Her cheekbones, which were slanted upward in a sly grin, immediately lower. Her eyes lose a little bit of their playful light, and this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Because of my shit, my past, I’m ruining her good time.
“I’m so sorry, Fletch, I forgot. I didn’t even think, of course, you don’t want to taste that. Shit, I’ll go brush my teeth …”
She flees into the bathroom, but I move quickly to her, catch her arm. “It’s okay. I’m just going to sleep on the couch. You take the bed.”
“You’re not going to even sleep with me?” Her voice takes on a note of hurt, and it guts me that I put it there.
This was bound to happen, I knew it from the start. My issues would make her feel unwanted or put pain in her eyes. Because I was weak, I would have to shut myself off from her. Because I wasn’t strong enough of a person, of a man, I’d have to put my own needs ahead of hers.
“I can’t, the smell …” I try to explain with a wave of my arm through the air.
Ryan retreats even further into herself, those amber eyes going midnight black, her arms crossing over her naked torso. “Got it. I can just leave.”
“No, please stay. I want to know that you’re safe. And this is your home too. I want you in our bed.” I still linger by the door instead of hugging her in my arms, because I don’t trust myself.
“Just not enough to want to get in it with me,” she spits, and I know she wouldn’t say it if she wasn’t drunk.
But it’s half-true what they say; alcohol loosens your tongue to say the things you wouldn’t if you were sober. And Ryan’s accusation only proves to me that she doesn’t fully understand how fragile and important my sobriety is.
“I’ll be out there if you need anything.” I hang my head, turning to go.
She harrumphs, and I can sense that all too irrational anger that liquor brings out in a person. “And I guess I’ll jump in the shower since you can’t stand me right now.”
The alcohol is blurring her rationale, but it still doesn’t keep the sting of betrayal from entering my veins. I thought that Ryan understood my battle to keep my life clean, but with a few harsh lashes of her tongue, she’s undone some level of trust there had been between us.
I sleep on the couch, the cold leather seeping into my bones, listening to Ryan breath softly in our bed.
Alone.
34
Ryan
I wake up in a dismal fog of tequila scent and nausea.
The two make a disastrous combination, and I’m running for the bathroom the minute my eyes blink open toward the ceiling. Falling to my knees on the cold tile floor, I heave the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl before wiping my mouth and reaching a hand up to flush.
“You okay?” Fletcher says from the doorway of the bathroom, and I nod weakly.
Fuck, what did I drink last night? “Sorry you had to see that.”
“Don’t apologize for not feeling well.” His tone holds a gentle soothing, but there is an edge to it.
“I can when I did it to myself,” I argue, standing on wobbly legs.
“Come sit, I’ll make you some toast. Best hangover cure I know. That and tomato juice.”
Just the thought of the acidic drink makes my stomach roll. “Please don’t mention V8 again.”
He nods, and I slip into the bedroom to pull one of his oversized T-shirts over my naked body. I feel like someone slammed a two-by-four into the side of my head, and by the way Fletcher is acting, I know I said some stupid shit last night.
Passing the couch, I see the blankets folded on top of a pillow. A memory comes back to me, in hazy hues, but it’s there. Fletcher telling me I was drunk, him pushing me away, and then going to sleep on the couch.
Fuck, I really messed up. I’m pretty sure I yelled at him, when I should have been understanding. Of course, he wouldn’t want to taste alcohol on my tongue. It would be a trigger for him to sleep next to me all night, smelling the tequila wafting off of me.
And here I’d gone, cutting him down because of it.
No, not because of him. Because the minute he told me that I was drunk, that he couldn’t be around me …
He reminded me of a life he’d never been a part of. One where my mother would push me away, because she loved the high more than she loved me. In my warped brain, in my drunken state of mind … that’s what I’d thought Fletcher was doing. His addiction was causing him to push me away, and I snapped at him as if he was my deadbeat biological parent.
I lower myself into a chair, rubbing my arms that are now peppered with goose bumps. He’s in there making me toast right now, and I don’t deserve the kindness.
“The reason I got so angry …” I trail off, not sure I’m ready to have this conversation.
Everything has been going so well. We’ve been shacked up for months, I’m a solid part of his life, and he is in mine. I’ve established myself here, and we’re … happy. Every so often, I have to ignore the whispers from the back of my mind that tell me I’m doing exactly what I did with Yanis. But other than that, life is amazing.
But life can’t be amazing without putting all your cards on the table. And I’ve left my biggest ace off of it. Fletcher still doesn’t know about my past, and it’s about time I told him about it.
Fletcher walks out of the tiny galley kitchen, holding the plate with my toast, his eyes a stormy, clouded blue today.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.
My eyes study his, looking from one blue orb to the next. I’m not sure where to start, so I pick a point and run with it.
“I went to Greece on a project that my boss put me up for. Honestly, I didn’t even want to go. That sounds so selfish now, who doesn’t want to go to Greece? But I’d just gotten back from a long-term project in Norway and was looking forward to the summer in New York. But, I’d flown out reluctantly, and my boss had promised to pay for a fabulous Airbnb to start my trip off right. I met Yanis three days in and fell completely head over heels. He was a local artist whose paintings had begun to gain traction all over Europe. He was charismatic, devilishly sexy, and complimented me so much, that at times I thought he was forcing it a bit. But … he looked like a soldier from the movie 300, and I was alone in a new place. One date blended into three, and by the second month of my project, we were living together. Looking back, I barely knew the guy. It was all so exotic and romantic, which tends to be my downfall. And life was just one big romantic comedy. Come on … living in Greece, on the arm of an artist, it was whimsical. We were together for a year and a half before I found him in our bed, having a threesome with two local models. The truth is … I knew it was happening. Somewhere deep inside your soul, you always do. It’s hard not to know if your partner is distant, or not as touchy-feely. We all ignore it, chalk it up to long-term companionship … but I knew. I just didn’t want to see it.”
Fletcher doesn’t reach for my hand, but instead, keeps his steady gaze pinned on me. He doesn’t interrupt either … and maybe he knows I need to spit this out more than I realize.
“That’s what I do. I fall into relationships so quickly because I want … hell, I’m not sure sometimes. Love? Someone to be singularly focused on me. A person to call my own? Remember I told you I grew up in foster care?”
The brief register of sympathy on his face tells me that he feels sad for me, but he schools his features and nods his head, urging me to go on.
“My mother abandoned me at a supermarket when I was five. Just walked me in, took me to the cereal aisle, and went to go score. She was, and still is, a junkie. I stared at the Lucky Charms box so long, I thought my eyes were becoming kaleidoscopes. It wasn’t until the store was closing for the night that one of the employees found me, called the cops to come and get me. I floated in and out of the system from then on. Going into foster homes, some okay and some worse. Nothing absolutely horrible ever happened to me. No, the scars that remain are from something much worse … complete isolation. Mo
st times, I was just ignored. No one spoke to me or listened. I made no friends because I moved around from home to home so much, and there was not one person in my life who was a constant fixture.”
His fingers thread through mine. “I … didn’t know it was that bad.”
Shaking my head, I look away, another wave of nausea hitting me. “No one really does. Presley knows, but she’s probably one of the only ones. I … don’t like to talk about it. Don’t like to dwell on it because I should be so grateful for the life I’ve created for myself. How can this woman, who doesn’t give a shit about me, still take up such a big portion of my headspace? It’s crazy.”
Unshed tears form a lump in my throat. “I’m so ashamed of how I acted last night. I lashed out at you because you pushed me away, just like she did, while dealing with your own demons. Demons that she has. It’s all a twisted mess, and rationally, it shouldn’t matter. But emotions never listen to silly little things like that, do they? I’m so sorry, Fletcher. I’m fucked up.”
I breakdown into sobs, because I feel like last night veered us so off course. I’m not a crier, I rarely ever do … but this has been coming. Something had to come to a head, and even if the events of last night seem like a molehill, they were part of the larger mountain. Fletcher’s reaction set off a tsunami.
“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
He holds me until the tears dry up, but after they’re gone, I can feel the tide has shifted.
35
Fletcher
There is a void.
Ever since the morning Ryan told me about her mother, about why she freaked out when I slept on the couch, there has been this distance between us that neither of us can seem to bridge.
We’re not talking about it, either, which only makes it worse. I’m not sure if she’s more upset about her own reaction, or if she’s slowly realizing what a life with me would actually look like.
I don’t have free rein to indulge my every whim, which in turn means neither does my partner. My personality, the addict switch in my brain, can’t handle it. I can’t even smell alcohol in my apartment, and I’m not sure Ryan ever thought about that before the other night.
The only way I can think to explain it to her, and maybe end this awkward tension between us, is to take her to a meeting.
“I don’t need to come, really. If this is your space …”
It’s the second time Ryan has said as much, as we walk the short distance down the sidewalk on Main Street to the church where my AA meetings are held. And because it’s not the first time she’s mentioned it, I feel myself grind down on my back molars.
“Do you not want to go? Because I thought this might be good for us, after the other night.”
Something has stilted between us, as if all the air has gone out of our relationship, leaving it hard to breathe. We’re not functioning normally, and though her confession about her biological mother opened up another side of her to me, it also left a hollowness. Because now I know, I remind her of the parent who abandoned her.
Her amber eyes flit to mine, and she’s chewing on her lip so hard, I’m surprised it’s not bleeding. “No, I do. It’s just … I won’t know how to act.”
That really pisses me off. “Why, because recovering alcoholics are a bunch of savages? What does that even mean? You’re there to support me, to observe how I heal myself. You sit next to me and listen. No one is asking you to swing from vines or slit open a vein.”
She takes two steps away from me, and when I look down into her face, it’s as if I’ve slapped her. Immediately, I want to comfort her, but I’m hurting, too.
“That’s … I didn’t mean that. Of course, I’m here to support you.” But by the way her voice shakes, it doesn’t seem that she’s totally convinced herself of that, either.
They say the honeymoon period ends sometime, and I think ours is about up.
We’re silent as we walk into the church, and I head for the basement stairs and down to the auxiliary room where our meetings are held. On the way in, I say hi to a couple of people, not introducing Ryan because this is supposed to be anonymous. Not that she won’t recognize them from town, but what goes on inside these walls is supposed to be kept inside these walls.
The room is dank, and the smell gives every indication of just how old the building is. Rot and burnt coffee fill your nostrils, and the sound of metal folding chairs scraping across the linoleum floors is the music I associate with AA meetings.
Ryan sticks close to my side, even though I don’t lace my hand in hers like I normally would. We just feel off, and it’s making me distant. There is one person I need to introduce her to, though.
Cookie walks in, a cloud of cigarette smoke seeming to still surround her, and she’s in her usual getup. Clunky boots, dark black jeans, a sweater that rides too low on her chest, and some kind of vibrant costume necklace slung around her neck. She’s fabulous with a take-no-prisoners attitude, and I can see a bit of how Ryan will act when she’s close to her age.
“Cook,” I call, motioning her over. When she reaches us, a brow raised, I introduce them. “This is Ryan, my girlfriend. And Ryan, this is Cookie, my sponsor.”
Cookie’s face is expressionless as Ryan extends her hand. “Hey, it’s really nice to finally meet you. Fletcher talks about you all the time.”
“Hmm, hopefully nice things.” My sponsor tries for unimpressed.
Ryan is a confident woman, not one to take crap, but she’s so out of her element right now that I think Cookie rattles her.
“Oh, of course. He says you saved his life,” Ryan gushes, and it’s so unlike her.
I want to joke that she’s being a kiss ass, because she’s not even this flattering to my mother, but it’s probably not a good time to point that out.
“I’d expect that you wouldn’t screw it up, then.” Cookie eyes her with a presumptive glance, and I feel the need to get in the middle before these two start fighting like turkey vultures over a deer carcass.
That deer carcass being me, because hell if I’m even worth this much passive aggression.
“Let’s … find our seats.” I steer Ryan away from Cookie, looking back to give my sponsor a glare that says “behave.”
“Well, she’s a peach.” Ryan snorts.
“She’s just being protective.” Although, I have no idea why. She’s the one who told me to start dating.
“I know that.” My girl’s voice rings of hurt.
The meeting begins, and a bunch of people stand up to share. I decided before we got here that I’d hang back, because I’ve already shared a lot of my worst behavior with Ryan, and we’re already on rocky ground. I don’t need to add to the tension by spilling my past indiscretions; it’s big enough that she even came here with me.
Except, when I look over at her halfway through the meeting, I can read the judgment all over her face. Oh, sure, she is trying to mask it, but I can read her so well after the time we’ve spent together. Ryan is uncomfortable, unconsciously twisting in her seat and trying to avoid eye contact with everyone. It is clear what she’s thinking; every one of these people reminds her of her mother. These are addicts, thieves, cheaters, gamblers of security and love.
Which means … that’s how she looks at me. I see her jaw tic and her fingers tap rhythmically on her leg as each person tells of their failures or successes since the last meeting.
Turning away from her, I try to immerse myself in the meeting. If she isn’t going to support me in this, I don’t see how we can get over the rut we’re stuck in. But I do know that I need meetings to help me stay sober, so I pay attention and block Ryan and her meltdown out.
When the session comes to a close, I stand up, talking a little with the other members around me and then saying the serenity prayer before it really ends. Ryan looks about ready to bolt, but I want to talk to Cookie first.
“Perhaps it’s time that I talked to your belle.” Cookie raises an eyebrow when I reach her at the f
olding table, stirring her coffee.
The coffee here is shit, which is notorious at AA meetings, but it’s better than nothing. “Lay off her, Cook.”
My sponsor shrugs. “She looked like she saw a damn ghost that whole meeting. Her parents abuse her? Or were they drunks?”
I try not to let my surprise register. “How could you tell that?”
“Because my kid looked at me that way for the longest time. You don’t want her looking at you like that. Or worse, thinking she has a handle on it until you’re in too deep, and she breaks your damn heart, Fletch.”
Too bad she already held that power. “I … things aren’t as rosy as they once were.”
My sponsor smiles a small smile, like my sentiment is all too familiar to her. “They never are. That’s love, though. You’re not supposed to feel its wrath in the good times. It’s the rough waters that are hardest to navigate, and you’re going through your first storm right here. I’m not sure what happened, Fletcher, but there are some fundamental issues between you two. You’re an addict, and she’s terrified of addicts. It’s something you’ll have to address.”
She’s right, of course. Though I wish we could just go back, stay in that honeymoon period a little longer.
My whole life has been choppy waters … it was nice to have blue skies for the little time I had them.
36
Ryan
It’s been three days since I went to Fletcher’s AA meeting, and we still haven’t talked about it.
Things are tense and strained, and we’re barely even speaking to each other. I’m still staying nights at his place because that’s what I do. I hold on until the end, until my heart is teetering on the edge of broken.
This time is different, though. With every second that passes where we don’t address the elephant in the room, my shoulders slump a little more with the weight of failure. Fletcher and I have some serious, foundational issues to talk over. He’s trying to keep his sobriety, and I’ve dealt my whole life with caring for someone who was in and out of drug highs. Fletcher wants space when he’s struggling, and I need reassurance when it comes to my abandonment and relationship problems of the past.
Falter: The Nash Brothers, Book Four Page 17