realize that at some point, I had fallen for this guy. And it wasn’t just about the mind-blowing sex or handmade pastas. I cared about him.
I also didn’t realize that once I shut the door of the car and watched it take off toward an all-quiet Lake Shore Drive, Benji was going to partake in one last hurrah before rehab.
A bottle of pills, a fifth of Jack and whatever else he could get his hands on fueled this particular bender. And this is when he tweeted out my photo. This is when he outed me as his girlfriend. This is when I decided that accepting my new identity was easier than dismantling a bomb.
The next day, I slogged through work, worried and sad and happy and confused. I tried to Google what rehab was really like, but feared IT would hack my history and I’d get canned for being a liability with a double life.
From what I had seen on Celebrity Rehab, going away for help was going to be the right thing for Benji. I grappled with the idea that once sober, Benji might not see me the same anymore. That whatever drug-induced infatuation he’d had with me would subside. It’d be like sleeping off a hangover and realizing that the 3:00 a.m. order of extra-large cheese fries from the Weiners Circle was a bad idea. And I was okay with that. I had to be okay with that. I told myself a complicated story about how difficult people don’t deserve love any less than the simpler ones. If we only allowed ourselves to care deeply about those who can reciprocate our affection the way we’ve grown accustomed to, did we have any business calling that “love” at all? Whatever hurt or emptiness I felt in Benji’s absence was in the service of something much greater, and I made peace with it.
And then I came home from work and found Benji—the very same!—sitting on the foot of my bed.
“No. No, no, no, no. You can’t be here,” I remember saying adamantly as I threw my keys down on the counter. “What are you even doing here? How did you get in? You have to go!” I felt like I was hiding a fugitive. This kid needed serious help, even he admitted that. Who let the monkey out of his cage?
“Babe, calm down,” he had said, placing both of his hands up like I was about to shoot. “I know what you’re thinking, but trust me: I got this. I’m going to start going to NA meetings every day, twice a day. I already have a sponsor. His name is Mark. I even picked up the books. See? See?” He held up the Narcotics Anonymous literature like church propaganda. “My first meeting is tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. I’ll be gone before you even leave for work. I’m serious this time.”
This time? How many other failed attempts were there? And how serious could he be if he hadn’t even given rehab a single day to kick in? Which made me wonder...
“Did you even go?” I asked.
He didn’t say yes or no. Instead just offered a flippant, “Rehab isn’t for me.”
I had heard that line before. On Intervention. Right before they rolled the updates that said the subject hadn’t been heard from in months and was last seen smoking crack under a bridge.
“But you said it was. Right here on this couch, like fifteen hours ago. What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know, a lot of shit. My phone got stolen last night, I ran out of cigarettes and I don’t have the money for it unless I go to that freebie clinic in the ghetto. I’m not doing that. Get stuck with some fuckin’ weirdo roomie. No way. I’d much rather do it on my own terms. I’m going to do this my way with Mark and the meetings.”
“What about the withdrawal? I thought you said it’s going to be bad?”
“It will be. But I’ll stay tough and fight through it and call Mark if I need anything. He helped me get a new phone today. It’s a fresh start, only your number and his are programmed in it.”
I’m pretty sure this was when I started crying. I was already in a state of complete emotional exhaustion and this, food pun unintended, just took the cake. Worse, I couldn’t tell if I was happy he was back or scared he’d never leave. All I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to be in this situation anymore. It was all too much.
“Oh, babe. Come on. You’re breaking my heart. What’s wrong? What can I do?” Benji had stopped me from pacing uncontrollably by holding me in the way only he could—the way that managed to hit the reset button no matter how haywire my system was going. My body warmed up like I had just downed a shot of vodka. I slowed my breathing and let myself fall into him. I felt swaddled like a baby—safe and warm. The swirl of insanity instantly simmered down and the relief set in; this was real.
And we were going to be okay.
Underneath his messy front, there was something—a lot of things, actually. There was a lost soul that needed direction. A man with a good heart and an insane amount of talent. Benji had the wisdom to know he needed help, but not where to find it or how to get it. And then there I was, this beacon of normalcy shining in the night, and he had clung to it. I was like the Carpathia coming to pull him out of icy waters. How could I have blamed him for that? For thinking his source of rescue came in a little five-foot-three package, was a good lay and had a kind heart?
Plus, when a person asks you to help save his life, you can’t exactly turn him away. Or at least I couldn’t.
“I just want this to work,” I muttered through an ugly cry. There were another six words that would have been just as easy to fire off—I just want you to leave—but they would have been a lie. No matter the circumstances, I needed to be within arm’s reach of this man.
“I do, too, babe. And it will. The coke stuff...it’s over. For good. And with you by my side, I know staying clean is possible. Regardless of everything that’s going on right now, I still feel like I’m the luckiest guy in the world. I’d take slipping up, losing my job, the Twitter shit storm I started last night—I’d take it all again because I know it brought me you. The greatest gift of my life. I really mean that.”
He wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and went on with the monologue.
“But you gotta promise me one thing. You gotta stick by me, let me show you I can do this. I’m not going to let this fall through my fingers. I’ve never had anything like this, like you. I’ve wanted this my whole life.”
I stared out beyond him through the windows of my apartment and shook my head—what was he going to tell the press about losing his job? What part would everyone think I played in sidelining their favorite chef?
“So remind me, what’s the plan, then?”
“I’m going to NA twice a day. You should try to go to some programs, too. Nar-Anon and Al-Anon are good. Stay away from CoDA, it’s bullshit.”
I’d had no clue what any of those things were, or how I would fit them into my schedule. But I soon found out these were just nicknames for meetings designed to make me feel less crazy. Like I wasn’t the only one in a relationship with someone who doubled as a nuclear button. My biggest problem would not be finding a meeting—they happen all day every day in big cities like Chicago—but rather how I would go about hiding my attendance from my friends and family.
“And I’ll do my coursework each night. Look—I’ve already started. I’ll work the program with Mark.”
“Who is Mark again?”
“My sponsor. He and his wife, Rita, actually want to meet you. They host a picnic every Saturday in the summer at North Avenue Beach. We can go this weekend.”
“Benji, I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
“Sorry, I know. I’m getting ahead of myself. When the time is right, we’ll do the picnic thing. And I’ll make some rad side dish, or you could bring your ironing-board grilled cheeses, and we’ll blow everyone’s mind. In the meantime, I’ll keep things between Mark and me. Okay? Sound good?”
I didn’t know these Mark-and-Rita people from Adam or Eve, but something about their names, or the fact they hosted a weekly picnic, made me feel like Benji was in good hands. And just like that, I felt myself starting