“Sobriety looks good on you.”

It did, I thought—and it felt good, too. And losing you nearly killed me.

Alcohol had me firmly back in its clutches. I’d been so sure that Dean was incentive enough to keep me sober that, when I learned he was coming, I left rehab against medical advice. I lasted three days.

We smiled at each other as if we were meeting for the first time—and we would have been, if I were still sober. Instead, we were a lie from the start.

I was heartsick that Dean hadn’t gotten to see who I was in rehab: open and authentic rather than guarded and phony.