Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Was I strong enough for this?
“Hey.” His voice interrupted my thoughts. “What’s wrong?” He stroked my cheek. “You’ve gone pale.” He became concerned. “Are you okay? Your eyebrow isn’t twitching. Are you feeling faint?”
“No, I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“Eat, then. You need to eat.”
I picked up a sandwich, not at all hungry but doing it to make him happy. I tried not to watch him drink the wine, but he noticed.
“Liquor is not a vice,” he said, setting down his glass. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He smiled, the expression on his face tight. “It’s fine.”
“Drugs?” I whispered.
He set down his sandwich. “No.”
I was confused.
He sat back, wiping his fingers. “I’m not addicted to liquor, sex, opioids, or pharmaceuticals. I’m not addicted to anything.”
My heart sank. Andi was right—he was in total denial.
“If you can’t admit it, you can’t get well.”
He shook his head. “I will never get well, Mila.”
“Won’t you even try?” I whispered, tears already beginning to well in my eyes.
He laughed, the sound bitter and sad all at the same time. “I am trying, Shortcake. No one knows how hard I try.”
“Tell me.”
He stood and paced around the room. I covered the food, knowing neither of us would touch it. I moved to the sofa, unsure what to do. I wanted to touch him, to stop his restless movements, but I wasn’t sure if I should.
He turned and looked at me. “Do you know why I kissed you earlier?”
I shook my head.
“Because I wasn’t sure if you would let me kiss you again, and I wanted to feel your mouth under mine one last time.”
“We can fight this together,” I whispered.
“I want to believe that.”
He sat across from me, and I dared to reach out for his hand. He grasped mine, staring down at our entwined fingers. He lifted them to his mouth, kissing my knuckles and pressing my palm to his face. He met my gaze, and I saw his pain. His fear. No longer hidden, the emotions bled from his eyes. He was in agony, and I had no idea how to soothe him.
“I’m here. I’m listening.”
He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to mine. Softly. I grasped the back of his head, kissing him back, trying to make him understand I would listen. I would help.
As long as he would allow it.
“I’m not addicted to any substance,” he reiterated. “I drink, but not to excess. I avoid pills unless they are prescribed. I don’t do any sort of recreational drugs.”
“The rehab?” I asked. “Why?”
“I have never been to rehab.”
“What?”
He took in a deep breath. “Hollywood can handle drug abusers and alcoholics. The business is full of them. It’s almost accepted. Sex addicts are common. Fetishes run rampant. They are catered to. Hidden, usually, but still acceptable.” He was quiet for a moment, rubbing his thumb over my hand, staring down at our entwined fingers.
“What still isn’t acceptable, what is still hidden a lot, is mental illness.”
“Mental illness?” I repeated.
He looked up, shame on his face. “I’m mentally ill, Mila. I suffer from Bipolar II. The other studio I’m contracted to and MJ do everything they can to cover it up. It doesn’t go with the image they’ve created for me. The whole alpha hero sort of thing.” He swallowed. “It feels odd to say it out loud.”
“Because they make you hide it?”
“Yes. And I’m never comfortable with the subject, but I want you to know me. The real me.” He glanced down at our hands again. “It doesn’t feel wrong telling you.”
“It isn’t wrong. I think you’re incredibly brave to tell me.”
He laughed, the sound bitter. “The studio wouldn’t agree. Neither would MJ. They make me feel ashamed of it.”
“But you can’t help having a disorder,” I protested, my mind racing a hundred miles an hour.
“They don’t like it. They hide it. I’m not allowed to discuss it. It’s an ironclad rule in my contract. Just telling you could give the studio grounds to dismiss me.”
“They would rather the world think you’re an out-of-control addict?”
He nodded. “Like I said, it’s acceptable.” He shrugged. “I have three more films in the franchise I’m attached to at the other studio, and then I’m done. I’ll figure it out after.”
“Nicholas,” I said, aghast. “That is so wrong.”
“I know. I live with it every single day.”
“Do you have any help?”
“I have prescribed drugs I take. I don’t want to be this way. I don’t want to have meltdowns. Still, they happen. And when they do, the story comes out I’ve gone off the deep end again and am in rehab. The press eats it up.”
“You said Bipolar II. What is the difference?”
“I’m not manic. I have what are called hypomanic episodes.”
“Which are?”
“I get restless, irritable. My emotions run high and low, sometimes very quickly. I’m often so energetic and happy, you can’t tell I’m having an episode. Because I can’t shut down my thoughts, I talk more and I require little sleep. I get sort of wired—like too much caffeine.” He shrugged. “Because I get so involved in a character, I forget my meds. It sets off an episode, and things escalate. Sometimes I fall into a deep depression after.”