If the first few days in rehab had seemed like a lifetime, what with its strict, mind-numbing roster of therapy sessions, psychiatric evaluations, and far more "Anonymous" meetings than Emily had ever heard of, then twenty-eight days in this place should have felt like an eternity.
But it didn't.
Oh, sure, in the beginning, when she'd whined and pleaded with her counselors that she didn't belong here, that it was all a big misunderstanding, that her problem really wasn't alcohol or drugs or sex at all - only to narrow her thick-eyelashed eyes, chagrined, as she listened to one mental health professional after another openly scoff that they'd heard it all before and that, based on extensive reports from her fellow agents as well as her own self-admissions, this was exactly where she belonged ... Yes, in the beginning, the realization that she'd have to spend an entire month fighting against the frantic desire to check herself out immediately so she could return to her job, to her team, to her life, had seemed absolutely insufferable.
Admittedly, seeing her colleagues did help with her decision to stay. Well, mostly, hearing Hotch's stern warning that, while he had not yet accepted her letter of resignation, if she signed herself out before completing the mandatory twenty-eight day treatment, he would be forced not only to remove her from the Behavioral Analysis Unit but also to disclose his reasons for withholding a letter of recommendation if she were to apply for any other position under federal jurisdiction ... yes, that particular little ploy had definitely helped with her decision to stay.
Hotch, Rossi, Morgan, JJ, Garcia: each visited her at least once a week, bringing books and DVDs and music to help pass the time between groups, all of them bearing anecdotes about the latest cases they'd been assigned, knowing that those stories would serve to kindle the small flame of hope within her that she might one day, against all odds, return to a gratifying future with the BAU.
Reid was the only one who never showed up, never called, never wrote. The only one who never contacted her at all. And when Emily finally dared to inquire about his absence, when she'd grasped Garcia's hands in her own and half-whimpered, "Where's Spencer? Why hasn't he come to see me?", the uneasy expression that crossed Garcia's face as she stammered, "Um, I ... I don't think it's a good idea to ... I mean, I don't think you're ready to ..." told her everything she needed to know.
It told her that Spencer hadn't come to see her because Spencer didn't want to see her. And Spencer didn't want to see her because Spencer didn't love her anymore. If he'd ever really loved her at all.
So, on her twenty-second day, sitting in a Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting - a part of her schedule that Emily had absolutely refused to abide by until now, mockingly suggesting on more than one occasion that if they really wanted to surround her with a bunch of sex fiends and rapists, they should just reinstate her at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, until she'd finally relented and agreed to go to "just one meeting" - she finally opened up and revealed the truth about Spencer Reid.
After the facilitator, visibly pleased by her presence, passed around an information guide entitled "The Characteristics of Sex and Love Addiction" along with a questionnaire about romantic and sexual behavior to identify potential signs of addiction, Emily scanned the material and found herself raising her hand to speak. Voluntarily. For the first time since she'd arrived.
The stories poured out of her like an unclogged garden hose primed to burst at any moment, beginning with how, during those lonely teenage days stationed overseas with her mother, she'd sought acceptance and validation by participating in unwanted sexual activities with the most popular boys at her academies; how she had first permitted herself to rediscover sex as an expression of love during college, only to have that love forcibly taken from her, resulting in an oath that she'd never, ever, no matter what, open herself up to being hurt like that again; how she'd been specifically chosen for an undercover assignment to seduce an international terrorist because, given her history and psychological profile, her colleagues surmised that she was uniquely capable of succeeding where others would fail; and how, throughout her entire life, she'd engaged in countless promiscuous sexual affairs with both men and women to fill the void inside of her and to provide a sense of human connection, even if only for a short while.
And then Emily's voice cracked as she broke the promise she'd made to herself upon entering this facility, the promise that she'd leave Spencer out of this, and openly wept describing how she had recently permitted someone to shatter the steel covering she'd been building around her heart for more than twenty years and, after he'd accused her as "using" sex as a substitute for love, he showed her how to express, how to feel, how to believe in the kind of love she once thought existed solely in movies ... until he abandoned her just like all the others, leaving her hysterically searching for a way to make it stop hurting, to just please God make it stop hurting ...
Following this litany of confessions, Emily paused briefly, wiping the slick river of tears from her cheeks, and raised her head to address the group directly. "My name's Emily," she declared, "and I am addicted to alcohol and drugs and sex, but I think I might be addicted to the person I'm in love with, and ... and that's the one thing I can't give up." Her dark eyes stung with fresh tears as she implored, "Please, I'm begging you, please don't tell me I have to give him up, because ..."
"Emily, that's not what recovery from sex and love addiction is about," the facilitator interjected soothingly. "It isn't like alcohol or drug dependence, which requires total abstinence. After all," he continued, his ocean blue eyes scanning hers, "complete emotional and sexual detachment can be equally as destructive as obsessive romantic relationships or promiscuity, as you yourself already know. The goal of recovery is to be involved in healthy, fulfilling relationships instead of using sex as a substitute for love or striving for self-worth exclusively through another person."
"Well, he's in recovery from drug addiction himself, so ..."
Several members of the group groaned audibly.
"No, no! I mean, he's really in recovery," Emily clarified, somewhat defensively. "He's been clean for five years. Goes to meetings all the time. So I was going to say that even though I was his first -"
"His first what?" a young blond-haired man rumored to have been a member of SEAL Team 6 interjected, brow furrowed.
"His first ... everything," she responded quietly, fixing her eyes on her torn cuticles to avoid the curious stares of the other members. "His first kiss. His first sexual experience ... or experiences, I guess. His first relationship. His first love."
More groaning and sighing, only louder now and accompanied by pitying clucking sounds.
"Why does that matter?" Emily shouted angrily, lifting her gaze to challenge the rest of the group. "We love each other!"
"Emily, I don't want to minimize the gains you've made today in finally acknowledging your addictions and exposing your vulnerabilities to the rest of the group," the facilitator began gently, "but ..."
"But what? But just because you all don't know how to have healthy relationships, then, of course, no one else on this planet actually does? Just because you all got addicted the first time you fell in love, then no one in the entire fucking world can possibly experience a first love that lasts? And just because you all have to start from scratch instead of working on fixing an existing, loving relationship, then no one else should be able to, either?" With that, she stood up and began to make her way out of the room.
Before her trembling fingertips touched the doorknob, though, she was stopped cold by one piercing, pointed question.
"Then where is he now, Emily? Where is he now?"
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"Afghanistan."
If stepping out of the carefully-controlled bubble of rehab and into Hotch's black SUV hadn't been enough of a shock to her synapses, this news hit Emily like a nuclear explosion.
"Spencer's in Afghanistan? But why? And how? And ... and why?" Emily screeched, suddenly hating herself for not pressing her teammates harder for information about Spencer's whereabouts, for choosing to watch mindless reality television instead of CNN, and mostly, hating herself because she knew - she just knew - that she was responsible for this.
Hotch kept his eyes trained on the road and responded in a voice so characteristically Hotch, so businesslike and pragmatic it made her want to scream. "After you tried to kill yourself, Reid applied for a temporary transfer to the DEA. They needed someone to assist in a project identifying the unique genetic makeup of cultivated poppy plants throughout the region. If they're successful, then the DEA agents who seize large quantities of heroin here in the United States will, for the first time, be able to trace the drugs to specific areas in the country for targeted eradication."
Emily fell back against the cool leather seat, shaking her head in disbelief as if trying to shake the news from her skull. "But Spenc ... but Reid loves his job. I mean, sure, he sees the same darkness we all see, but he keeps doing it because he knows that, at the end of the day, he's helping to save people's lives."
Without skipping a beat, Hotch turned his weathered face toward Emily and offered pointedly, "Don't you think, Agent Prentiss, that might be precisely why he requested a position with the Drug Enforcement Agency in the first place?"
Shamed into silence, Emily smoothed her black hair behind her ears and focused on her breathing to prevent herself from crying. Even though she'd left rehab a walking bundle of raw, exposed nerves, she vowed that, no matter what, she wouldn't permit Hotch the satisfaction of witnessing her vulnerability.
Not now. Not ever again.
And, for once, it turned out that Emily - vow-breaker and liar extraordinaire - was actually quite good at keeping her word.
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Two days after leaving rehab, Emily collected her thirty-day sobriety chip at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Then it was her sixty-day chip while working a case in Wisconsin. And the day she was planning on celebrating ninety days clean and sober at her home group in Washington, DC - the day she walked into the office early with a slight bounce in her step and placed her Starbucks cup on her desk before shaking her brown blazer off her thin shoulders - was the day she paused for a moment to gaze up at the breaking news alert on CNN.
"ATTACK IN AFGHANISTAN: TWO DEA AGENTS BELIEVED TO BE DEAD"
It was the moment the world - the moment her world - imploded. This world that Emily had been working her ass off every minute of every day to construct out of the jagged shards of her broken life. This world that was characterized by faithfully attending 12-step meetings and accepting glasses of sparkling cider from Rossi with gratitude even as all of her surrounding colleagues grew tipsy (sometimes obnoxiously so) on wine or liqueur during his dinner parties. This world of clenching her jaw and following Hotch's orders to the very letter so as to prove - to him and to herself - that she really was a team player.
This world where she'd constantly wake up in the middle of the night with her hand pressed hard between her thighs, her hips rocking back and forth, after yet another dream of Spencer's fingers and lips and tongue caressing her body ... only to find herself unable to finish, unable to lose herself in the memories and the fantasies, unable to give herself pleasure when she'd caused him so much pain.
The image on the television began to blur and recede from her vision as one pervasive thought entered her mind. So Emily grabbed her jacket and quickly buttoned it, turning away from her desk, as Wolf Blitzer dramatically intoned behind her, "Right now, the only information we have is that these agents were working on a project to identify species of poppy plants used to manufacture and sell heroin here in the United States. Inside sources reveal that the government is currently engaged in a mission to rescue the existing agents, but they will not reveal either the details of this plan or the identity of the fallen agents."
I need to get high. Now.
The urge was so powerful, so all-encompassing, that Emily didn't even notice Garcia standing near the back of the bullpen with one hand over her mouth and her glasses nearly falling off her nose, until she'd nearly crashed into her.
And this gave her pause. What if Spencer's safe? What if he comes home and I can't tell him I have ninety days sober? What if I can't convince him that we can have a healthy, normal relationship where he doesn't have to worry about me taking off in search of powders and pills every time something goes wrong?
"Garcia," Emily pleaded, in a voice she almost didn't recognize as her own. "You have to find out. You have to find out if it's him."
"My office. Now," Garcia replied declaratively. "I'm about to do some things that could get me fired and even put in jail, but I don't care. We're going to find Reid. We're going to find out when he's coming home."
Such naïveté, such optimism ... Emily tried to follow her example as she followed her into the upstairs office and watched as she closed the blinds and locked the door behind them, but Emily didn't believe in happy endings. Not anymore.
And Garcia was only moments away from discovering why.