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    There's a saying that 'to go west' that means a few different things depending on where you are. In Native America, it would mean to die after a legend about a dying man meeting the sunset. In Ireland, it means to be broken, and in the UK, it means to be lost. I rarely prescribe to these bullshit quotes, but as I'm sitting in this upmarket in the middle of London, surrounded by business men and women dressed up, I wonder if that idiom is meant for me.

Places like this trigger over the years; a thin film of sweat beads on my forehead, my chest working harder to push the oxygen. The smell of alcohol in the air, watching people having after-work drinks, popping pills to stop the headaches, laughter in the air... it all brings back memories of the life that's now out west for me.

Well, not entirely. It's a mix of central and west. It's mainly out west. Isaac is making sure he's firmly central. As long as I ignore him, he stays in my west.

Stop thinking about him.

A waft of strong coffee hits my nose as a mug of the stuff is put in front of me.

"Strong, black and enough to get rid of the smell, right?" August sits opposite me, a small smile on his face. His brown eyes sparkle at me in a mix of worry and pride. "If it's too much, we can leave."

I shake my head. "It's fine. As long as I don't watch people too much. It's been... five years. I need to get over it, right?"

He glances around the place before firming his gaze on me. "Avery, that's not how it works, and you know it. You don't just get over this kinda shit, especially after everything you've been through."

I sigh and focus my attention on him; the oval shape of his head, his brown hair, the thick, black frames of his glasses that cover his dark eyes. The same eyes that saved me so many times over the years in so many ways.

"I know it doesn't work like that. It's alcohol, so it's not too bad. It's not like it's... heroin." I hiss the last word so no one thinks the worst.

Their idea of the worst wouldn't be far from the truth, though.

August snorts and laughs, grabbing his phone and scanning the meter on his arm to check his blood sugar level. He nods at the number and then puts his phone back down.

"That thing working better for you now, since you got the new brand?" I nod towards his arm.

"Yeah, so much better. Not having as many low sugars anymore. Or, well, fake ones, anyway. Plus, saves getting the blisters on my fingers, you know?" He grins that lopsided grin that sends my heart racing like a fucking drum. "So, thank you for pushing me to get it."

It was a year ago I saw the advert for that continuous monitor thing. So many times over the past four years, I've walked into the room to see August sweating or having to sit down, slurring his words in meetings or out because his blood sugars went too low. Once I had to take him to hospital, and now, it's seemed so much better.

My lips quirk into a grin and I sip my coffee. Somehow, the pride and wanting to say I told you sooverwhelm me, but I let the caffeine will it away.

"I'm meant to be doing your six-month appraisal," he says.

My eyes meet his. Despite everything always being fine, and as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, I know my job is safe for as long as August's my boss, the words always worry me. They always will.

He shakes his head. "We both know what it'll consist of, Avery. You don't need to worry. There's a reason I'm not doing it now when I'm supposed to, and it's the same reason I brought you out of the office now."

"What? You always have that no-shit expression when it's serious."

He laughs. "You know you'll never be fired. Well, unless you do something seriously bad, and you haven't once in four years. I couldn't let you go."

We both know why, and I hate that the unsaid lies between us like a red carpet at a premiere.

"August—"

"I know." He sighs. "Oh, I know. But here's the deal. I wanted to talk to you about this before anyone else. There's a job opening in accounts—"

I groan. "August, you can't do this; give me a heads-up about openings. It's not the way, and we have to remain professional."

"Hear me out, Aves."

Our eyes meet again. He only calls me that when it's personal. August called me that when I lived with him while I was getting clean. He called me that when we shared a bed... once or twice.

We're not meant to be doing this. At all. We should barely be out together like this, and he should not be helping me out like this.

"It's the same job, but working for Michael in accounts. You'd be working in the office next door. Because you've worked for us for four years, well, nearly four years now, you'd get a bonus and a pay rise. I would just be a colleague to you; I would have nothing to do with you professionally as a boss."

I sigh. "August—"

"That way, we could finally be together."

I sip my drink until it's gone. The mention of it, the reminders of what happened, the pure need.

But the reality is so much different.

"You know what'll happen; despite me being employed and in the company, they'll rifle through my record, August. They'll see my issues in the past, the massive gap in employment, ask about it and find out I was in rehab and did the twelve steps. Because of that, they'll work out what happened with us, and when that happens... I'll be fired. You'll probably also get done. Then I'll never find a job with my record. No one wants to take on an ex-drug addict and someone who's had warnings because of drug crimes and connected to a wanted gang."

"Aves, don't. That was five years ago. They won't look that deeply. Hell, they probably won't even look, you've been with us four years with no issues." He drinks his coffee and eats the biscuit on the side of the cup. "Anyway, it's up to you. The job goes live next week, so think about it."

"I'll think about it." My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. "He's been sending letters again."

August's eyes close for a second and his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. "What does he say?"

I shrug. "Not sure, I haven't read it, just put it straight in the bin. I don't wanna know. But this one didn't come from the prison. Same handwriting, though. I'm wondering if he's been let out. He should've been... if I remember rightly, he was up for parole six months ago. I can't remember properly."

"Shouldn't they tell you if he's let out?"

"Don't think so, seeing as his crimes weren't to me. Like, he didn't victimise me, so there's no duty there. I'm also not on his next of kin list anymore."

"You could try and find out if you really wanted."

I shrug. "What's the point? I've literally ignored him since he went to prison. I'm living in a new place – well a place – changed my number and everything. My life is better now without him in it. He's a figment of my past, as is the gang."

"Let them stay there."

I scoff. "Here's hoping. Anyway, I have a meeting to go to in a bit. My boss knows about it."

August laughs. "He does. You finished work early for it. Aves... seriously think about the promotion."

"It wouldn't be a promotion," I say as I stand up.

"Technically not but it's a pay rise with other benefits, too."

"How is it a benefit if I don't get to see you every day?"

He glances away, clearly trying not to stand up and grab me for that. "What's the point of this? This way, we can finally get what we're after."

Of course, he's right. What's the point of seeing each other every day if we're just going to pine?

"We can be together without going against any company policy?" I ask.

He nods. "Already looked into the rules; we would be fine as I wouldn't be your boss."

"Then I'll go for it."

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    When you get professional help for a drug addiction, everything they put you through is never mandatory. The doctor who August helped me see told me the detox wasn't mandatory, but was highly recommended – especially if I didn't want to die. The weekly meetings they made me go through after I was well enough to get out of the house were never mandatory, but they were highly recommended to try and get support. 

Those are the same meetings I still attend once a month aren't mandatory, but they recommend them in case I ever need to get support. The twelve-step process they recommend was never mandatory, and getting a sponsor – especially one who wasn't an ex-addict also wasn't mandatory. But hey, they recommend those too.

Of course, the same health service that says addiction is an illness and not a choice, also advocates for everything in making them better being a choice and the patient has to choose to be better. I find it such a paradox.

As an addict – or former addict – I didn't want to choose the right thing; there were some days I wanted to be 'bad' and choose heroin. I wanted to tell them to fuck their detox, and I wanted to punch August in the face for wanting to help me. 

My boyfriend – or rather, ex-boyfriend – was going through the process of being arrested and tried for drug crimes in the gang, I was cautioned and sent on my way, all I wanted was to continue to shoot up, pretend it wasn't happening and be sent to a world where everything felt right again. When I was high, everything was numb and floaty, warm and safe.

Another paradox. There was no way being high off my tits for so long was healthy or safe, and yet during those highs, the drug takes hold, grabs your hand and whisks you to a place where everything in your body feels very healthy and safe.

That's why people get addicted.

But addiction isn't a choice, apparently. It very much is; it was a choice I made every time to shoot up, get high and chase the high every time after. Addiction was my choice, possessing it was my choice and ratting out Isaac so I could escape jail was very much my choice.

That arrest and feeling the effect of missing heroin for those twenty-four hours they held me was the kick up the arse I needed to know I had to change my life. Staying out of jail pushed me to attempt to clean up. Stupidly, my first choice was applying for a job while also trying to get clean.

August clearly spotted it in me and somehow, despite me looking like a, well, junkie trying to get clean, homeless and using stolen makeup and clothes, he chose to help. Sought me help, got me on a detox program, took me in and let me live with him until I could get a place of my own with the wages he pays me.

Just like addiction, getting clean was my choice and one that was the hardest road. I could've chosen to stay on the streets, chasing my next high by selling my mouth to the dirtiest men, my stolen goods to the highest bidder, and die in a ditch in the seediest part of the city. I didn't. I chose to anonymously sell out my boyfriend and his gang, and then I chose to walk into August's office – maybe I knew it was a cry for help and he took it.

I also chose to fall in love with him despite knowing I can't have him. For many different reasons.

I hate it, August hates it, and hopefully, this new promotion will happen. It's a far cry from where I was five years ago.

As I walk up the stairs to the flat August helped me put a deposit down on years ago, I sigh. That was such a long time ago, and the more I think about the life I had merely twenty minutes down the road, I shake my head. I was a different person; damaged, used, high, disgusting. There'll be long-term damage to my brain just like there is to my heart; I'm not stupid. Maybe I'll get lucky because I got clean. Maybe I can forget it one day.

All I can do is live in the now, and hopefully forget Isaac West and his stupid fucking letters that I don't even know how are coming to this address.

My phone vibrates in my hand; a message from August. 'Can I pop round later? Nothing serious, just need to ask something!'

I quickly message him back saying, 'Yeah, whenever you want – you have a key,' as I exit the lift and walk out into the hall that leads me to my front door. I grab the post as I walk into the flat and throw myself into an armchair.

The letters are mainly bills and stuff about my upcoming heart appointment – thanks to the drugs I'm constantly monitored for a slightly abnormal heart rate despite being on long-term (legal) medication for it. Except for one – a handwritten envelope. It's left unsealed, which means it was probably dropped off personally.

I glance around before taking the single piece of paper out and unfolding it. My eyes don't even need to scour to look for a name – there isn't one anyway – but I know that handwriting.

'Avie, it's finally time. Took me ages to find you. You could've at least been home. Ah well, I'll try again another time.'

I've never been in ice, or water like it, but my body suddenly dips to what I believe it'd be like.

Or is this stone? I'm not sure. But my heart issues suddenly rear their ugly head and this time not because of the drugs. It's a heavy metal drum in my frozen body as my eyes swivel around the flat.

How the fuck does he know where I live? How long has he been out of prison? What does he want?

Well, I know the answer to that. The only thing Isaac West would ever want with me now is an explanation, revenge and then me. Unless he's found another woman, which I hope he has.

I put the letter down and stare at my phone. Technically, I should tell August about this. I made him a promise all those years ago that if he came for me, I'd tell him. We'd go to the police or something. The problem with that is if that happens, it will put us in turmoil again in terms of drama. Isaac knows where I am, and if August knew it, he'd move me. He'd immediately move me in with him or find me somewhere immediately, pay this place off and whisk me away to safety.

None of that is necessarily a bad thing – in fact, that'd be amazing – but it changes everything again, and I'm settled in this life. It took me long enough and will take me more time to get used to this new job thing.

For now, I can't tell August. Hopefully, Isaac will make this easy: come, get an answer and leave again.

I chortle at my own thought; of course he won't make it easy. It's Isaac fucking West. If our time together taught me anything, it's that nothing is ever as it seems with him. It'll be difficult, and I know it. But for now, August can't know. Hopefully, it won't be relevant for a while yet.

I do what I've done with all of Isaac's prison letters to date and put the letter in the bin, forgetting it – and he – exists for just one more day. 

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