18. Johnny

As we set out for the hospital, I'm bombarded with emotions and sensations, all of them contradictory. Calm panic. Intense numbness. Hopeful despair. I don't understand how I can feel so many confusing things—and nothing—at once, but I do.

What's going to happen? Is this going to work? It had better work. I can't get worse.

But Christian was right: Making the decision to get better feels like a cornerstone to build my recovery on. I now have a goal.

I keep going back to that. Got nothin' else to hang on to.

"Before …" Kurt clears his throat. "Yesterday, you promised me you'd stay alive for the day. Can you promise me you'll stay alive until I see you again?"

Can I?

He's looking straight ahead at the road.

My voice is gravelly when I say, "Yeah, I promise."

Liar.

"Good. Spoiler: I'm going to keep asking you to make that promise."

"Whatever it takes," I say listlessly.

Kurt lets me pick the radio station, which I appreciate. He's full of little kindnesses, and each one makes me like him more. He doesn't say much else, and neither do I, choosing instead to look at the hills and the Pacific Ocean as we head north past Malibu.

After about a half hour, we turn off on a windy road and eventually reach the hospital, which is a series of 1960s institutional-style buildings up on a fenced-off bluff overlooking the water. Half a dozen deer loiter on the grass in front of the reception area, and huge oak trees bow near the dry sagebrush on the hills.

I step out and notice how quiet it is—and at the same time, it's deafening. Another contradiction.

Kurt gives me a tight smile. "You okay?"

"Not sure," I croak. "But it's … it's peaceful. Even if I'm second-guessing being here."

"Do you want me to take you back to my house? I don't want to do that, because I'm not equipped to take care of you, but if you insisted, I would. I'm not going to check you in against your will."

"No. Don't take me back. I'll … I'll figure this out."

"Okay, babe. Then let's get you checked in."

We walk inside, and Kurt addresses the admissions nurse. "Um, hi. Our therapist called over and said you had a bed available for my husband, John Haskell."

Why is it that every time one of us says the word husband it thaws my frozen heart a bit more?

"That's right," she says kindly. "We do. Why don't you fill out these forms and let me have your insurance information?"

Kurt digs in his pocket for his insurance card, explaining that we just got married and he'll guarantee payment. He's arranged to take some time off—obviously, since he's spent all day with me—but his work acknowledged the coverage in an email he shows her.

I park my ass on a leather couch and try not to worry about how expensive this place must be. I'm grateful that Kurt's filling out the forms, because my address is now his, and I don't remember what it is.

"Any dietary restrictions?" she asks. "Allergies?"

I shake my head. "No, ma'am."

After she reviews the forms and enters the information in the computer, she says, "Okay, John. Are you ready? If you have any personal property like a cell phone, wallet, or keys, you'll likely want to give it to your husband, because you won't be allowed access to it while you're here."

Everything about going into a mental hospital is unnerving, but this still hits hard. It feels like they're stripping away my last connection to the outside world. I guess because they are. With only a few seconds' hesitation, I hand my phone to Kurt and tell him the passcode in case Mama calls. I watch as it disappears into his pocket.

Most people worry about the photos that someone might find on their phone, but with me, it's the opposite. There are so many images out there of me doing a wide variety of sexual acts that my phone's basically storage for photos of sunsets, horses, dogs, my mama, and my sister—and now a couple of Kurt from Vegas. I've got nothing to hide—or, rather, little that Kurt doesn't know about already. He seems to figure out my deepest, darkest secrets without me even telling him, and he knows I have a lawsuit going, even if he doesn't know why. But I'm giving him access to even more of me when I give him the phone.

I think I like giving him access to me. No one else has ever had that. It's intimate. I'm slowly letting him see every part of me. The real me.

He must be a loser, too, if he wants to know me.

Anger flares within me at that thought. No way am I letting my fucked-up brain insult Kurt. Take it back.

Fine. Just, no one'd want to get to know you.

Whatever.

"I'll give you a moment to say goodbye," the nurse says, and again the paradoxical combination of nerves and calmness washes over me. I've never been in a place like this before, but I assume it'll change me. I have a chance to get better, but I don't know how that's gonna happen.

Kurt looks up at me, his warm brown eyes concerned. "What do you want me to tell your mom?" he asks. "If she calls."

"If she calls, tell her I'm busy and I'll call her the next chance I get."

"Anyone else I should tell?"

"Can you get a message to my lawyers? Ask Sam to tell them I'm here, so they'll understand if I don't reply to an email or something?"

Weird that the people who'll know I'm checking myself into a mental hospital are my husband of, what, two and a half days, and my lawyers. But that's all I care about. Ace can wait.

"You got it," Kurt says. "Is this a secret as to anyone else? I'm not planning on blabbing, but I want to know how much I can talk about it."

"I don't want it getting spread, but I trust you to tell the right people. Need-to-know basis."

"Got it."

I appreciate the fact that he pulls out his phone and adds a reminder to call Sam. Kurt has a million things going on, but this matters to him. I matter to him.

Kurt takes a piece of paper and scribbles down his phone number for me. "In case you can call out." He gives me a smile, which thaws some of the ice inside me, and even though I'm still numb, I'm so darn grateful he's here. "When are visiting hours?" he asks the admissions nurse.

She tells him, and he enters the information in his phone. Again, my heart thumps. He's going to visit me. I don't have to do this for days on my own.

"Can I come tomorrow?" Kurt asks.

"Assuming that he's out of the locked ward, yes," she says, and I freeze up again.

Locked ward? Shit.

My brain starts picturing every single TV show I've ever seen that had someone taken away in a straitjacket. Do they still use straitjackets? Are they going to use one on me if I get too mouthy?

"Locked?" I ask. Is this hospital stay a good idea, or am I giving up freedoms I don't wanna lose?

The nurse gives me an efficient nod, which makes me feel better, since it seems like this is all routine. Or else she doesn't care, which would be bad. Contradictions and paradoxes. "It's protocol. You'll be in a locked ward until you meet with the doctor. That's usually about twenty-four hours, but it might be less."

I'm inching closer and closer to Kurt. Should I pull the plug on this? I"m checking myself in, and I can check myself out … right? I don't dare ask that, now that I've gone this far. Instead, I ask, "And the doctor will decide if I'm safe to be in the regular ward?"

"Exactly." She looks at me expectantly, which means, I guess, that it's time to go.

I dig in my pocket and hand Kurt my mostly empty wallet. "Won't need this," I say. Now he has every material thing I own except the clothes on my back and whatever few photos my mama has.

I'm entrusting myself to Kurt. And I really hope that's the right call, because if things here go haywire, I don't know how I could get myself out of this mess without him.

"Don't worry," Kurt says. "I'll take care of everything for you." His voice is husky, and it seems he's catching the same feels as I am. He gives me a kind smile. Then he opens up his arms, and I step into them.

He smells clean and sexy and already familiar, and his body feels perfect against mine. I cling to him while the admissions nurse waits patiently. He whispers in my ear, "You got this. I care about you. I'll come visit you. You're going to get better. The only way out is through, babe. You can do this. You can live."

I'm going to get better.

The only way out is through.

I can live for one more day.

I'm trusting myself to the right people. The right person.

I lean down and kiss him, and unlike most of our other kisses, this one's sweet and closed-mouth until I get a little desperate at the end. We break away from each other, and as I wave goodbye, alarm hits me.

What if I never get to leave? What if I'm so fucked up that I have to be locked in here for the rest of my life?

Shit, this was a bad idea.

But as I follow the nurse deeper into the hospital, I remind myself that I have to get better. I just have to.