Vacation?

Nate’s [POV]

The first time I'd been to Hawai'i was over a decade ago. My mother had lived there for years before she moved to San Francisco and met my dad.

Whenever we went on vacation, we'd come to Hawai'i. We would stay at this private villa on the beach on the Big Island. The staff who worked at the house had kids my age who I'd play with, and we'd always stay there for weeks at a time before going back home. Every night, my parents and I would take a walk together on the private beach. I remember I'd always be up first because I liked watching the fishing boats on the water when the sun was coming up.

After she died, we never went back to the house again. We'd stay at hotels. Five-star places that had been nice, but they'd never really felt like home; and since she was gone anyway, it was never really the same. I just remembered a lot of babysitters since Dad would always take his work with him, something he had never done on vacation with Mom.

I had tried to figure out what happened to that house we used to stay in; it had been demolished and a golf resort had gone up instead.

Guess the Four Seasons was a good enough second pick. I don't know what I would have done in the old house if it had still been standing. It had been a long time, like twenty years, so there was no way it would have still looked the same, anyway.

Even if I had been able to stay there, maybe the isolation wouldn't have been the best thing for me at a time like this. It sort of sounded like the kind of place where I'd slowly lose my mind. Somewhere it would take a hell of a long time for anyone to find me if I fucked up and overdosed or something.

Yeah. The Four Seasons it was. At least if I OD'd there, I'd be found the next morning by housekeeping.

I'd never been to their hotel on Lanai, but I'd stayed at their Vegas location, and it would just be like that but with palm trees, right? All I wanted was three months where I didn't have to be Nate Stone. Remus, and my label, and Kirsten could all go to hell. I just wanted to relax, goddamn it. Was that too much to ask?

My life was a fucking garbage fire. Maybe it would still be a mess when I got back, but there was a chance I'd get my head out of my ass long enough while I was on the island to actually sort it out. If nothing else, I could just pretend that everything wasn't completely horrible. I could get massages and be a tourist for a while. And when I went back, I'd just cut everyone off and become a hermit.

Or maybe I'd spend so much time in Hawai'i I wouldn't want to go back at all. There was an idea, I thought. Isn't that what people did? Sort of like moving off the grid, but not really because Hawai'i was not the middle of nowhere. I'd change my name, get a boring job like selling cars, get really fat, and be happy. Anything was better than my life now. It literally could only go up from here. This was the fucking bottom.

I managed to sit through the entire flight without killing myself. It was an early morning flight but they were serving booze, thank God, so it could have been worse. They only had wine, which I didn't usually drink, but after like three glasses, eight hours really flew by.

I was feeling okay by the time we landed. No shaking. No sweating. Nobody on the plane asking me for autographs or taking my picture, either. Honestly, one of the better flights I'd taken commercially – but I made a mental note to just spare myself the bullshit the next time I wanted to go somewhere.

As I got off the plane, I immediately regretted wearing my hoodie. It was hot, but there was a nice breeze, so it wasn't too humid. I'd take the hoodie off, but I wasn't in the clear yet. It was better safe than sorry. I wasn’t on the Big Island, but all it took was one person recognizing you. If word got out that I was here, then I could kiss my vacation goodbye.

Had my assistant said anything to the hotel about privacy? I hoped so. Why hadn't I done all this shit myself, I thought. I knew what the actual answer to that question was, but I decided I hadn't because it was Casey's job to do things like that for me and that was what I paid her for. Yeah. That reason was better than me just being too strung out to do it myself. The point wasn't to be truthful – it was to make myself feel better about being a junkie.

I went through arrivals, grabbed my luggage off the carousel, and exited the building to the parking bay where drivers were waiting to pick up passengers and hotel shuttles were filling up to take people where they needed to go. Casey had told me that the Four Seasons had sent me a car so I didn't have to worry about getting one myself. Good, I thought. The more things they could do without me having to ask them, the better.

I was on vacation. I was officially tapped out. Whatever was happening in LA, with the band, with Kirsten, I didn't want to hear it. I didn't give a fuck. I was officially too far away for it to touch me.

Three months of sand, sun, and hot Hawai'ian girls. I walked up to the car. The driver was this older Hawai'ian guy, about my dad's age. He was wearing a uniform with the Four Seasons logo and holding a card with my name on it. He smiled, seeing me walking over to him.

"Mr. Stone?" he asked.

"Call me Nate. The hotel sent you?" I asked. He said they had as he reached for my suitcase. I stopped him because I could do it myself. I was also a little shifty about people handling my bag when I knew what I had in there.

"Is this your first time on Lanai?" he asked. I heaved my suitcase up into the trunk.

"Yep. First time." He said something else, but I didn't hear him from where I was at the back of the car. I felt a drop in my stomach, and my palms started sweating. Oh no. It was happening. It had been ten hours since my last dose and I was feeling it. I shut my eyes and tried to stop it.

I had been mostly fine the entire way here on the plane. Even if I had wanted to, there would have been no way that I could have shot up in the middle of a full first-class cabin. I wasn't on the plane anymore, though. My kit was right in my suitcase. My suitcase was right in front of me.

Don't do it, Nate. Come on. You just got here. You left all that shit behind. I was here. I wasn't stressed anymore. No. It had nothing to do with stress – I was just a junkie.

"Hey, could you wait a second for me? I just gotta go take a leak," I said quickly to my driver. He said I could take as long as I needed. I only needed a second. Just something so I didn't get dope sick. I quickly got my kit out of my suitcase, sliding it under my hoodie. I went back into the airport building to find a restroom, locking myself into a stall.

My heart was pounding in my head. I got my kit out, unzipping it quickly. I tore the wrapper off the syringe and nearly dropped the vial of heroin trying to fill it. I held it between my teeth, belting my arm, and quickly sinking the needle into my skin.

Not enough to take me out. Just enough so I didn't start withdrawing. It was dangerous quitting cold turkey, anyway. Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, you fucking piece of shit, I thought.

I took the belt off my arm, letting my head fall back against the door of the bathroom stall. At least I wasn't homeless, robbing a 711 for money to buy dirty stuff on the street. At least I didn't have hepatitis from sharing needles. As far as heroin addicts went, I could have been a lot worse. I was still using, but at least I wanted to quit.

That had to count for something. I wasn't doped to my eye sockets, just passed out all day. I hadn't lost my house and alienated myself from all the people who loved me.

Okay, maybe I had done that second one.

I felt myself coming up. As much as I wanted to quit, I couldn't pretend I didn't fucking love that high. It was like looking at everything underwater. Like it wasn't so sharp or hard anymore. Soft focus.

I could quit later. It wasn't a big deal. The road to recovery was a long one. Baby steps, that was what mattered the most, right? I only used enough to keep me from getting sick anyway, not even really to numb out.

You really had to master ninja-level denial when you were a drug user. I could make excuses all day long, but the hard truth was I hated it. I hated that I had to use that shit. I hated that my body literally became sick when I hadn't injected poison into it. I hated that it controlled me.

I hid my kit under my hoodie, coming out of the stall. I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror. I walked back outside, heading for the car.

I realized I must have looked suspicious and dropped the hood. The crowd of people still waiting for rides was a lot smaller. If someone was going to recognize me now, it didn't matter because I was leaving anyway. My kit from the outside just looked like a smaller, black instrument case. I just stuffed it into my backpack and got into the backseat of the car.

"Are you all right?" the driver asked. He was looking back at me sort of concerned. I tried to smile at him.

"Yeah, I'm great. Let's just go." He started the car.

"Did you have a good flight?" he asked. Wonderful, I had gotten Chatty Cathy as my cabbie. The dope had taken the edge off, though, and I was finally here. It was beautiful outside. The sun was shining. The air smelled clean, and it was quiet. He was just doing his job. I didn't need to be an asshole to this guy.

"It was great. Long, though."

"Where did you fly in from?"

"Los Angeles."

"Vacation?"

"Yeah, I just needed a little break."

"You came to the right place. Tell me, do you golf?" he asked.

"No, I don't," I said, wondering what he would say to that.

"It'll help you relax. The Four Seasons has one of the best courses on the island."

"You think I need help relaxing?" I asked, amused. I knew something that was really relaxing. I shot heroin; that was the most relaxing habit there was.

"You must if you need a vacation," he said. I smiled, looking out the window. He was all right. Making conversation with the people in the back of his car was probably what got him through this job.