Fall to Pieces: A story about addiction and love

by Shari J. Ryan

  After that first hug, I called them Mom and Dad, and I never looked back. They gave me a life I would never have had if it weren’t for them.

  Even at eleven years old, I knew that someday, I would do whatever I could to make a child feel the same way I felt that day because everyone deserves to feel wanted. I just didn’t realize how hard it would be to make that happen, even offering to take an older child.

  After I'm through reminiscing, I glance over at August, catching her gazing off into the distance. It isn’t until I follow her gaze that I realize she’s staring at a bottle of whiskey on the back wall. “What’s going on?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head as if trying to lose track of whatever she was thinking. “Oh, nothing at all. I was thinking about how excited I am for you.”

  “While looking at a bottle of whiskey?” I ask, trying to add humor to the conversation.

  “I want a drink,” she says.

  “Why?” It’s a simple question that should come with a loaded answer.

  “I honestly don’t know. I don’t like the taste. I hate the way it burns my throat.”

  “It numbs your pain,” I tell her.

  “I’m not even feeling pain right now. I don’t miss him, Chance. I really don’t.”

  “Pain goes deeper than just losing a person,” I tell her. “Your life is changing. You were forced to make a change, and that can mess you up.”

  “You seem to have your life planned out,” she says. “I think I’m jealous.”

  “Man, if you’re jealous of my life, we have a problem, Auggie. Come on now. You don’t mean that.”

  “You’re in control,” she says.

  “So are you,” I remind her.

  “I want a future,” she continues.

  “Then start your future right now,” I tell her. “But, leave the whiskey here.”

  “The whiskey is like Keegan,” she tells me. “It’ll do nothing good for me, so why did I spend so much time thinking it was the right thing?”

  I take August’s chin in my hand and look her in the eyes. “Because you haven’t experienced the best yet, but you’re going to. That’s what you deserve. Whiskey will make you weaker, it will tie you down, and make you think you need it, but you don’t.”

  “Just like Keegan,” she adds in. “I need to leave the whiskey so the whiskey will go away too.”

  “Let’s get our food to go, darlin’. We can go eat it on the benches over at the lake.”

  “Chance, I’m not good for you right now. You should be happy and free, planning out the rest of your life. I’ll end up bringing you down, and I don’t want to do that.” August stands up and walks out of the bar as if she doesn’t plan to see me again.

  What’s worse is, I don’t think I can get away with following her this time because whiskey didn’t make her walk away.

  Chapter Thirty

  August

  Leave it to me to walk away from a good thing when I find it. I can’t look at a man’s life, someone who has everything falling into place for him and ruins it with my problems. He has more important things to be thinking about right now than my situation.

  I didn’t sleep last night or the three nights before. It’s Wednesday, and already, it’s been the longest half a week ever.

  Chance has been sending me daily text messages, trying to get me to talk to him. I don’t know which is worse, speaking to him or continuing to ignore his messages. I wish I could make him understand that he doesn’t need me to hinder his happiness.

  My heart aches. It’s a different ache than what I have ever felt for Keegan. I genuinely miss Chance. I haven’t touched a drink since the last time I saw him, which is a good thing, but it doesn’t mean the thoughts are gone. I’m fighting the urge, and it’s one I’ve never felt before. Before Keegan took his life, the only thing I ever desired was to help people, so I don’t understand how it became so easy for me to become dependent on a drink. It was all such bad timing. I shouldn’t have let things escalate to the point they did with Chance. I caused this.

  Cold turkey is the only way sometimes, though.

  A knock on my open door distracts me for the moment. “Have a minute?” Leena asks.

  “Of course,” I tell her, flipping my phone face down, hoping no messages come in while she’s in here.

  Leena takes a seat in front of my desk, where the kids usually sit when I’m chatting with them. “Check your email,” Leena says.

  I open my email and scan down the list until I see what she must be waiting for me to read. I click “read” and read every word.

  “Oh no,” I tell her. “No, no.”

  “I know. I was copied on the email.”

  “Poor, Zooey.”

  “She’s better off,” Leena says. “Her parents would have destroyed her life. We both know this.”

  “There’s just no chance for her now,” I follow.

  “With life in prison, they’re giving her a chance. You know this,” Leena says.

  Leena has thicker skin than I do. In most cases, her heart doesn't seem to break into a million pieces the way mine does. Although, it’s possible she just hides it better.

  “Is she going to be staying here with us?” I try not to get close to the kids for their sake, not mine. This home is temporary, and while it’s more permanent for some than others, most come and go within six to twelve months. Zooey has been with us for over a year, though, and she was two-and-a-half when she arrived. She doesn’t understand a whole lot, which is for the best.

  “Not for long. She’s young, so they want to get her into foster care—give her a good chance, you know?”

  “I know,” I tell her. I already assumed. I just needed to hear it aloud. Leena has been in this business a lot longer than I have, and while she’s the house manager here, she’s been involved with the system for years and knows more than I do.

  With the older kids, we’d let them know what is happening with their parents, but less is more with Zooey being so young.

  “Well, I just wanted to review the situation with you,” Leena says. “I’ll start gathering her things together, so when she moves, it will be easier.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” I tell her.

  Leena stands from the chair and leaves me to my empty office.

  I turn my phone over, wishing I had someone I could call. As if he could hear my thoughts, Chance’s face pops up on my phone. He’s calling me this time, unlike the other times. He’s only messaged me over the last few days.

  With hesitance and the weakness I feel by just looking at his face, I pick the phone up.

  “Hi,” I say, sounding mousy.

  “Aug—” he sniffles. “Hey, um, can you talk?”

  He sounds awful, like he’s sick or something. “What’s going on? Why do you sound so awful?” I know it isn’t because of me. He’s been sending me gifs and memes all week, trying to get me to laugh. It worked a few times, but I didn’t respond with that reaction.

  “Do you get a lunch break?”

  “Of course,” I tell him. I don’t always leave the house, but I do when I have an appointment or errands. I glance down at my watch, seeing it’s about noon.

  “Can you meet me?”

  “Are you okay?” I ask him.

  “No,” he says. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Chance, what’s going on?”

  “Please. I’ll meet you at Hal’s Sub Shop down the street from where you are.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you there in fifteen?”

  “I’m already at the sub shop,” he says. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “Please tell me what’s wrong?”

  “In person, okay?”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in a few.”

  As if nothing has happened in the past week, I don’t think twice about running to someone’s side when they need me. It’s who I am.

  This isn’t about us, though.

  I close my files up and shut down my email bef
ore putting my computer to sleep. I grab my cross-body bag and sling it over my shoulders. “I’ll be back in a bit. I have to run an errand,” I tell Leena, who’s in the front room playing Barbie dolls with Zooey and Willa.

  It only takes me a few minutes to make my way down the street, but I’m in heels, so it takes me a couple of minutes longer than it would have. In any case, I feel urgency with each step.

  When I walk into the sub shop, I spot the back of Chance’s head, the almond brown hair in a perfect mess, combed forward.

  I slide into the booth, sitting across from him. His eyes are red. “What’s wrong? Is it your parents?”

  He nods his head. “No, no, they’re both fine. They’ve been better than fine. They won’t be after today, though,” he says, sniffling.

  “That little boy’s distant relative came for him. It’s not definite, but counselors and the Department of Social Services are involved in reestablishing him with family—not me.” Tears appear in the corners of Chance’s eyes, and he pinches at the tears. “I thought it was a done deal.”

  I slide out from my side of the booth and scoot in next to him, wrapping my arm around his back. “I’m so sorry, Chance.” I know the statistics. I know the likelihood of these situations falling through. I figured Chance knew too. “I know how badly you want this.”

  With his head hanging low, he just sways his head side to side. “It not fair.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Look, I’m sorry I bothered you. I understand you don’t have space in your life for my drama right now, but I figured you’d understand more than anyone, and Annabelle and Luke would have just gotten all emotional about it.”

  I close my eyes, wondering how he figured this was me pulling away from him because of his situation. “I didn’t want to be a burden on you, Chance. That’s all this was. You don’t need my baggage in your life while you’re trying to—”

  “I’m not trying to do nothing, Auggie. I’m alone. That’s it. End of the story.”

  “You are not alone,” I tell him. He shrugs. This moment is the weakest I've seen Chance, and it’s breaking my heart. “I’m sorry I walked out on you.”

  “You should be,” he says. “You were just using me for my body, weren’t you?” By the way he says it and the croak in his voice, I feel like I want to laugh and cry simultaneously.

  “Was I that obvious?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, August. Kinda. You slept with me, then walked out.”

  I can’t help a full-blown fit of laughter. It’s not funny but hearing anyone say this to me, Chance of all people, is kind of funny. I’m as goody-two-shoes as they get, and someone is telling me I walked out after a quick romp.

  “Is that what I did?” I ask him.

  “Well, I appreciate you helping me paint, at least. There’s that, which gives you some points back, but seriously, come on. You don’t just sleep with a man like that and run off unless he sucks in bed.”

  My eyes widen, and my cheeks burn. “You were not—you’re wrong. That was the most incredible—Chance. You know what you’re good at—stop it.”

  “What am I good at, August?” he sniffles. He’s faking it now.

  I slap his arm. “Knock it off.”

  “Fine, but I’m still upset,” he says. “I’m heartbroken, honestly.”

  I run my fingertips across his cheek. “I know. Listen to me,” I tell him, wrapping my hand around the back of his head. “This is going to happen for you. It is.”

  “You don’t know that, but I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

  “Chance. I’m going to help you. I will do whatever I can.” I lean forward and place a small kiss on his lips, being careful in case he’s through with me after the way I walked away from him last weekend.

  When I pull away, he leans back in and kisses me harder. “I just want to spend more time with you right now. You make me happy, Auggie. You do, and I haven’t felt that way in forever.”

  I chew on my bottom lip, understanding what he’s saying because I feel the same way. “I haven’t had a drink,” I tell him.

  He kisses me again. “I want to be with you. I mean it. I want to be with you through good moments and bad. I need a friend—a girlfriend. I need you. I do.”

  The happiness tugging at my cheeks is natural. Chance makes me smile in a way that doesn't feel familiar. “You do?”

  “Dammit to hell, I really do, August.”

  “I missed you. I couldn’t ignore your face when it popped up today.”

  “My face, huh?”

  “On my phone,” I clarify.

  “When did you take my picture?”

  “Oh,” I chuckle. “At Kenny’s Sunday night when you were telling Luke about—”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Real smooth.”

  “The happiness on your face was something I wanted to keep with me,” I tell him.

  Chance runs his fingers through my hair. “Even though you were kind of a jerk, I still think you’re something special.”

  “What can I say,” I sigh.

  “You’ll have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Okay,” I tell him.

  “My floors are complete now, and I’ll get some fancy take out and pretend like I cooked for you.”

  Just like that, you forgive me for being heartless. Chance is a softy like I am, I guess. I don’t know if I deserve his forgiveness as easily as he’s giving it to me, but I’ve hated this week. “I’ll even tell you that you’re an amazing cook if that helps.”

  “You're too good to me.” I wouldn’t go that far.

  Chance and I quickly scarf down a couple of sandwiches. He must get back to his job site, but he offered to walk me back to work first. The kids are outside playing as we arrive in front of the fence.

  “Are those the kiddos in your house?” Chance asks.

  “They sure are.”

  “That little girl over there, the one who’s singing, is adorable.” Zooey is sitting on the swing herself, singing to the sky.

  I laugh a little, watching her. “She’s a little firecracker. Amazing kid.” I can’t say much more about her, but I could talk about her for hours.

  Chance closes his eyes and inhales sharply. Dammit. This world sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?

  “She’s our littlest. I have a soft spot for her.”

  “She’s a cutie pie.” He smiles adoringly at her. “I used to swing for as long as I was allowed, hoping I’d eventually make it to the moon.”

  “Yeah, the swings are her favorite now that she knows how to pump her legs.”

  “How many kids are in the house?” Chance asks.

  “Right now, there are nine.”

  “Well, I better get back to work. I need to finish the shingles on this job I’m at today. It’s supposed to rain again tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I’ll be at your house around six. Is that okay?”

  “That’s perfect.” Chance wraps an arm around my neck and kisses the top of my head. “Give those kids a hug for me.”

  “I can’t,” I tell him. “We’re not allowed to.”

  “I know you’re not,” he says. “Do it anyway.” Chance winks at me and waves as he walks off.

  After settling back down at my desk, thoughts, and ideas of breaking through impossibilities poke at my brain.

  The rules and regulations are endless, but when a situation favors a child, sometimes a person can move a mountain, or so I’d like to think.

  I spend my day drafting emails and making phone calls, which isn’t the fun part of my job. In truth, most days, I see more heartache than happy endings. I try to look at these situations as if I’m saving children from having less than perfect lives but being without a family takes a toll on those never chosen. I hope that someday, each of the children that stay here with us will be given a home full of love, like Chance. He was one of the lucky ones. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Keegan had been taken from his parents at an early age. His mother was an alcoholic for as fa
r back as he could remember, and his Dad, though non-abusive, was a mute and shallow puddle that people would step over. Keegan might have had a different outcome if he had been in foster care. After finishing a round of emails, my phone buzzes again. I thought it might be Chance, but it’s May this time.

  * * *

  May: Did you fix things yet?

  * * *

  Me: You’re starting to hover.

  * * *

  May: I will call Chance myself if you don’t tell him you’re sorry and want to see him.

  * * *

  May has been making threats to me since Monday morning when I called to tell her what happened. Chance made his way onto May’s good side early on. Plus, she’s been begging for a double date. However, I haven’t been in a rush to face Tuck again after the boob-grab incident, but I’ll have to get over that, I guess.

  * * *

  Me: He called me. I answered. We’re having dinner tonight. Now you can stop worrying.

  * * *

  May: Thank goodness. Don’t screw it up again!

  * * *

  I don’t know what I’d do without May’s daily inspirational advice.

  A small knock on my door at four-thirty allows me to shut down my computer for the day. “Come in,” I say.

  “Miss Tay?” It’s Zooey. Her cheeks are a little pink from the sun, and she’s gained a few more freckles on her nose. She didn’t have freckles when she first came here, so it’s been cute to see them pop up more and more lately.

  “Who did your hair today, missy?” Zooey combs her fingers through her one-sided ponytail that’s missing half of her hair. “Me.” Her squeaky voice is my favorite.

  “You did your own hair today?”

  She nods her head with a proud smile. “Well, it is beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “What can I do for you, little miss?”

  I’m surprised when Zooey turns around and closes the door. She doesn’t usually require privacy when she wants to ask me questions. “Do you know when my mommy or daddy is coming to pick me up?”