Chapter Text
Life had never been a simple step up the staircase for Angela Giarratana—as much as she wanted it to, it wasn’t that way for her.
It was more of a… rollercoaster ride, except there're seven continuous loops and the destination of said rollercoaster ride was down to the deepest pits of hell and was going at approximately 100 miles an hour.
She didn’t understand what her life had come to, frankly, she lived a fulfilling life all throughout her childhood days, living in a suburban home, house just right next to her best friend’s as they both gushed about boys they liked.
She came from a loving family, and a loving community. Even if she was bullied here and there, it didn’t necessarily blow away her passion and love for her hobbies—Shakespeare, music, theater, and acting—so for her life… to take such a drastic turn the moment she met that son of a flying bitch during college, she knew she was done for.
They had dated for a year, yet that year might as well have been her own personally created hell—considering she did ignore the advice and warnings of her friends—fights and arguments seemed to fly off the rails, verbal turned to physical… and physical turned to… getting overpowered for the lack of a better term.
If it weren’t for Chanse’s and Shayne’s help, perhaps that bastard might as well have killed her, and with the current justice system, she didn’t want to rely on the guy getting 12 years in jail for her death.
So she persevered, in her own way, one way or another as they say. Turning her pain into an addiction, alcohol, smoking, maybe a bit of drugs here and there—she wasn’t the same woman she used to be, and frankly, she doesn't think healing is going to solve anything anytime soon.
“I’m telling you, you really need to stop coming to work drunk.” Shayne speaks with concern and mild amusement as he watches Angela stumble her way inside the Humanities Professor's office.
“I’m not drunk. I’m hungover as shit balls.” Angela grumbles out quietly, sitting down on the seat just in front of Shayne’s desk.
“Right, of course you are.” Shayne huffed out, a light smile on the dirty blonde’s face as he looked back down at his lesson plans.
“Any particular reason as to why you’re in my office or are we not going to mention that part right now?” He asked without bothering to look up, already opening one of his desk’s drawers and pulling out an Advil—still in its pristine plastic covering—he was already used to the younger woman coming into his office looking for painkillers, and it had become a routine now to restock on Advil and whatnot for the woman.
“Advil, and because I don’t want to go to my lecture right now.” Angela finally answers, as best and clear as she can even if her head feels like it’s being jackhammered by 5 different construction workers that definitely were underpaid.
“You’re lucky Anthony has a soft spot for you.” Shayne chuckles out as he hands the Advil to Angela’s open palm.
“Right, because of course I’m still here due to his soft spot and not my expertise in Drama.” Angela rolled her eyes as she ripped the plastic off and swallowed the pill without water.
“And Shakespeare.” The dirty blonde added to which Angela just huffed—unamused.
“That’s already a given Shayne.” She retorted back, her words lacking its usual bite for the older man as Shayne laughs, “Right, of course of course, only you could recite his many sonnets after all. Somehow.”
“Yeah, whatever, I’m leaving. Would actually much prefer hanging out with overconfident young adults than you.” The short brunette spoke as she stood up from her seat, already walking towards the door as she heard the dirty blonde behind him saying “Goodluck, don’t fall asleep in the middle of the lecture.”
“That was one time!”
“Wrong! You fell asleep thrice!”
“Shut up!”
“You cannot be serious right now.” Arasha speaks with terrifying calmness as she stands in front of Amanda, who is currently sitting down inside the break room of the hospital. The older woman had her hands on her head, in utter distress.
“I didn’t–well, I was just trying to understand her.” The taller woman tries, looking up to see the nurse who only had a blank expression on her face and a singular raised eyebrow.
Amanda was in distress, if that wasn’t clear enough. She had just messed up big time during her recent appointment with a client and she wasn’t exactly thinking a bit too hard on her choices of words due to a lack of sleep binge watching Dateline last night—which resulted in her client walking out on her.
To add more salt into the wound, that client of hers was her only client these past few months—which could now mean that she was eligible to be fired by her boss.
“And you thought it was a good idea to backtrack.” Arasha stated blankly, biting her sandwich as she sat down across from Amanda—she was on her secret lunch break currently—coming inside the break room only to see Amanda folded in on herself whilst sitting on the metal chair, Trevor was standing guard outside the break room in case Lisa from HR decides it would be a good time to check up on them.
“I didn’t… okay, well, I didn’t think. That’s for sure.” Amanda huffed, looking at the Indian woman with a mixture of fear and distress. “Ian is going to fucking lecture me again, I’m so dead it’s not even funny.” Amanda added as she covered her face with her hand, Arasha quietly nodding at her words before speaking.
“Completely correct, not that I’m not trying to comfort you and all.” The younger woman adds, placing her half eaten sandwich down inside of her open plastic tupperware. “Then again, you kinda are our only therapist.”
“Courtney’s right there.” Amanda grumbled, lowering her hands as she glared at the younger woman before immediately schooling her face—she wasn’t annoyed at Arasha, goodness no. But the weight of her mistakes was definitely making her way more pessimistic than ideal—and expected of somebody that literally graduated with a master’s degree in Counseling.
“Yeah but Courtney’s overbooked, they're kind of busy and a big deal, especially when it comes to her child patients.” The nurse shrugs before sliding over her lunch towards Amanda, “Calm down, Mandy. We still need an extra set of hands here, especially your expertise—no matter what Ian says.” Arasha adds with a soft smile, comforting the older woman as she tapped her nails on the plastic tupperware.
“Anyways,” Arasha begins, “You should eat, you forgot to bring your lunch again didn’t you?” The nurse asks as she tucked a hair behind her ear, looking at Amanda who quietly nodded as the older woman hooked a finger over the opening of the tupperware and slid it closer to her.
“Yeah, you’d expect being a therapist I’d have my shit together.” She sighed as she picked up the half-eaten sandwich.
Suddenly three knocks came from the door, a sign from Trevor that Lisa was unfortunately speeding right towards the break room. Amanda barely had the sandwich close towards her mouth as she threw her head back and groaned.
“And, of course! Lisa has the greatest timing in the world!” Amanda practically yells.
“Okay, you’re going to have liver failure before you reach 35—no actually, 30.” Chanse warns as he is sitting next to Angela on bar stools, the bartender just a few steps away from them, the both of them currently in the downtown bar where Angela wouldn’t have to worry with her students finding her—and accidentally bring one to bed—she doesn’t need another scandal like last year.
“Fuck my liver.” Angela huffs, currently still in her outfit from this morning—when she hurriedly went to work without even bothering to shower the smell of alcohol off of her—her white blouse half unbuttoned from her collar as she raises her hand for the bartender to notice her.
“Angela! I’m being so completely serious.” Chanse speaks through gritted teeth as he rolls his eyes at Angela’s words.
Though, the gay man is completely doing nothing as Angela orders herself a whiskey on the rocks. “One, you’re doing your lectures to future theater directors and actors completely hungover almost everyday. Second, you’re 28 for god's sake! Third and most important of all, you’re genuinely… getting worse.” Chanse explains as Angela sips on her drink.
“I’m perfectly fine. I haven’t snorted a line since 3 years ago. If that isn’t an accomplishment then I don't know what is.” Angela snorts, finding the whole thing amusing as she turns on her stool seat, facing Chanse.
“Look buddy, my friend, my lad.” Angela starts, “I haven’t found a reason to get better yet, and frankly, you just agreeing to drink with me tonight is enough to get me through one more day.” Angela explains, voice sincere even if it sounds like the most unserious thing in the whole world.
“You promised. You said you’d end this!” Chanse emphasizes “this” as he gestures with both his hands at the whiskey in Angela’s hand.
“I don’t want to lose you, and I’ve already lost more than enough. You need to try.”
“For me, if not for me then for Spork! You got a service dog and he’s practically trembling and nudging you every time he senses you’re getting another panic attack!” Chanse adds as he runs his fingers through his hair in concern and worry before finally snapping.
“You know what, I’ll take matters into my own hands, I’m setting up an appointment. This needs to stop.” The curly haired male pulled his phone out from his pocket, opening it hastily as he googled what hospital that has Therapy Services available were around the area.
Angela looks at him as if he had grown two heads in the span of one millisecond, “Oh god, not this again. The last one practically gave up on me!” Angela groans as she throws her head back, annoyance dripping from her voice as she takes another sip of her whiskey.
“Because you were at your lowest which meant you didn’t want to talk, but now you’re… you’re a bit better. Just give this one a chance, and please for the love of all things—stop trying to get in bed with them.” Chanse speaks as he glares at Angela, before returning his attention back to his phone.
“What are you on about, I’m just sizing them up. It's not my fault they find me ravishing.” Angela retorts back without any bite, rolling her eyes as she finishes the whiskey and placing it back down on the marbled counter top.
“Ew! I do not need to know that at all.” Chanse exclaims with a disgusted look on his face—which, yes he somewhat is but at this point it's normal for Angela to just keep speaking the most explicit words.
“Utterly ridiculous.” Chanse adds under his breath, voice dripping with annoyance and disgust before he finally signs Angela up for an appointment for 2 PM—knowing her lectures end at exactly 1:30 PM—as he faces the screen of his phone to Angela.
“Alright, bitch. Here, look at the details whilst you’re still sober.” Chanse calls out to Angela who was already getting another refill for her glass. “Goodness gracious-”
“Alright, alright! Relax your tits man.” Angela huffs, turning to face Chanse once more as she squints her eyes—she didn’t feel like wearing her glasses and she didn’t plan on looking like Lisa Loeb, according to Chanse—and takes in the details.
LOVING EMBRACE MEDICAL — EST. 2005
Patient Name: Angela Giovann Argentina
Session Time: 2:00–3:00 PM
Therapist Name: Amanda Lehan
Therapist Phone No. : 310-333-4445
Main Points of discussion:
- My alcohol problem
- What happened during my college days
- Wanting to be better
- My alcohol problem
“Why the hell is my last name Argentina?” Angela asks incredulously as her eyes meet with Chanse’s who looked way too proud of himself.
“Just making sure you’re still sober.” He replies without missing a beat, a toothy grin escaping his lips.
“Also why is “My alcohol problem” there twice.” Angela adds as she rips Chanse’s phone out of his grasp—making the male yelp in surprise—as she fixes all the things Chanse had purposely misspelled—and added. “I’m not talking about him tomorrow.”
“You can’t afford to play hard-to-get in therapy Angela! She’s going to ask where your fucking- I don’t know, trauma stems from or something like that!” Chanse huffed but didn’t bother taking his phone back from Angela as he watched the agitated—and growingly frustrated—woman change practically everything in the therapy appointment sheet. A sigh escaping the curly haired male who dragged both hands down his face in exasperation.
“You’re paying for this. But fine, if this… fuckass therapy session goes well, I’ll start paying for the next sessions.” Angela huffed as she threw Chanse’s phone in the air towards the male—the male thankfully catching it—as Angela rotated back on her stool seat, facing the bar.
“Pray and hope that Amanda Lehan doesn’t irritate me 10 seconds after entering those doors or I’m leaving without saying a word.”
“I got you, I might as well invest in your future.” Chanse retorts back, words lacking the usual banter venom it has as he faces the bar itself—copying Angela’s actions as he finally orders himself a drink.
“Oh, shut the hell up.”
“Do you… Do you think she’s hot?”
“Shut the fuck up Chanse.”