I shine the light around the room and find the mini-fridge. It's full of alcohol, a few bottles of water, mixers, and there are packages of nuts and candy.
Guess we have dessert.
But Zoe shouldn't be around the alcohol.
There is no plan, but I remove the bottles and put them on top of the desk. I'm debating about what to do with them when Zoe quietly says, "What are you doing?"
I spin. A towel is wrapped around her hair, and she has another one around her body. "I'm just getting rid of these. You showered fast."
"I didn't want to leave you without any hot water."
"I was only joking."
Her eyes turn to slits. She points. "What is all this about?"
I grab a pack of chocolates. "There are a few good things here. It's military packs for dinner, but we've got dessert."
Her voice shakes but gets more robust. "But what is this?" She points again to the stockpile of alcohol.
My gut drops, and it's clear I've made a bad mistake.
"I thought you would want me to get rid of these."
"Why? I have a cocaine problem, not an alcohol one."
"You wouldn't take any medication. Two nights ago, you had a craving. I was only trying to help."
Silence.
"Did you hide or discard the medication in your first aid kit?"
"No."
"But you thought it was necessary to discard the alcohol out of the mini-fridge?"
The twisting in my gut spins faster. "I assumed you wouldn't want the temptation. But I get the feeling you're upset with me?"
"I think you should go take a shower now."
"Zoe—"
"Don't worry. There's..." she counts the bottles, "... twenty-four bottles. You can count them when you finish."
"I didn't—"
"You did."
"Zoe—"
She grabs the trash can, slides her arm across the counter, and the bottles crash into the metal bin. She holds it out. "Here you go."
"Zoe—"
"Take it."
I don't.
She stomps into the bathroom and slams it on the counter then comes back out.
"I'm—"
"Dirk, go shower."
"But I—"
"No. I don't want to talk right now. Go shower. Give me some space."
Every morsel of me wants to pull her in my arms and beg her to tell me where I went wrong and why she's so angry, but I don't.
She wants space. Give it to her.
"When I'm out of the shower, can we talk about this?"
She doesn't answer and turns her back to me.
My shower is less than two minutes, and when I come back to the bedroom, she's under the covers, curled on her side, with her eyes closed.
I sit on the bed and stroke her cheek. It's wet, and my heart sinks. "I'm sorry."
More of her silent tears fall.
"Will you tell me what I did wrong?"
She rolls away from me.
I don't know what to do. I've caused her deep pain, but I don't know why. And I loathe myself for it.
14
Zoe
It's hard enough when you become a person you always thought you'd never be. When other people see the things you despise the most about yourself, it accelerates the pain to a different level—especially when it's the person you want to be loved by.
All he'll ever see me as is an addict.
You are an addict.
He's never going to be able to trust you.
It's another slap into reality. There is no normal for me. But if I'm honest with myself, there never has been. When you're obsessed with building your career and being number one, there isn't any room for anyone else. Plus, dating when you're famous is hard. Everyone wants something from you—money, fame, even to help their career flourish by association. And meeting people outside of the circle your management team puts you in is nearly impossible.
Even before I changed my managers, I didn't have any relationships with men that weren't surface level.
Dirk is the only one I've met who doesn't appear to want anything from me. My money doesn't seem to be of interest to him. He could have outed me several times, and all he did was try to hide my identity. If anything, he's destroyed his career by helping me.
If I look back on my life, there hasn't been anyone special who I wanted to respect me—not Zoe Diego, the famous Latina pop star—but the actual me.
But you don't even know who you are anymore. How can someone respect you when you don't?
This isn't about respect anyway. It's about trust.
Not true. He can't respect you. You're an addict.
Dirk sits on the bed and strokes my cheek. "I'm sorry."