more than every six months."
I glance over her shoulder at the poster of the Leaning Tower of Pisa behind her. "Talking about her hurts. I already hurt. I don't want to hurt more. So no, not really."