by Geneva Lee
“No way.” Grace didn’t consider before refusing. “Stay home and read your books.”
“I want to go,” Faith whined, picking up one of Grace’s discarded shirts and holding it up. She stared in the mirror and wondered what it would be like to put it on. It was revealing. If Nana knew Grace had tops like this…but Nana didn’t know.
Grace didn’t say anything as she applied another coat of mascara. She fluttered her lashes a few times then spun to face her sister. “Look, this isn’t going to be your kind of party. We aren’t going to french braid each other’s hair or play spin the bottle.”
“I know.” Faith made a decision. She would prove she knew exactly what she was getting into. Yanking her tank top off, she changed into Grace’s shirt. It was thin enough that she should get a bra.
“I can see your nipples,” Grace pointed out.
“So?” Faith shrugged, hoping that she wasn’t blushing.
Her sister sighed and tossed her a push-up bra. “Here. You don’t need every guy in Pioneer Square trying to cop a feel.”
“Pioneer Square?” Faith’s courage began to slowly ooze from her. Pioneer Square wasn’t exactly the nicest neighborhood in Seattle in the daylight. A few months ago, Faith had witnessed a drug deal on a street corner near the light rail station.
“Is that a problem?”
She was calling her bluff. Faith shook her head.
“Okay. Go check and see if she’s sleeping yet.”
It took effort to keep quiet as she tiptoed down the hall to peek into Nana’s room. She was going to a party. That close to Pioneer Square meant it wasn’t just some thrown together kegger while someone’s parents were out of town. This was the real deal. As she reached her grandmother’s room she remembered what she was wearing. If she wasn’t asleep, she was going to have a hard time explaining why she looked like a stripper, even a classy stripper.
Nana was snoring.
Oh my God, this was going to happen. Faith’s stomach lurched and she clutched it. Closing her eyes, she reminded herself that she would be there with Grace. Her sister might be wild, but she wasn’t going to risk their lives. At least, she hoped she wouldn’t.
Trailing her hands along the cold plaster wall she made her way slowly back to her bedroom careful to avoid the squeaky spots in the wood floor. It was stupid to be so excited and so nervous at the same time. There would be drinking there and boys. Definitely boys. Would one of them touch her? She wanted one to even though she’d never admit it, not even to Grace. Tonight instead of lying in bed and imagining a boy’s fingers slipping between her legs to that persistent achy point she touched in the dark, she might finally experience the real thing.
She wasn’t going to be afraid, not tonight.
“We good?” Grace asked as she reappeared.
Faith swallowed and bobbed her head. Grace didn’t bother to ask for details instead she slid open the bedroom window. That was the nice thing about the tiny, old bungalows that made up most of their neighborhood: they were one stories. It didn’t take any effort to climb up and lower her body down. All in all, it lacked some of the thrill she had expected. It was almost too easy to sneak out.
“You have to close it to about here,” Grace instructed her, leaving a one-inch gap. “Any higher and it won’t stay open. Any lower and the paint on the sill will stick. Trust me, you don’t want to pry that open at 4 am.”
“I remember when you learned that,” Faith said dryly. She had been the one to find an old screwdriver and force it open when Grace knocked sheepishly at the window.
“Never hurts to remind yourself.” Grace grinned, slinging her small purse across her body. Did she look like that when she smiled? Catlike and coy? Grace smiled like she had secrets, and Faith hated that. She, herself, was as transparent as a mason jar. There was nothing interesting or titillating about her. Her parents had died. She lived with her grandmother. She got straight As. Not a drop of the scandalous to be found.
The small party was crammed into a run-down house on the outskirts of Pioneer Square but a little farther downtown than Faith had pictured. A few girls her age eyed her curiously as she made her way inside, sticking close to Grace. It took a few minutes for her to realize that people weren’t staring at her, they were staring at the both of them. She should be used to the attention. Being an identical twin meant growing up with the constant commentary of passersby. This was different somehow. There was something calculating in those stares. Years later, she would understand that they were responding to the novelty of the pair of them. Novelty was always a valuable commodity in those circles. It opened doors and wallets and bottles. For now, it left her feeling uneasy.
Grace sashayed up to the couch and planted her hands on her hips. Under a wrinkled poster of Kurt Cobain sat a guy with a poorly kept goatee and earrings. “Where are the good drinks?”
A smirk crept over his face. It widened to a grin when he caught sight of Faith.
“You brought your sister,” he noted as he pushed onto his feet.
“Look with your eyes,” Grace warned.
He didn’t respond but instead beckoned them toward the hallway. Digging a key out of his pocket, he unlocked a room and flipped on a black light. Faith followed her sister inside. Strange pops of color glowed on the walls. A mattress in the corner doubled as an unmade bed. The whole room belonged in one of those videos they showed to scare kids in health class. Faith had watched those videos and now she was here.
Before she could decide if she wanted to leave—if that mattress scared her or excited her—Grace passed her a bottle of vodka. It looked like water, but as she brought it to her lips, it stung her nostrils. Their eyes were on her, watching to see what she’d do. She pressed the glass rim to her mouth and tipped her head back. Through sheer force of will she kept herself from gagging. There was something satisfying about how it burned her throat and built a fire in her belly. After a few more shots, she felt confident—fearless. It was how she imagined Grace felt most of the time. Shy Faith was gone. Good girl Faith was gone. At least, for a few hours. It was liberating.
Drink by drink, she set herself free as she built her own prison.
Chapter 4
Anne isn’t doing well. After spying on her private moment with Jude, I shouldn’t be surprised. Somehow I still am. Maybe because I always thought she had her shit together. Successful career. Well-dressed. I’d seen her in the restaurant with her equally together husband and their two point five kids. She was the American dream on the outside, but judging from the circles rimming her eyes and the wrinkles she hadn’t bothered to press from her suit jacket, she’s back living the American nightmare with the rest of us.
Not the junkie life. That’s not what any of us really fear. No, we’re scared of ourselves. We fear that we aren’t capable–that our weaknesses are mortal flaws and that our addiction will lure us back with promises of oblivion or allow us to wallow in the self-loathing we crave. Because that’s the secret. The drugs and alcohol, they don’t make us feel better. When you’re high you hate yourself freely, and it’s okay, because you’re not accountable in that moment. You’re free to be your own worst enemy–free to be the person hiding inside you. The person that is less than. Less than you’d planned to be. Less than you could be. I think everyone feels that way, even people who aren’t addicts. Or not addicts in the support group meaning of the term. Exercise. Coffee. Netflix. People. Everybody is an addict; we all have our drug. It’s just that some of our poisons are more costly than others.
Anne crosses and uncrosses her legs. She shakes her head when Stephanie asks her to share. She’s shutting down, and there isn’t a damn thing any of us can do about it. At least, she’s here. Unlike other people. Like Jude. He’s not here, which proves that I was right about him.
Bad news.
After our encounter in the grocery store, Amie has spent the last few days begging me to give Jude a chance. I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that. He wasn’t banging do
wn my door to go out or calling me. I highly doubted our run-in by the frozen foods prophesied wedding bells. Amie disagreed. Loudly. In front of wait staff. In front of customers. Via text. On my voicemail. I expect she’ll get a billboard any day.
He enters as if on cue, as though my thoughts were a voiceover prompting him to return to the stage. He looks different today. No t-shirt. Instead he’s wearing a button-down that has been ironed. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows as if he doesn’t know what to do with business attire. And yet I can see him in it. Suit and tie headed into the office to…What? What does this man who has descended into our sleepy, little port do? He told Amie he moved here, but I haven’t seen him downtown. That’s where most of us work. There’s not much on the outskirts. Maybe he has one of those offices above the shops and restaurants that are always for rent. A lawyer? CPA? Nothing fits him. I’m so distracted by Jude fucking Mercer that I don’t realize Stephanie has chosen to pick on me.
“Faith.” Stephanie’s annoyance breaks through my thoughts.
Every eye is on me but I feel his penetrating through my skin. “Oh, I’m sorry. Um, what?”
“Would you like to talk?” she prompts. This time I’m the one who’s frustrated.
“No,” I snap. “I’ll let you know when and if I want to share, Stephanie.”
Silence falls over the room. No one breathes or moves. And then he clears his throat.
“I will.” Jude to the rescue. Fucking Jude.
I want to tell him to shove his patient, white knight attitude up his ass. It doesn’t impress me. It just makes me want to scream, because perfect men don’t walk into support groups. I keep my mouth shut and cross my arms over my chest as if I can lock my words deep inside me. Listening is a skill I learned through group and right now I need to employ it.
“Go on.” Stephanie’s face is haughty even though she’s not looking at me. She sees his willingness as a sign that she’s doing something right. I see it as it is. He’s saved my ass from embarrassing myself.
Jude studies the cement floor and I find myself doing the same. In the polished surface, I make out the outline of my head but nothing else. No details. No expression. Just the hint of a person reflected back at me.
“I’ve been thinking about the people I’ve left behind,” he admits in a low voice. Everyone stays quiet, his tone commands our attention.
“The people you left or…” Stephanie’s unhelpful prompt trails away.
“I left. One in particular. What happens when someone gives up on you?” he asks.
No one answers. Not even Stephanie. We simply wait for him to continue.
“I gave up on her to save myself, and I keep thinking I’ll find peace with my decision.” He runs a hand over his stubbled jaw as he pauses. “But I never do. I keep coming back and waiting for someone to utter some magic, life-altering thought.”
“There’s no formula,” I interrupt without thinking. “If you’re looking for an answer to fix everything, there isn’t one.”
“Then why keep coming?”
We’re the only two people in the room now. Jude and I staring one another down.
“Habit. It’s what we’re good at, isn’t it?”
He tips his head, but he doesn’t find me clever. His blue eyes only reflect a deep sadness as they gaze into mine. An eternity passes and neither of us speaks as the air grows thick surrounding us. Finally, Stephanie starts in with a mantra, but I’m not listening. She missed the point. People like me and Jude haven’t. We know we’re searching for a prize that doesn’t exist, but that we’re really lost at sea.
In the car I turn up the music until my piece-of-shit speakers crackle. I need to drown out my thoughts and Jude’s voice. How can he still be so idealistic? I assumed he’d been doing this for a while based on his behavior at last’s weeks meeting. But no amount of mindless pop music can erase the look in his eyes. Rain mists the windshield as I turn out of the church parking lot and spot him. It’s not storming so there’s no reason to stop but somehow my car slows to match his pace.
Jude leans down and I beckon for him to get in the car. There’s no way I’m rolling my window down unless I want to spend an hour getting it back up again, but he takes his time as if considering my offer. If I was smart I’d race off and leave him behind, but my car isn’t exactly made for racing. Before I can make the call, he pops open the door and slides into my beater Honda Civic. He doesn’t belong in this car—or this world. Jude is too casual, the kind of cool that comes with years of practice.
“Sorry, I can’t roll down the window.” Why the hell am I apologizing to him? And for that matter, giving him a ride?
He runs a finger over the button. His eyes soften with concern, melting parts of me I thought were permanently frozen. “Broken?”
I nod as my throat goes dry. Smacking the steering wheel with my palm, I shake it off. “She’s seen better days, but as long as she starts every morning I don’t care.”
“I could take a look.” The offer hangs in the air and I don’t know how to say yes or no. I don’t know how to say anything to Jude who irks me and fascinates me—and does a lot of other things to me that I don’t have words for.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I blurt out and immediately I wish I could swallow the question into the pit that instantly forms in my stomach.
“Would you prefer I was mean to you?”
I can’t look at him. Not that I’m hiding my shame that well. My cheeks burn with it. For a moment I seriously consider driving into a tree to avoid ever having to face him again. “I just meant that you weren’t nice to me when we first met.”
“If I recall you nearly poured a cup of bad coffee on me.” And there it is: the reason that I don’t trust Jude. There was so much more to that first meeting. Even now as he laughs it off, there’s a strain. “I was nervous. You caught me off-guard”
“A confession. That makes two in one day.” I choose to believe him, because he’s not giving me any other choice.
“Something about you makes me want to confess my sins.” His voice is low, vibrating with undeniable meaning.
This time I’m the one straining to laugh it off. “It’s the name.”
“Faith.” He’s said my name before but this time he speaks it with a familiarity that ties a knot inside my chest. “Tell me. What’s my penance?”
“You have the wrong girl.” I struggle to keep my tone light when all I feel is Jude Mercer attaching himself to that knot and pulling me toward him.
“Not Catholic then?”
“Not by a long shot. I don’t think God has much interest in people like me.”
“I think that’s the whole point of God. He has interest in everyone,” Jude muses.
“Catholic then?” I ask.
This time he laughs. “Not by a long shot.”
I come to a fork in the road and stop the car, waiting for him to tell me which way to go. He doesn’t immediately. Instead we sit in silence gazing out at our choices. Finally, he points left. I take the sharp turn away from downtown, and my life, toward the old Victorian homes that sit on the bluff overlooking the port. It’s a ramshackle bunch. On the corner a massive Painted Lady holds court as the town’s reigning inn. Every part of her from her colorful exterior to her tended front lawn is immaculately kept. Only a few houses down another house is nearly falling apart, half of it torn down by the latest owner to run short of funds to complete the renovation.
“I love these houses.”
I don’t even realize I’ve spoken aloud until Jude asks, “Why?”
It’s an innocent question but the way he asks makes it feel intimate.
“They’re all different. Unique. Turrets and gingerbread and color. I grew up in a neighborhood that was nice but all the houses were cracker boxes, strategically dotted along the street so that we all got the same amount of yard.”
“You don’t seem like the type that fits into a box,” he observes thoughtfully.
“
I don’t.”
“You’re making me wish I had bought one of them,” he admits.
“You didn’t?” I’m a little disappointed and I don’t bother to hide it.
“Would you like me if I had?”
“I like you.” But my words are too rushed. The result of being taught manners over mindfulness.
“You’re a terrible liar, Faith.” He turns toward the window and traces a rain drop as it snakes along the glass.
“I haven’t decided about you.” Now I’m the one confessing.
“We did meet under trying circumstances. It’s probably wise to distrust a man you meet at an NA meeting.” He hasn’t turned back toward me and somehow he’s reading me. Or maybe he’s known since the moment we met where my hesitation lies.
“It’s probably wise to distrust a woman you meet at an NA meeting,” I retort. Because that’s the real issue. Not just how we met, but that we were both there. We’re both broken and no amount of imagination can combine our pieces into a working whole.
“Isn’t one of the tenets of our group anonymity? As far as I’m concerned we met in the frozen food aisle. All I know about you is that you have a sweet kid, a fairly forward best friend, and that you are an absolute ray of sunshine,” he says dryly.
“Forward is a nice way to describe her.” I allow him to rewrite our history because I want him to, because I want Jude to be the man who treated my son like he was the most interesting person in the world. I don’t want him to be the man with the cocky comeback and harsh eyes that showed up to my support group. And maybe he doesn’t want me to be the woman who’s so fucked up that after years of sobriety she still finds herself sitting in a folding chair in a church basement once a week.
“I don’t know you at all, Faith. What’s your last name? Where did you come from? Are you married?”
He’s speaking rhetorically and yet I find myself answering him. “Kane. And I’m not married and I told you I came from the city.”