Redemption Lane

by Rachel Blaufeld

  His eyes searched mine, begging me to understand the hidden meaning behind his words. I didn’t really have friends. And we were nothing more than sponsor and sponsee.

  I didn’t really have him. Or did I?

  “AJ . . .” I breathed out his name slowly, looking up but hesitating to meet his eyes.

  “Bess, don’t. I know this isn’t the best idea, but we know what each other has been through. I care for you, and I’m pretty sure you care for me. We could be good for each other. Let me be there for you. I don’t want you to feel alone.”

  Another tear made its way down my cheek as my heart pounded a frightfully fast rhythm in my chest. AJ was soothing and strong—a rock for me—and I felt something deep for him, but wasn’t totally sure what the feeling was. But as he looked at me with his clear sea-green eyes and his messy, dark blond hair falling over his forehead, while holding me tightly in his cozy flannel embrace, my body relented and my head nodded. I felt it moving up and down, small unsure movements, but a definite affirmative.

  I’m not alone.

  His hand reached down and squeezed mine while the other stayed steady on my cheek. My breath quickened and my heart doubled its already rapid pace, but I didn’t move. I stayed the course, waited for what was to come next, and then his mouth was on mine. Chapped yet tender lips took over my own, learning the feel and taste of mine.

  AJ was there for me. He was showing me; I felt it as our clothes slowly made their way to the floor—followed by us.

  I wasn’t a virgin, but I hadn’t been touched by a man in at least five years. The last encounter I remembered was following a long night out with some guy I met at a bar. There hadn’t been anyone since I became sober; this was all brand new. My hands shook as I tried to wrap my arms around the naked man on top of me.

  AJ held his weight up on one elbow and whispered, “Hey, it’s okay. We can take our time. Shh, relax.”

  And then he trailed kisses down my neck until he reached my cleavage where he alternated between my breasts, kissing, nipping, and sucking. I relaxed into the rug beneath me, the fire roaring to my left, nightfall filling the windows on my right. His hand made its way down my abdomen, only hesitating for a second while waiting for my nod, before dipping inside me.

  His lingering mouth finally joined forces with his masterful hand, and my core began to blaze as big as the flames lighting our silhouettes. Then the dam broke and I shattered, my own wetness only cooling me for a moment.

  I nudged AJ to make his way back up to kiss me. God, the flavors and sensations were all so vibrant. This was nothing like the muted lust of being high or drunk. I tasted myself on his tongue, smelled my orgasm swirling through the room, and felt his hardness pressing into me—igniting my heat once again.

  “You doing okay? Bess?” he asked me.

  “Yes.” It was quiet and breathy, but I definitely said yes.

  As he leaned back to grab his jeans, I felt AJ’s absence immediately. Silently wondering what he was doing, if he was leaving—if he didn’t want me anymore—I wondered if anyone could ever truly want me. Then I watched him pull a condom wrapper from his pocket, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Pathetic.

  He was back on me in a minute, searching with his eyes once again, waiting patiently yet asking me to hurry at the same time.

  I took the package, hoping I remembered what to do, then ripped it open and slid it on him—committing a major no-no in the recovery world—before he slid deep inside me, taking his time until we both had exhausted any worries of being alone on this night.

  Bess

  AJ and I fell into a routine that meshed with my usual steady, less-than-exciting life—early evenings spent by the fire, then dark and sweaty nights rolling together between the sheets before parting ways in the early hours of the morning. The air grew colder outside, snow falling daily on my little side of the mountain, but our passion burned bright inside my cabin. A few days turned into two weeks, and all of a sudden we were a couple.

  He cooked for me, took me back to his house—the one he built with his own hands—and showed me all the rooms designed to hold a big family someday. I smiled and murmured my praise of his handiwork, but it all seemed presumptuous on his part.

  We went to AA meetings and sat separately, hurrying home to reconnect physically as soon as they were over. It was a relationship based in convenience, but didn’t feel exactly that way when we were in the moment.

  It felt passionate when we were together, but truthfully, who else wanted me?

  Lane invited me to Florida. No, he didn’t. Not really. He was just being polite.

  Was I settling? Was I confusing the first display of any physical attention in close to half a decade with passion and heat?

  And what really gnawed at me was that I imagined somewhere deep down inside AJ, he felt guilt or some responsibility to see this through with me. He was my sponsor first and my lover second.

  But it had been so long since I’d experienced affection of any kind. It was truly the first time my body responded so vibrantly to a man’s touch, I couldn’t stop whatever crazy train we were riding.

  Our newly formed relationship met head-on with its first obstacle today, Christmas Day, December twenty-fifth. It was a day for family, friends, lovers, prayers, wishes and peace, and I was driving my usual route to work as dusk colored the sky pale pink and gray in anything but peace.

  My warm breath created a smoky fog when it hit the cold air in the car, my gloved yet still-cold fingers fanned out over the wheel, my stomach tied in knots over my choice, but I had to do what I felt I had to do.

  I was working. AJ wasn’t.

  He wanted me to go to the dinner he was hosting for friends at his home. I wanted to work.

  It was an argument that began in the middle of the night last week. AJ slid out of me, taking care to wrap me tight in the blanket as he went to dispose of the condom, and came back with a warm cloth to clean me up. Always the caring, thoughtful one, he turned to me and tucked a stray hair behind my ear as he whispered, “Christmas is just a few days away, Bess.”

  “Really?” I said, somewhat teasing and a tiny bit sarcastic.

  “Yeah, babe,” he said, his voice cracking with something I didn’t quite recognize.

  I decided to try to lighten the odd tension I sensed building between us. “I got you a little gift!” I said while batting my eyelashes.

  AJ threw his leg over mine, careful to not lay all his weight on me, and gripped my hip firmly, letting me know he wasn’t in the mood for joking. “Got you something too, but that’s not the point. I want you to come to my place for dinner. A bunch of us from the meetings, we all get together every year to avoid big boozing-up type parties. We cook and relax by the fire, and I need you there.”

  “I’m working,” I whispered as I tucked my head under his chin, then placed a small kiss on his chest.

  “Get out of it,” he murmured as he kissed the top of my head.

  “I can’t, AJ. I work every year. You deal with the holidays your way, and I deal with them in mine.” I felt his body stiffen, and didn’t have the strength to look up and meet his eyes.

  “Bess, that’s not fair. We’re together. I’m there for you, and I want you to be there for me. I want us to be together for the holiday, under the mistletoe.” He tucked his finger under my chin and brought my face up to meet his.

  I shook my head. “I can’t, AJ. Please don’t push, but I need to work. It’s how I deal. I’m sorry, I know I’m letting you down, but I just can’t be with you on Christmas Day. I can come over for a little while when I finish up work, though.”

  At this, he moved to get out of bed and slipped back into his jeans and flannel shirt. “Well, that sucks and I can’t accept that, Bess. You’re not my booty call. I have feelings for you beyond you stopping by at night.”

  And then he left, just like that. The odd thing is, I didn’t even get up to watch him pull away.

  Yet as I drove to wo
rk this morning, images of his truck pulling away kept blending with memories of my mom walking down the stairs and never glancing back.

  It made me wonder—did he turn around and look behind him as he drove away?

  Lucky for both my drab mood and myself, my shift started as soon as I changed at the WildFlower. The line for Christmas brunch snaked down the hallway from the restaurant. We were full with reservations, but there was no way we would turn away the families who showed up at the last minute—we would just hustle even harder.

  Better for me. My mind will stay occupied.

  The crisp white tablecloths were dusted with glittery fake snow, and candles glowed inside the poinsettia centerpieces. The room smelled like fresh pine thanks to the dozen or so fresh trees lining the perimeter of the dining room, decorated with shiny baubles and wide gauzy ribbon shot through with gold thread, and every so often I caught a whiff of eggnog from the special French toast on the buffet.

  As Christmas carols piped through the speakers, I worked my tables with a smile and a red bow pinned to my vest. From a distance, I watched other families celebrating, sharing and experiencing a special day together. I tucked the notion in the back of my mind that this was how families were supposed to be—spending time together, tossing back champagne and clinking their glasses, then tossing back some more. Little boys and girls clanked mugs of hot cocoa filled with marshmallows, high on their own drug—sugar.

  Festivity cloaked the room like a heavy winter parka; there was no escaping it. Although the alcohol-infused orange juice in the room didn’t bother me, I was rattled by the sentimentality of it all. I couldn’t escape the pinch of pain in my chest while bearing witness to something I’d never had nor probably ever would. The occasional children’s laughter that rang out was the only salve to my pain. After all, how could anyone deny a child the experience of Christmas Day?

  After cleaning up and resetting the room from brunch, I was able to take a short break. I hid in the kitchen, having a bite to eat before dinner service began. Ernesto went home after the last pan of French toast made its way out. Before he left, he kissed me on the cheek and wished me a merry Christmas. It was one of the nicest gestures I’d ever experienced.

  It wasn’t like we didn’t celebrate as I was growing up; we did. After mom left, Dad would send his current secretary out to buy me a few “girl things” for Christmas. There were nameless Barbies, cardigans with tiny crystals sewn on the collars, and vanity sets. After Christmas, I would throw them all in the corner. I didn’t really know what to do with any of that junk since I didn’t have a mom. But I always pretended to be excited and sought comfort in my dad’s hug following my attempt at a heartfelt reaction. After all, it was my one chance at affection all year long.

  Dad didn’t cook, so we always were invited over to that secretary’s house for dinner. Every year it was someone different; he’d go through a few of them from one holiday to the next. We would eat, and then I would watch my dad and his secretary celebrate under the mistletoe.

  At some point in my mid-teens, I opted to work holidays for time-and-a-half at the local drugstore, which ironically, was how I funded my first bad habit—booze—a much better way to forget my lack of a mother than work. And an easy way to lure a fumbling yet warm teenage boy into my arms to give me the affection I craved.

  Caffeinated and nourished, I made my way out to the restaurant for the dinner service. The buffet had been taken away and the elaborately set tables arranged for us to serve a five-course holiday meal. More families dressed in their Christmas outfits filed in, different from the ones we’d served breakfast to. But like the breakfast crowd, they oohed and aahed at the festive decor and ambience.

  After wishing each and every table a happy holiday and taking beverage orders, I went to collect drinks from the bar. This was the reason why I tried not to work too many dinners. The back and forth to the bar, the anxiety over the smells and seduction of the many burgundy and amber-hued liquids, and the guilt of being an innocent participant in someone else’s problem, all of it meant I normally stuck to serving breakfast and lunch. But I made an exception for a holiday.

  Sidling up to the bar where the drinks for the restaurant came out, I pulled out my tablet to take a quick peek at the menu. Without looking up, I said, “Hey, Robbie. What’s up?” The bar area was quiet; after all, who opted to spend Christmas alone other than me?

  I heard, “Happy holidays, Bess. Not much. Nice to see you on a dinner shift,” over the clinking of glasses.

  Yeah, I guess.

  Then I had the strangest feeling as an indescribable warmth coated me. It started in the center of my chest, radiating its way outward until I was fully covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

  And then I heard it.

  “Hi, Bess. Merry Christmas.”

  The heat source had come closer. It was now sitting on the end stool, its breath so close, I could feel it on my skin, singeing me. But it wasn’t an it. It was a he.

  I looked up and my eyes met his. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Wrigley.”

  “Lane,” he quickly corrected me.

  “Merry Christmas, Lane. What are you doing here?” I asked rudely with no regard for his feelings, or the fact that I was at work and he did business with my employer.

  “Well, that’s a bit complicated,” he said right before Robbie interrupted him, shoving a large tray of drinks my way.

  God bless Robbie.

  “Oh well, happy holidays again,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work.” Averting my eyes, I picked up my tray and walked away as his heated gaze burned my back. I didn’t dare turn and look, but with every step, I felt like I was running away from home.

  And then the smell of whiskey raced up my nose, chasing any warm and fuzzy feelings I might have away. Desperate to get away from the temptation—of both kinds—I hurried to deliver the beverages.

  Lane

  For the first time in five years, I went home for the holidays. Not really home, but to the five-star William Penn Hotel in downtown Pittsburgh. Why the hell did I leave the sun and sand to make a trek back to the ice and snow? I knew damn well why, but I wasn’t about to admit it aloud.

  I needed to be saved from myself. I needed redemption.

  With one more small lie, my life had turned sour. I carried the guilt of that dinner with Bess around with me, and it weighed me down like a trunk full of bricks. Our shared breakfast the morning after was my additional carry-on, a briefcase of evidence that I couldn’t do anything right. That baggage piled up with other suitcases full of indiscretions on my back, staying with me whether I was eating sushi with Randi, going for a punishing run, or conducting business meetings. They were with me always, weighing me down like a European traveler on a six-month tour.

  My life was beginning to look like an empty movie set, and I had to save myself from becoming a poor excuse of a person like Jake.

  Mostly, I obsessed over fixing things with Bess. Problem was, there were no things. It was a great big nothing built up in my head, so there was nothing to fix.

  The halfhearted greeting I got from my brother should have been my first clue to the lunacy of my plan. I’d landed at dinnertime in Pittsburgh on December twenty-third, and had decided to give my brother a ring before I rented a car.

  After selecting Jake’s contact info from my phone’s screen, I’d stuck in my earbud so I didn’t have to hold the phone to my ear while walking to the rental counter. He answered right before it went to voice mail, and by his tone, he’d apparently debated answering at all.

  “What?” he barked into the phone.

  “Hey, Jake! Merry Christmas to you too,” I said, laying it on thick.

  “Merry fucking Christmas to you, Lane.”

  I paced the waiting area in front of the rental counter. “I’m here. In Pittsburgh. Thought I’d see you in person for the holiday.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. You around?”

  “I am now,
but getting out of Dodge tomorrow. Got a sweet little honey I’m taking to the mountains. Sorry, my man, you shoulda called me sooner.”

  “Now that you say it, I guess so. Well, I’m here, so you want to grab a beer tonight?”

  “Sure. Where you staying? Oh, never mind. I know where. Only the best for Mr. Hotel Software.”

  “Drop it, Jake,” I grumbled.

  “Take it easy, dude. So, the Tap Room? Eight?”

  “Fine. See you then.”

  I disconnected and got my car, thinking I should have taken a flight back to Florida.

  Later that night, over drinks with Jake and his “honey” named Courtney, I learned they were heading up to the mountains to ski. As luck would have it, they were staying at the WildFlower. Like a fool with a winning lottery ticket, I’d exclaimed, “Cool! They’re my client, so I should have no problem getting a room. I could come up and have dinner with you two!”

  Jake looked at me like I’d completely lost it, but Courtney got me. She was ecstatic to meet her beau’s brother, and even more excited at the prospect of spending Christmas with his family.

  It was decided. I would drive up the next day and have Christmas Eve dinner with Jake and “Court” before they spent Christmas Day skiing. Then I would drive back to the airport and get on a first-class flight back to Florida.

  I was counting the minutes.

  At least, I told myself so.

  But I didn’t get on a flight. I spent Christmas morning pacing the carpet in my suite—the one management had on hold in case a VIP like me wanted to stay at the last minute—debating what to do.

  Was Bess downstairs? How could I tell her the truth? Did she take the holiday off?

  After wasting the day worrying over it, I threw on a suit and went down to the bar for a drink and something to eat.

  Spending Christmas alone was nothing new for me. I was used to it, so I settled into the cushy bar stool and ordered a Lagavulin straight up. After throwing back the scotch, experiencing the slow burn that came with it, I opened the menu to see what I would be eating for my holiday dinner when I felt the tingle.