Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Well, I’ll be damned. The tackle shop is still there, same as ever. The hardware store and that dive bar, too. Same with those two rival diners directly across the street from each other, though it looks like one has a different name now.
It’s all the same as it ever was, mostly, with all of it set against a backdrop of purple mountains, leafy trees and pine needles, river valleys, and big sky. In Los Angeles, everybody’s always looking for the next shiny, new thing. Trends and “what’s hot now” rule the day. But here in Montana—at least, in this small corner of it, there’s a sense of time standing still in the best possible way.
Grandpa’s lake cabin, which became mine and my sister’s, once Mom passed almost three months ago, is about twenty-five minutes away from the town’s main drag. But since everyone who lives on or near Lake Lucille comes into town regularly for supplies and everything else, anyone in the generalized area thinks of Prairie Springs as home.
My phone pings with an incoming text, but I ignore it, since I’m driving and only about a mile from my destination. Hopefully, that was Paula giving me an update on the rehab situation. When I stepped off the plane earlier and Paula hadn’t texted yet, I messaged her, only to be met with a curt reply: “Still working on it.”
I reach a stoplight, the street where the navigation lady has told me to turn left, and wait at the red light. Too curious to wait, I reach for my phone and discover that text from a minute ago, was, indeed, from Paula.
It’s good and bad news, but mostly good. Neither the court nor the insurance company will let you off the hook, unless and until you complete the entirety of your three-month rehab stint. However, when I advised them of your family emergency, they said they’ll allow you to satisfy the remaining three weeks and two days remotely. You’ll need to attend all daily therapy sessions via Zoom. Also, you’ll need to get yourself a sobriety coach, basically, someone who’ll supervise you around the clock for the next three weeks and confirm, in writing, on a nightly basis, that you successfully remained sober over the prior twenty-four hours. Said coach must be an adult who passes a background check and isn’t related to you, and you can pay them a reasonable rate. This is the best I can do.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I grumble. The stoplight is green by now, but there’s nobody behind me, so, as the light cycles back to red, I type a reply to Paula with angry fingers.
I’ll do the Zoom thing, and I’ll put it in writing myself every night that I’m still sober. But I’m sure as shit not going to hire someone to babysit me, round the clock, for the next three weeks and two days. No fucking way.
If push comes to shove, I could ask my good friend, Amy, to help me out, once I get back to LA. When Amy was my personal assistant years ago on a tour, she kicked ass, after a rough start, so I know she’d do a good job for me. True, Amy is a mother now. But I bet if I were to explain my situation to Amy and Colin, they’d both come and bring their kid, Rocco, too. You know, make a family vacation out of it. My place is right on the beach, after all, while their house is inland on a canyon.
The light turns green, once again, and I make the left turn the navigation lady is insisting upon.
In short order, however, as I’m driving down a quiet residential street, my phone pings with another text. When I glance at my screen, it’s Paula again, and the message is long; so I pull over to read.
You have two choices. One, you can accept this generous accommodation from the rehab facility, do exactly what they’re requiring, get a certification of completion in three weeks and two days, and move on with your life. Or, you can refuse their generous terms, thereby officially quitting rehab before completion, and suffer the consequences. It’s up to you. Let me know what you decide.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I shout into the cramped space of my rental car, while banging the heel of my palm on the steering wheel. I know full well what’s at stake here. When I trashed that hotel penthouse in New York three months ago, the night my mother died, I did enough damage to turn my temper tantrum into a fucking felony. Which meant the judge had my nuts in a vise when he ordered me to rehab in lieu of jailtime. After that, the insurance company hopped on board and made completion of rehab a condition of their coverage for any upcoming tour.