Redemption Lane

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Rather than calling AJ and apologizing like I should have done, I went on to make a further mess of my life with my phone in one hand and a sheet of paper in another.

  “Okay, ma’am. You’re free to go to the gate,” I heard before snapping back to reality. After shoving my carry-on bag back together and zipping it, I moved toward the gate, tentatively putting one foot in front of the other.

  I was working through some of my current shit with my new sponsor, so I tried to conjure up some of her wisdom as I stepped onto the moving walkway, struggling to envision her face and hear her words.

  I’d met Shirley at the morning meetings; she’d been in recovery for twenty years and was a waitress at the local diner. Shirl, as everyone called her, had been married to Wayne for sixteen years, and she said she saw a lot of herself in me. Over the course of the last month, I’d become close to the forty-five-year-old woman after pouring my heart out one morning over a cup of coffee while sitting at the diner counter. Revealing all my dark secrets for the first time in years, I’d let it all loose on Shirley. And she hadn’t batted an eyelash.

  Rather than pass judgment, she’d simply said, “Aw, honey, don’t make yourself sick over this. You’re too young for that. So you made a mistake and thought you liked AJ. But you didn’t. You found yourself a Prince Charming, and it’s about time you go for it. Do it for me!”

  Seemed that was all the encouragement I had needed, because that night I picked up the phone and dialed . . .

  “Lane Wrigley,” he’d said upon answering.

  “Hi, Mr. Wrigley, I mean Lane. It’s Bess Williams. I know it’s a bit belated, but thank you for the holiday gifts.”

  “Bess, hey! How are you? Hold on one sec.”

  I’d heard a door close and he was back. “Good to hear from you, Bess. Seriously, no thanks needed. Actually more than good, it’s great to hear from you. Hope you’re calling to say you’re going to take me up on my offer for a visit?” I could almost see him winking on that note, the teasing nature of his words traveling through the phone.

  “Well, I wasn’t sure if the offer still stood,” I’d said quietly.

  “Why? Of course it does. I made it,” he answered. I could hear him moving, the sound of his pacing on what sounded like a hardwood floor coming through the phone.

  “Okay. Well, I think I’d like to come.”

  “Great. When? Actually, I’m in Denver right now, working at a ski resort. I’ll be here through next Tuesday. How about next weekend?”

  Again, I went with, “Okay.”

  Then I heard a knock on the door and a muffled, “Excuse me, Mr. Wrigley?”

  “It sounds like you’re busy,” I said, stating the obvious as I mentally cursed myself for my stupidity.

  “It’s no problem. There’s a time difference, so we’re still working here, but they can wait. So, next weekend, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. What’s your e-mail? I can forward you an updated itinerary after it’s ready. In fact, why don’t you text it to me when we hang up?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I was speaking in murmurs, afraid to make words or phrases, forgetting how to speak in full sentences.

  “And don’t worry about any of the details. I’ll take care of everything. I gotta go now. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Call or text with any questions, Bess. I’m already looking forward to spending time together.”

  That was two weeks ago, and I’d never called or texted with anything but my e-mail address, and now I was getting ready to board a plane to see him.

  Was there some type of rule book for this type of relationship?

  I rushed by lonely souls sitting in airport bars and society women browsing in newsstands on my way to the gate, only stopping for a small cup of coffee. Stumbling over my own feet, I made my way to B4 where I would get on a flying death trap to perhaps an even more fiery death, otherwise known as Lane Wrigley.

  As I rode the down escalator after I arrived, the Florida sun streaming brightly through the large windows in front of me, I squinted at the group of people waiting at the bottom. Standing tall, dead center, his black hair a disheveled mess, was Lane. When I neared the bottom of the moving staircase, I patted my hip to reassure myself. Tucked in the pocket of my light pink cardigan was a piece of paper with an address.

  Not for family, friends, or even a hotel, but for an AA meeting. Just in case.

  No, I hadn’t divulged any of this to my host, but Shirley thought I should have it with me, so she called around and found a meeting for me. They met every night at six o’clock in the basement of a church.

  Isn’t that where everyone dreams about going when they visit the Sunshine State?

  Lane

  I’d stood like a fool waiting for my guest to make her way toward me, my feet practically glued to the tacky tile floor as I watched her ride the escalator like it was a red carpet. Once she stepped off, the craziness of what I’d done settled over me like a dark storm cloud.

  Then she smiled. It was tentative and soft, like her quiet personality, yet it pushed all the storm clouds out of the way.

  More happy than I should be to see her, I stepped forward and said, “Hi! Welcome to Florida!” I gestured toward the window, certain I was wearing a cheesy grin, and pretty damn happy my eyes were safely hidden behind dark aviator shades.

  “Hi,” she said in a low voice, tilting her head shyly so her hair fell in a curtain over her face.

  “Do you have other luggage?” I asked, grabbing her small carry-on case.

  She shook her head and murmured no.

  Low maintenance; not what I’m used to.

  “Well, let’s roll. How was your flight?” I lifted her small piece of luggage with one hand, rather than rolling it like a wimp, and placed my other hand on her lower back, guiding her toward the exit.

  “It was good, I guess. It’s only my second time on a plane, so as far as I know, it was all right,” she answered.

  I stopped and raised an eyebrow, pushing my hair out of the way. “Get out. No way.”

  “Uh-huh. The only other time I was on a plane was spring break in college. A bunch of us went down to Panama City, here in Florida.” She lowered her gaze, allowing her hair to once again fall in front of her face.

  Who would have thought that a girl who was so fucking intoxicated that she passed out on me during a yoga class was this sheltered.

  And I’m lying to her.

  The thought caused a cold sweat to break out on my skin, even though I was in the air-conditioning. Standing in the middle of the airport, I gently lifted her chin and took in her natural beauty as I said, “Hey, that’s cool. I was just shocked. I travel week in and week out for work. Sometimes I forget that’s not normal.”

  She nodded.

  I moved my hand back to settle on her lower back. She was warm, heat seeping through her sweater and singeing my hand. “Well, Bess Williams, let’s go and have some fun.”

  And, God help me, find a way to come clean.

  Sadly, I knew only too well what lies festering did to someone.

  Once settled in my convertible, I took Bess to an outdoor café for dinner. We made small talk in the car, but mostly I watched Bess take in her surroundings. She stared out of the car with wide eyes and amusement at all the joggers and sunbathers in miniscule bikinis walking around South Beach.

  “We’re a long way from Pennsylvania,” I said, teasing her.

  “I can see that,” she jabbed back in her shy way, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell happened to this woman. She was so different from that day she fell on my mat.

  Was this what she was like before? Or only after?

  I wanted all the answers to the Bess puzzle. After solving it, I would gently put it back on the shelf so someone else could have it for keeps. Except I was starting to think that could be next to impossible. As I watched her hair whipping and blowing, her delicate features taking in the glow of the Florida sunshine,
and her brown eyes wide with excitement—or nerves—I thought, Who the hell would put this girl back on the shelf?

  We went to a small Mexican place I typically frequented with friends or the occasional coworker. It wasn’t a see-or-be-seen type of place. It was more the no-frills, pitchers of beer or sangria, and chips with guacamole type of establishment.

  After being seated on the back patio, I said, “So, I take it the weather is better here than back home?”

  “A little bit,” Bess replied.

  “Some days, I can’t believe I grew up in the cold weather. Life is so much better when the sun is shining. I know that makes me sound like a baby, but I don’t care.”

  A likely story. Not once had I ever shared the truth behind my aversion to the changing of the leaves or the bare tree limbs that heralded cold weather.

  “I kind of like the seasons,” she said as her smile grew. “I mean, I know the cold sucks, but I think it makes me appreciate the good-weather days more.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I said, raising my hands in the air in surrender. “I’m a big pussy—excuse my French—who doesn’t like the snow.”

  My conscience pricked at the fibbing, the tiny alterations to the truth that were coming so easily to me.

  She giggled. It was soft and quiet, but it was a laugh. “Hey, look. Maybe I’m just rationalizing since I’m not lucky enough to live in Florida.”

  “Well, you’re here now, so soak it all up,” I said with finality, laying the subject to rest.

  I relaxed in my chair, taking in our surroundings. It was late afternoon, heading into early evening, and the sun was sinking in the west. We could still feel the heat of the day, but a light ocean breeze had picked up, ushering in the evening. Seated together at a café with the sun’s glow on Bess’s brown hair, slight curls forming around her face from the moist air, her face fresh and dewy—we probably looked like a young couple in love.

  “Listen, before we order, I really want to thank you,” she said. “I don’t want you to think that I’m not appreciative. This is the chance of a lifetime for me. I don’t get to travel much, and I can’t believe that I’m here, but it’s super exciting to be in this gorgeous paradise.”

  She gestured to the view, pulling me from my heated thoughts, and I looked straight into her eyes as she went on.

  “I just want to make it clear that I’ve never done this before. This is so absurd when I really think about it, and I hope there are no huge expectations for, um, you know . . . intimate behavior.” Her words were broken by small gulps and tiny glances at me, but she finished with her gaze cast downward as a slight pink blush overtook her neck.

  I grabbed her hand and pulled it into mine, running my thumb over hers. “That’s not why I brought you here, Bess. I mean, I would be straight-out lying if I didn’t say I felt the heat when we kissed over Christmas, and I want more of that. But that’s not why you’re in Florida. I want to get to know you, and mostly, I want you to have fun.”

  A second light sweat broke out over my body. Of course, I meant all of what I said, but I also wanted to sink into Bess. If I could, I would bury my cock and possibly my soul deep within the folds of her body and mind. So deep, I might never pull either one out, which was why this was about her having a fun time in Florida and not my overly anxious dick . . . or heart.

  It was also supposed to be about me coming clean with her, yet I didn’t.

  “Okay,” she said, and squeezed my hand back. “To fun.”

  Before I could tell any more half truths, a peppy little server in a bikini top and sparkly boy shorts popped over to our table.

  “Hey, guys, my name is Andi. What can I get you to drink?” she asked while bouncing back and forth on her feet.

  I looked at Bess and asked, “You want to get a pitcher of margaritas?”

  She looked down again. “No, thanks. I’ll just have a Diet Coke with lemons, please,” she said while casting a hesitant glance at the server.

  And like a fucking grenade flying through the sky, it hit me.

  Bess didn’t drink.

  The water with lemons—it wasn’t a cute healthy thing. I felt like smacking myself in the head, but couldn’t.

  Fuck, I’m stupid.

  I mean, I knew she had a problem with drugs years ago and clearly was cleaned up, but I didn’t give much thought to what that all meant now. It meant she was dry.

  Andi was still jumping around, more than likely hopped up on coke herself. And not the soda variety.

  “Um, I think I’ll just have a beer on tap,” I said, then immediately regretted it. Should I drink? I did the last time we had dinner. I didn’t want to be obvious, but I had no clue what to do. What was right and what was wrong?

  Fuck. What had I gotten myself into?

  “Sure thing, babe,” Andi said, and was off and running to grab the drinks.

  In an effort to redirect, I picked up the menu and asked, “So, what kind of Mexican do you like?”

  Bess looked up and her eyes were glistening.

  Shit.

  She licked her lips, then said, “Look, I know we just finished up one heavy discussion started by me, but there’s something else.”

  “No problem. You aren’t gonna tell me you like girls?” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

  “No! That’s not it at all.”

  At least she cracked a wide smile.

  “Whew,” I said and feigned relief.

  “I’m in recovery. Well, not actively in it, but I guess you kind of always are. I used to have a problem with drinking . . . and other stuff. And now, I don’t do any of it. I’ve been clean for almost five years, but I constantly work at staying that way. I’m sorry if you don’t think that’s cool or fun, but it’s me. And part of the program is we don’t lie about it or make excuses.”

  This was my opening. My chance to not lie or make excuses, but I couldn’t. This was becoming a pattern for me. I’d hated myself for doing it for years, and now I wanted to gouge my eyes out for doing it with Bess. Yet I couldn’t make the declaration of truth come out of my mouth.

  Instead I said, “I think it’s just fine. You, Bess, are cool and fun just as you are.”

  She wiped at her eye with her finger, swiping a tear out of the way, and an avalanche of guilt fell on my heart. But still, I couldn’t start the conversation that needed to be had.

  Before I could speak again, chirpy little Andi was back slinging our drinks onto the table.

  I took Bess’s hand once again, and asked, “How about some chips and salsa?”

  She nodded, and Andi chimed in, “Great! I’ll go grab that for you!”

  As she walked away, I asked the inevitable, “Is this okay?” while eyeing my glass of beer.

  “I think so,” she said slowly, then looked me in the eye. “Truthfully, I haven’t really been around drinkers for a long time. Other than when we last had dinner or I do dinner service at the hotel, I pretty much spend my time around other people who are dry. So, yeah, I think it’s all right. I’m really sorry to make you feel uncomfortable. I didn’t tell you about me with that in mind.”

  A thought hit me of at least one thing I could make right. “You know what? I think you’re pretty amazing to tell me, and you know what else? A Diet Coke sounds awesome right about now.”

  I lifted my hand in the air and waved our peppy server over. “I’m sorry, but I changed my mind. I’ll have a Diet Coke like the lady. Just take this and pour it out.” I handed over the beer and noticed Andi looked confused with a crinkle in her brow.

  “You can still charge me for it. I just don’t want it now.”

  “Oh, cool! Thanks,” the waitress said and left us again.

  After all that, dinner went smoothly as we washed down the saltiness of the chips with sweet soda and small talk about her job and mine. Totally mesmerized with the young woman in front of me, I couldn’t stop watching her. With brown hair and eyes nearly the same shade, she was naturally beautiful with nothing enha
nced or enlarged. Just subtle, simple beauty. And I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

  We plowed our way through some enchiladas before deciding to walk along the beach to work them off. When we took off our shoes and stepped onto the sand, Bess’s hair blew wild in the wind, her sweater billowing out from her small frame. I wrapped my arm around her back and pulled her in close. She smelled like fajitas and citrus, and inhaling deeply, I took my fill.

  “This is so incredible!” she said, tucked under my arm as we walked along the shoreline. “Wow! God, if I lived here, I would never leave. You’re right, who needs four seasons?”

  If you were here all the time . . .

  My thoughts were going haywire. I took a deep breath, trying to fill my lungs, playing it off as taking in the ocean air.

  “It is pretty damn incredible,” I admitted. “But you know, living here, we don’t do this stuff all the time. We work mostly and play a little. At least, that’s what I do.”

  Kicking up little bits of sand with her feet, she teased, “Yeah, yeah. Make a girl feel good. You probably have a different ‘hotel employee’ down here every week to soak up the sun and fun.”

  She had to pull her arm away from me to make the air quotes around hotel employee, and I felt her absence immediately. This woman did something to me, something no one else had ever been able to do—she’d melted a tiny layer of the permanent ice around my heart. A thick layer that even the Southern sun and humidity hadn’t been able to defrost.

  And yet she thought she was one of many “hotel employees” to catch my attention.

  “No way!” I stopped dead in my tracks and turned Bess to face me. When she stared down at our bare feet, I tipped her face to look at me. “Listen to me. I have never done this before. Never. Do you hear me?”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  “I’ve never invited anyone here, never got myself involved with a hotel employee—beyond a one-night thing, which I know isn’t what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. I can’t stay away from you, Bess. Like a lost puppy, I keep finding myself crawling back to you, and I can promise you . . . I’ve never felt that way about anyone.”