Fall to Pieces: A story about addiction and love

by Shari J. Ryan

  “I know we just spent all night and morning together, but would you think I’m crazy if I asked you to have dinner with me at a real restaurant tonight?” I ask her as she’s reaching for the Jeep’s door handle.

  “Are you saying Kenny’s bar isn’t a real restaurant?” she jokes. “I don’t think Luke would appreciate you talking about his dry, dark burgers that way.”

  I toss my head back with laughter. “You’re a funny one. You know that?” She’s funny, but she didn’t answer my question. I might have moved too fast or asked for too much too soon. “We can go out another time if tonight is overkill.”

  “Are you kidding me?” she questions. August swings her arms around my neck, presses up on her toes, and kisses me sweetly. “We are celebrating you tonight. Today is a big day, and you can’t eat at Kenny’s.”

  “I’m telling Luke you said that,” I toy back with her.

  “Go ahead, I dare ya,” she says, touching the tip of her finger to the end of my nose.

  “Can I pick you up at … say … six tonight?” I ask.

  A wide grin stretches across August’s cheeks. “I would love that. I’ll text you my address.”

  She’s about halfway into her Jeep when I pull her out to satiate my desire for more. “I’m not ready to let you go,” I mutter against her ear. I comb my fingers through the back of her hair, urging her lips to mine. My grip is firm even though I’m trying to be gentle with her, but she’s making me crazy in a way I’ve avoided for years. It’s like I just woke up from hibernation, and I’m starving for her.

  A soft moan expels from my throat as I’m kissing her. My reaction might be an obvious response of how I feel, but August laces her arms around my back tighter. The progression of our wordless conversation encourages me to pin her up against the side of the Jeep. With a gaze so deep within hers, all thoughts disappear. My lips fall to her chin and travel down her neck until I reach her collar bone. “You’re making me lose my mind,” I whisper

  “Save it for tonight, cowboy,” she says, grabbing the collar of my shirt within her fists, pulling my face back up to meet hers. She leaves me with one last kiss, then sneaks out from beneath my arms to clamber into her seat. “Go get em.” After an adorable wink, she closes her door, leaving me winded by her sheer existence.

  The meeting with the foster care foundation is a little more stressful than I anticipated. Between dumping the boy’s history on me and the requirements needed to begin this process, I’m overwhelmed, excited, but overwhelmed.

  Mrs. Falcon is an older woman, rigid looking with her silver bob-cut hair framing her chin and a dress suit that has a starch coating. Her pale lipstick and neutral makeup offer a clean, no mess—no fuss appearance, and I’m responding in suit. I suppose I would expect nothing less than a person of her stature to be in charge and responsible for so many details.

  I feel swallowed up by this office, sitting behind a grand chestnut executive desk. Bookcases cover the walls, spanning from the floor to the ceiling, and each shelf is full of books on childhood development. I wouldn’t even know what color the walls are. It’s like a library. The large window behind me is the only form of light, but it’s enough to cast a glow of seriousness on Mrs. Falcon’s gaunt complexion.

  She has yet to smile or show any inkling of warmth.

  “After the home visit we had last month, we have a couple of notes about the interior. We’re requesting that you replace the missing linoleum tiles in the kitchen to ensure no asbestos below. We will need a report proving that the kitchen is free of asbestos. A few of the windows tested positive for lead in the paint. You will need a fresh coat of paint to fix that, as well. We would also like to see a bedroom suitable for a child, rather than the empty room you currently have. I will supply you with a list of necessities for a nine-year-old child. Will this work for you, Mr. Miller?”

  I’m embarrassed because I thought my house was adequate and suitable for a child. If I had known it wasn’t, I would have made the renovations a long time ago. I have a list of action items to tend to from the last home visit, and I have less than a week to get everything handled. “Yes, ma’am. I will take care of everything immediately,” I tell her.

  “Very well, then. We’ll get back to you a few days from now and send someone over for another check-in. We can continue with the process once that is complete.”

  “Fantastic. I’ll be in touch,” I tell Mrs. Falcon

  While leaving the office, I feel the burden of stress, hoping I can accomplish everything that needs to happen in the brief time I have.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  August

  Clink.

  Clink.

  Clink.

  I didn’t realize I had purchased so many bottles of whiskey or drank so many bottles, for that matter. My Saturday afternoon has been full of purging. Everything that reminds me of Keegan needs to be out of sight right now. I need a fresh start.

  With the windows open, my kitchen clean, and the bathroom clean, it’s already feeling better here. Though, there’s still something lingering. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel alone in this apartment with the memories of the last seven years here.

  The apartment was empty but filled with sunlight and waiting for us to add personal touches. It was hard to believe I was at a point in my life where I could finally be living in a place of my own. Although, I wasn’t entirely ready for such a big step. I didn’t say no, though, either. I was glad we were able to agree on starting with rent before making a purchase, at least.

  The location wasn’t Keegan’s first choice since he had his mind set on buying a house a few miles outside of Austin, but after coming off a six-month drinking bender, there was no way I was ready to commit to a mortgage.

  Even with just monthly rent, the financial commitment was a stress factor, especially since we both had it so easy at home. I saw the age of twenty-one as a time to find my bearings, but Keegan saw it as an escape—the beginning of the rest of his life. He had been determined to move out, and there was no way he could afford a place on his own. I would have happily stayed with my parents a little longer since I was still so new with working at a group home. Though, the thought of moving in with Keegan swept away all other concerns.

  “This is it, babe,” Keegan said, curling me up in his arms and carrying me through the front door. “The beginning of our forever.”

  He set me down on my feet and I glanced around at the space, imagining our future unfolding the way I had dreamed; the modern decor, sunny colors, parties on the oversized balcony, an engagement ring, planning a wedding, and babies. Everything seemed perfect. I felt lucky to have found my forever person at such an early age.

  Was I really?

  What I didn’t see were the whiskey bottles that would he would be lining up on the kitchen counter, the trail of dirty laundry Keegan would leave between our bedroom and bathroom. The trash he would never empty, the fridge he wouldn’t fill, the dishes he wouldn’t clean. I didn’t envision the nights he would be so drunk and passed out and covered in sweat on top of our on our perfect cream-colored couch with sunny yellow throw pillows, or the times I would find him sprawled out next to a puddle of vomit on the beautiful sky-blue bath mat I bought for the bathroom.

  My dream slowly disintegrated day after day.

  I could help him, I thought to myself. I could teach him to be a responsible grown man. I tried, but it never worked. I took care of everything from obtaining a stable job to cleaning the apartment every day. I did the laundry, the dishes, the cooking. I even cleaned up the vomit.

  I failed.

  I kept telling myself it was a woman’s job to mind the home, manage the upkeep. I lied to myself day after day.

  Keegan never thanked me. He just drank more.

  Sometimes his achievement chips from AA would replace the bottles on the counter. Rather than feeling pride for his accomplishments, I wondered why I didn’t receive an award for going through the turmoil he was putting me throug
h.

  When I had to replace the pricey yellow pillows with cheap navy-blue ones to match the hideous slip-cover needed to cover the stains on our couch, I realized the sun that once filled this apartment had been taken over by an endless view of gray clouds. When I had to throw away my lavish bathmat after the threads came loose from scrubbing and cleaning it in the washing machine so many times, I didn’t replace it again. Instead, I placed down a raggedy towel to wipe our feet on.

  I even replaced the photos on the wall, the ones that reminded me of our earlier years together, with pictures of destinations I hoped to travel to someday. I needed something inspiring on the walls, not a reminder of what I would never have again.

  He killed my dreams.

  I walk out of my apartment unit and take the stairs down to the main office. I knock before opening the door. Rebecca, the woman who works here during business hours, holds up a finger, informing me she’s on a call. She’s a beautiful woman and has always been very pleasant to me. She’s only a few years older than I am, has a couple of kids, and a wonderful husband who does some of the bookkeeping here on the weekends. Their family is the picture of perfection.

  Along with the pretty package that accompanies her life, Rebecca has long straight auburn hair, a tiny waist, long legs, and clothes I would exchange for my kidney. I’ve always admired the style and poise of a woman in the real estate industry. She’s the type of woman I look at and wish to be someday.

  There are a couple of chairs by the window, so I sit down in one of them, noticing the yellow checkered pillow on the chair across from me. At least it’s sunny here.

  “Ms. Taylor, how are you doing, honey?” Rebecca has ended her call. “How can I help you?”

  I stand from the chair and make my way over to her desk. “Hi,” I start.

  “August, I am so so sorry to hear about Keegan.”

  “Thank you,” I utter, holding my breath to contain my unstable emotions.

  “Of course,” she says, reaching out and placing her hand down on top of mine.

  “I appreciate the thought. I—um, I’m going to be leaving at the end of my lease.” The tightness in my throat returns, and there’s a burning sensation behind my eyes. This is the right thing to do.

  “We had a feeling that might be the case. I’ve already spoken to my boss, and we’ve agreed to let you break your lease if and when you’d like to do so. These are unfortunate circumstances, and the last thing we want is to add more difficulty to what you’re already going through right now.”

  I cover my mouth with the back of my hand and squeeze my eyes closed. The tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. “Thank you,” I squeak.

  Rebecca stands up from her chair and comes around the desk to squat in front of me. She takes my hands away from my face and wraps her arms around me. “Sweetheart. Can I do anything for you? From one woman to another, I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, and my heart is breaking for you.”

  “I appreciate your understanding and flexibility. As soon as I find a new place to live, I will give you thirty days’ notice,” I tell Rebecca through a broken rasp in my voice.

  “Whatever you need, okay?” she says, sweeping my hair away in a motherly fashion. She’s probably a good mom.

  “Thank you,” I tell her. I don’t know what it is about a nice person bringing my tears out.

  I take the couple of hours between handling my lease and the time Chance is due to arrive to shower and fix myself up a bit. I haven’t spent too much time looking in a mirror lately, but my hygiene could use some improvement.

  By the time I finish dolling myself up, I feel like a better version of the person I’ve been lately. The urge to smile at my reflection isn’t something I’ve felt before today.

  I swipe on a thin sheen of my rose-tea pink lipstick. I haven’t worn lipstick in a long time. It makes my eyes look brighter, and my skin glows.

  The door buzzer makes me drop the closed lipstick tube into the sink. Chance is a few minutes early—my kind of guy.

  I hit the button on my speaker to let him upstairs, then meet him at the door.

  Chance arrives with a dark gray button-up rock-style poplin print shirt and a pair of distressed dark-blue jeans, complimenting his chestnut brown roper boots. His appearance takes my breath away. I love that he put the effort in, more than he usually does. Other than his funeral attire, I’ve only seen him when he gets off work, really, so this is a new side I’m seeing.

  “Damn, darlin’,” he says, scratching his chin while gazing at my royal-blue Bohemian sundress. “You’re going to give me a heart attack, looking like that.”

  “Oh, stop it,” I tell him, waving him off. “Come on in.” I open the door wider, inviting him inside.

  “Nice place,” he says, looking around. After my cleaning binge today, my apartment looks more staged than lived in, but it’s the way I’d prefer it at the moment. “It smells like you.”

  No matter what he says, my cheeks become hot in response. I think it’s the profound, smokey way his words sound when he talks.

  I place my hands on my cheeks. “Cut it out,” I say.

  “Cut what out, darlin’?” he laughs.

  “Quit making me blush.”

  “I didn’t force you to get all dolled up and make my heart start skippin’ beats, did I now?”

  Maybe some of that was purposeful. “I suppose,” I say, grabbing my ruby red clutch from the edge of my sofa. “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere, if you keep batting those eyelashes at me,” he says. He hasn’t acted like this yet either, and I’m feeling unsteady, in a good way.

  Chance moves in toward me until my back is against the wall. “Is this okay? Am I movin’ too fast here?”

  I shake my head slowly. “God no. You are officially my new form of whiskey, Chance.”

  “Good God, August. Careful what you say to a weak man.”

  “Call me, Auggie,” I tell him. Only people in formal settings call me August, and I don’t want there to be any more formalities between Chance and me.

  “Auggie,” he breathes, bringing his lips to my neck. The feeling is like fire ripping through my body. I cup my hand around the back of his neck, and his arm sweeps around my back, pulling my waist into him. He smells sweet and smokey, woodsy with a hint of fruit. My fingernails pinch at his skin as he leaves me feeling out of control.

  Then, his lips find mine, and he mutters, “You feel so good,” against my mouth. The words tickle my tongue and throat. I want to tell him I just coated my lips in lipstick, but I don’t think he cares.

  My head falls against the wall, letting him take my lips under his control. His hands glide down the length of my arms, slowly, deliberately, landing on my hips. His grip tightens, and there’s a good chance I’d ask him to stay in all night if he doesn’t stop.

  Maybe our minds are in the same place because he pulls away and rests his forehead against mine. “It’s been so damn long, Auggie. I haven’t kissed a woman in forever, and now nothing can ever compare to this.”

  I creep my hands up his chest until they rest on his shoulders. “This is all new to me, too, Chance.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Waiting for you,” I whisper.

  He runs the tips of his thumb around his lips, wiping away the lipstick he’s stolen from my lips. He presses his other thumb to my lips, cleaning up the mess he left behind. His hand smells like vanilla soap.

  “We could stay in,” I mutter.

  He shakes his head at me. “No, ma’am. I’m taking you out for dinner first.”

  Chance takes my hand within his and escorts me out the door and down the stairs. He helps me into his truck, and when the key goes into the ignition, Morgan Wallen’s dreamy voice blares through the speakers, singing out “Whiskey Glasses.”

  “Did you plan this?” I ask.

  Chance gives me a wink and turns up the music.

  We pull up to Blue-Bonnet Grill, which is an
upscale restaurant. I think I’m wearing suitable attire. “Wow, when you say dinner, you mean fancy, huh?”

  “I know how to treat a woman,” he says, flashing a wink before hopping out of the truck. “Which means stay put so I can open your door.”

  The laughter flows freely. I’m not sure Chance is always like this, but the effort is something I’ve never experienced, ever. My door swings open, and Chance offers me his hand. “You’re quite the gentleman,” I tell him.

  “I can be,” he says.

  The restaurant is dimly lit, decorated with candles and gothic-like chandeliers. Soft music sets the mood, and the quiet hum of chatter offers a sense of peace. “I have reservations for two. Chance Miller,” he says to the hostess.

  It’s funny that my first thought is that I’m out with a man instead of a guy.

  We’re taken to our table, overlooking Lady Bird Lake. I have a suspicion he may have chosen this restaurant due to my love for the lake.

  He glances out past my reflection in the window, watching the slight movements in the current.

  “Can I come clean about something?” Chance asks.

  “Uh oh. Should I be scared?”

  Chance purses his lips and fiddles with his fork. “Nah.” He glances up at me. “I was looking for you the night you fell into the water. I was worried about you. Honestly, I didn’t realize it was you in the water until after I dove in.”

  “I was wondering how you found me.” It’s embarrassing to think back on it all now.

  “That’s not all.”

  “What?” What else could there be?

  “I had to give you mouth to mouth for like five minutes before you started breathing again.”

  In response, my body trembles at the thought of what he’s explaining. I guess I didn’t realize how much trouble I was having. I got lucky. “I was that bad?”

  “I thought I was going to lose you, August.”

  “So then, this morning wasn’t really our first kiss?” I try to make light of the subject. I don’t know if it’s been weighing him down or what, but he saved my life.