Evergreen Care Center was an upscale rehabilitation center that focused on drug and alcohol addiction. Becky's parents had the option to send her to a less expensive facility, but they chose this one due to the highly reputable cognitive-behavioral therapy program. The goal was to not only get Becky to steer clear of drugs and alcohol, but also to delve into why self-destructive behaviors were Becky's go-to behaviors. I'm not sure what was so complicated about the whole thing since Becky's issues were pretty obvious. She hated authority. Her parents were authoritarians. There, someone pay me a bucket of cash.

I visited Becky most Saturdays. It was hard seeing someone you cared about locked up the way she was. When we met at Myers, we'd been on the same playing field. Both of us were locked up in the same building, no better or worse than the other. She'd been so confident in that place, the kind of girl who owned the space she occupied. Now, however, she was less confident and more angry, not so much owning the space she occupied but rather beating it into submission.

I stepped through the metal detectors, sidestepping a woman shrieking about radiation, and opened up the plastic bag I was carrying for the guard to inspect: Twizzlers, Twinkies, and two cans of Arnold Palmer. I heard the guard's stomach rumble as he looked at the snacks. He nodded and let me through.

I ventured outside and found Becky seated alone at one of the picnic tables. She was picking the nail polish off her fingers, a habit she had when she was feeling antsy. Sunlight hit her dark, thick hair, highlighting how dull it had become in recent months. Still, I was taken aback for the millionth time by how beautiful she was. She smiled as she saw me stroll towards her.

"You got the goods?" she asked after I'd kiss her. I dumped the contents of the bag onto the table, spreading them out so she could choose her first snack. She tore into a Twinkie, moaning. "Ugh, this is like crack."

I smiled at her, realizing how warped these Saturday picnics were. "Your parents visit you this morning?"

She shot me a glare over the top of her half-devoured Twinkie. Clearly, her parents were not at the top of her list of conversation topics. Then again, they usually weren't. I couldn't really blame her. They were a strict pair who ruled with an iron fist, an approach that had slowly embittered their only daughter. "If by visit you mean verbally ream me over powdered eggs, then yes. It was lovely."

"Why were they mad?"

She shrugged. "Because it's a day that ends in 'y?'" I quirked a brow, so she added, "I don't know. I think the insurance is running out."

I opened up my Arnold Palmer and took a swig. "Yeah, but you're out in a few weeks. It'll hold till then, right?" It hit me again how close she was to getting out. I was happy, but a weight settled unpleasantly in my stomach at the same time.

"Yeah, it's just…" She paused, throwing her eyes around the fenced-in green space.

"Just what?"

She ran a frustrated hand through her hair, a tick she'd had since I first met her. "My shrink told them that I was at a high risk for relapsing into old behaviors, or whatever."

Annoyance crept up on me, which I was ashamed of. I knew personally how difficult it was to become the person everyone wanted you to be. People who made decisions like the ones Becky and I had made came from a dark place, born of a pain that was too complex to understand. It was selfish, but when you feel alone in the world how do you take others into consideration? "Why would she say that?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

"Because she has no idea what she's talking about."

"Beck-"

Becky threw her hand down on the wood with a thud. "Cut the shit, Wes."

I jerked my head back in surprise. I'd been about to offer words of support and encouragement, not lecture her on the benefits of reform. "What shit?"

"This holier-than-thou shit. 'Becky, they're trying to help you.' 'Becky, your parents love you.'" She made a disgusted sound.

"Okay, A) both true," I said. "B) totally not what my voice sounds like."

Becky half-smiled. "Totally what your voice sounds like."

I bit off part of a Twizzler. "I actually think my voice sounds less mannish."

She laughed and opened up her Arnold Palmer. We were quiet for a minute. She picked at the table with her nail, right where an elegant phallus had been artfully carved into the wood. Then, she said, "Look, I'm sorry. I know I've been a huge bitch when all you've been is supportive. It's just the closer I get to getting out of here, the more restless I feel. You and I used to be the screwed-up couple. Now you're all…stable."

"God forbid," I quipped.

"I just can't wait to get out of here and be with you again," she said softly. I met her eyes and was taken aback by the intensity of her stare. She was watching me, studying me for some kind of reaction.

"Me too," I said.

Whatever she was looking for in my expression or stare, she clearly hadn't found. She visibly deflated a bit, her eyes falling back to the table. Her lips set in a hard line and I could see her working her jaw as she clenched and unclenched her teeth. I knew Becky. This was a sure sign that she was trying to keep her emotions in check. "Kyle visited me," she said in an offhand tone, looking around nonchalantly. "Last week."

Yeah, cause he's in love with you, I wanted to say. I had a feeling she already knew that. I waited for the surge of jealousy, the concern that I was being betrayed somehow, but neither came. The news had no impact on me. "Did he now?" I asked. I suddenly suspected that he'd visited her more than once.

She nodded. "He said you've been hanging out with some girl."

I twisted my mouth into a sardonic smile. Kyle was some friend, stirring up drama like this between my girlfriend and me. "She's a coworker."

She rolled her eyes. "Right."

"Beck, there's nothing going on there," I said, not quite feeling the truth in my own words. Nothing physical, at least. Unless you count that dream…That dream…Focus, Wes!

"Does Kristy like her?" she said, trying to disguise the raw curiosity by coating her tone with layers of apathy.

"Yeah," I replied, running a hand through my hair. While Becky had always tried to hide it, the fact that Kristy disliked her was a huge sore spot for her. It had been for me, too. The fact that someone I viewed as my sister didn't approve of who I was dating hurt. I valued Kristy's opinion more than anyone's, and Becky knew it.

"Of course she does," Becky murmured, more to herself than to me.

"We're coworkers," I repeated firmly, bending my head down until she met my gaze. "Maybe you can tell Kyle that the next time he comes to visit."

She looked away, a fleeting expression of guilt crossing her features.

After that, we steered clear of talking about those individuals, the ones who were occupying more of our time and thoughts than the other would divulge. It was just the two of us then, chatting like old times. She asked me about my art, something she had always been incredibly supportive of. I asked her about her writing, an innate talent she possessed that I always admired. I used to grab for her poetry like a life preserve, since it was usually the only way I could get a grasp on what she was feeling. I hoped that her therapist hadn't recommended that she keep writing. The minute any authority figure supported her writing was the minute she would stop doing it.

When they announced the end of visiting hours, we stood from the table. I collected the trash and threw them into the bin. I turned to say goodbye. Becky wrapped her arms around my waist and rested her face against my chest, "her spot" as she liked to call it. I leaned down and kissed her tenderly on the crown of her head, my hand stroking her hair.

"Things will be better when I get out," she whispered.

And I truly hoped things would be better for her.