Cookie had approached me when I’d shown up for the third time and asked if I had a sponsor yet. I remember thinking that forty years ago, she was probably a knockout. With dark brown hair, that she still dyes well into her mid-sixties, a full face of makeup, bangle bracelets up her arms and a love for recalling her Woodstock days … I was instantly drawn to her. The quiet calm she had, paired with a no-nonsense attitude, was exactly what I needed in a sponsor.
We’ve been meeting once a week, every week, for four-and-a-half years.
I run my free hand through my hair, exasperated but relieved that she’s here to listen. “It’s my brothers, again. We had poker night tonight, and I asked them if they knew of any home listings in town that were cheap. Like you and I have talked about, I think it might be time for me to move out on my own. Of course, they just started shooting holes in the plan before they even listened to what I was saying. Said a house was a lot of upkeep, that I didn’t want to deal with that shit … but I knew they were just doing that polite thing people do when they want to talk you out of something. It pisses me off that they don’t have my back.”
“Why does it piss you off?” Cookie asks, and I know she’s playing the therapist part of the sponsor role.
“Because I’ve worked really fucking hard to get to where I am. I feel like I’ve proven myself in the past couple of years, and I’ve done it all while maintaining my sobriety. When is it going to be enough for them to forget about the mistakes I’ve made?”
Cookie sighs on the other end, and I know she’s probably sitting in her screened-in porch, smoking a cigarette.
“Kid, most people never forget the mistakes of others. And for your family, as well as the people I wronged when I was drinking myself to death … a big part of their memory when it comes to you is pulling you out of that meth house and driving you to rehab. It’s just a fact, sweetheart. A crap one that all alcoholics have to come to terms with. The people you hurt may forgive you, they may love you, but we don’t have a stun gun or something that can erase your worst moments in their heads.”
I nod, not that she can see it. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve had to come to grips with in the recovery process. I know I fucked up, I know my brothers know that, and I know they have every right to be skeptical of my every move. But … I just wish it didn’t have to be that way.
“Do you think moving out is a bad idea?” My voice is anxious, because her opinion matters to me.
Cookie knows who I am, maybe more than a lot of people close to me. Because we share the same demon.
“Doll, I have a favor I can call in. I personally think it’d be good for you to get out of your mama’s house. Now, I agree with your brothers; owning a house is a pain in the ass and not something you ought to do right now. But, I do think you’re ready for a space of your own. Let me see what I can wrangle up, and I’ll let you know by the end of next week.”
A breath of relief whooshes out. Just talking to her makes the knot between my shoulders ease.
“Thanks, Cookie.”
“Now, let me sleep. I’m an old woman, and if this isn’t a booty call, talking to anyone this late isn’t worth losing beauty rest.”
Chuckling, I bid her good night and then walk the rest of the way home.
10
Ryan
“And, that’s how you build a simple website using the most basic form of HTML.”
I finish my lecture, glancing around the room at the kid’s computer screens. The class is comprised of six girls and four boys, and I’m geeky enough to admit that I’m fucking pumped this summer STEM class has girls as its majority gender.
The afternoon hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be. Actually, it was kind of fun. I went all the way back to the basics, starting at the simplest level for these middle schoolers who were blank slates when it came to anything hacking or coding.
Ten faces stare back at me, expressions ranging from satisfied with themselves to anxious with more questions they want to ask me. I’ve never felt this sense of contentment, of going through an entire lesson and imparting knowledge to someone else. Not even when I’ve coded a huge project or found where a data leak came from when a Fortune 500 hundred company hires me.
“Ryan, how would I add a scrolling header? Say, if I wanted to add more than one picture or add to the top of the website?” Marie, a girl in a Slytherin shirt with beautiful dark curls, asks.
I click back onto my display screen, splashed across the whiteboard from a projector in the ceiling, to show them how I do it on my own desktop. I can hear a few of them clicking around, and others just watching me.
I forgot what it was like, to discover the great wide world of the Internet … and its underworld. When I first started dabbling in coding and hacking, I’d just been playing around by myself. I was a self-taught woman; sure, college courses helped refine my skills, but by the time I went to my alma mater, I was surfing around the dark web with Internet dregs ten years my senior.
Watching these kids’ brains open up to the possibilities of what a computer held, and what it could do at their disposal … it was the first real moment of passionate interest I’ve had for my craft in a long time.
“I think that went well.” Hattie nods as the bell rings to end the period, pleased with me and probably herself for suggesting it.
“Me too, and I have to say … it was kind of fun.” A small smile graces my lips as I watch the kids rush off to their next class.
She claps me on the back. “Good, we’ll see you next week then.”
“Wait … what?” I scramble, trying to find an excuse about why I can’t come back to teach.
“You’re sticking around for the foreseeable future, am I right? I don’t imagine you’ve found the answers to your internal dilemma just yet. So in the meantime, you can come here once a week and teach these kids. Because they enjoy it, and I think you do, too.”
Now I see why Presley always says she loves Hattie, but she’s pushy as hell. She is right, though … I don’t have much going on. And I still feel lost in my life, as if I’m searching for something. Teaching these kids once a week until I find what my next adventure might be, well, it could be fun.
“All right. I’ll see you next week. Or at home, in the middle of the night for a midnight drink.” I wink at her and see myself out, walking through the halls of the middle school.
This might not be my middle school, but it takes me back. The lockers, the smell of teenage angst and body odor in the air. Even in the summer, the bell system is still active, and the chime of it takes me back. I’m in a nostalgia-filled bubble by the time I reach the front of the school, pushing through the doors.
I peel the visitor sticker off my shirt, crumple it, and throw it in one of the garbage cans near the front pillar. Without a car, I can’t go anywhere far, so it’s a good thing Fawn Hill Middle School is only a stone’s throw from its measly Main Street. Plus, I’m a New Yorker … I’m used to hoofing it in heels for sixteen blocks.
An afternoon coffee, preferably iced with a pump of vanilla syrup, sounds like the perfect treat. The July sun is scorching, but I’m kind of getting used to the blinding heat of a small-town summer. In the city, the sun falls behind skyscrapers, and it’s all sweaty subway cars and rankled men in black business suits.
But here, out in the country, the air smells so sweet in the sunshine that I can practically inhale the rolling hills past Main Street. Everywhere you go, you’re met with harsh rays that lick up your skin, but the vitamin D leaves such a pleasant feeling that it’s easy to mind the humidity.
I’m almost at the coffee shop, my mouth watering for that cold brew, when my path is interrupted.
Up the sidewalk, a bunch of people suddenly emerge from the entrance of what looks like a church. I watch them, men and women, shuffle out, some of their faces neutral while others looked deep in thought.
Suddenly, the crowd parts and I see Fletcher, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he walks rig
ht toward me.
I contemplate ducking behind a garbage can in front of me, but then decide that is not at all something I would do. I am not a coward, even if the man makes my heartbeat jump into my throat every time I see him. Though as I near the church, and come so close to contact with Fletcher, I see the sign announcing why all of those people had been in there.
Alcoholics Anonymous.
The bottom of my stomach clenches, low and nauseous, and a barrage of emotions come over me. Fletcher was just in there, at an AA meeting. He’s an addict, just like …
My mother.
I remember now, Presley mentioning something about this before, but I’d honestly forgotten. And it all comes rushing back; how he didn’t drink at their wedding, or accompany us out to the Goat & Barrister, the local Fawn Hill bar, whenever I was in town.
“Uh, hi,” I say awkwardly, Fletcher approaching before I can carefully rearrange my expression to not look judgy or surprised.
He holds up his hand in a brisk wave, and then shoves it down in his pockets, looking like a man caught red-handed. “Hey. Uh …”
We both just kind of stand there, the uncomfortableness growing by the second.
“I was just in a meeting.” He points back toward the church, because this is so weird that we can’t not acknowledge it.
I shake my head, waving him off. “That’s supposed to be anonymous, right? You don’t need to explain.”
“Ryan, you just saw me walk out of there. I’m not ashamed of it, and it would be fucking strange if I tried to lie about it.” He chuckles, and I swallow watching the Adam’s apple bob under the tanned skin of his throat.
And just like that, he manages to erase most of the comparisons between my mother and him I’d been making in my head. Fletcher is standing in front of me, sober and honest. He’s not shrinking away from me, making excuses or acting defensively to save his own ass. I may not know him well, but I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I know when someone is lying to me. My entire relationship with my mother has been her sneaking around, acting suspicious, and breaking my heart around every corner.
In one encounter, Fletcher has owned up to his shortcomings, and laid them right out in the open between us.
“I’m glad you’re getting the help you need.” I nod, not sure how to proceed.
Fletcher’s sea-blue eyes study my face, and the warmth of the small smile turning his mouth up at the corners has me wanting to move in closer.
“Can I buy you a coffee?” he asks as if reading my mind.
And even though I know I shouldn’t open this can of worms, my brain rejects everything else but the word yes.
11
Fletcher
I set the large vanilla iced coffee down in front of Ryan and then place my medium cold brew across from it.
Before I take the empty seat on the other side of the table, I grab the apple turnover and two forks I left waiting on the counter.
“You didn’t have to buy this. I could have gotten mine,” she protests half-heartedly after the fact.
“Don’t worry about it. The owner owes me a favor.” I toss a nod to Carlton, the coffee shop owner who I’ve known … well, probably my entire life.
“Still, you didn’t have to. And a sweet treat? It’s too much.” Her smile is sarcastic, and my heart goes to shit.
Beating all wild and crazy, that I have to stamp out its hope and frivolity with a pointer finger to the chest. As if I’m telling my own organ to knock it off.
I hand her a fork and don’t wait before I dig into my half of the apple turnover. The sweetness and tartness explode in my mouth, and I sigh at the much-needed dessert after the dreaded AA meeting. It’s not that I don’t want to go to meetings, hell, I know it’s vital for my recovery and continued sobriety.
But something about being in that basement made me feel like I was being slowly strangled. Especially when listening to newly sober peers, those with a one day chip, or someone who fell off the wagon and had to start fresh. We had one of those today, a guy who’d chucked his thirteen-year recovery out the window for a bottle of Jack on a day he was feeling particularly low. Watching him stand at the podium and tearfully fight his way through his new reality was soul-crushing.
We eat in silence for a moment, sipping our coffee as we people watch out the windows or around the shop. I’m not sure why I asked her to get coffee with me, but when I saw her on that sidewalk, I was desperate for a bit of normal conversation that I’d jumped at the chance. Or maybe it was because she’d been looking at me like I was diseased, like she’d caught me walking out of a murder scene instead of an AA meeting.
At that moment, I just wanted to show Ryan that I was a guy worthy of her time. And until now, I haven’t allowed myself to think about what way I want her to think of me.
“How is the small-town life treating you?” I start with a basic subject.
Ryan shrugs, sipping her coffee. “It’s fine, I guess. A change from traveling, but it’s nice to be close to Presley for a while. I just taught a basic coding class to some middle schoolers at Hattie’s insistence. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
I take in her inky black ponytail, ears full of tiny hoops and studs, and the band of tattoos curling around her right bicep. Not only is she fucking sexy in an upscale biker chick kind of way, but she’d be one of those kick-ass teachers you remembered forever. One who was cool and let you call them by their first name, and you were actually excited to go to their class every day.
“That sounds good … at least it gives you something to do while you’re staying in town,” I tell her, not sure if she actually thinks it’s a good thing.
Besides some errant gossip about a bad breakup, I know very little about why Ryan is staying in Fawn Hill. I suppose I could ask her, but she might take it as an intrusion, when we’re really only at the surface level when it comes to knowing each other.
Aside from the fact that I’ve seen her naked. And she basically asked me to kiss her in the bushes during the manhunt party. Or that whenever we’re within fifty feet of each other, I feel this electric tension stringing us together, as if we’re connected by two ends of the same cord.
“So, do you ask all women you meet on sidewalks out for coffee?” She shoots me an arrogant grin, and I think she’s flirting with me.
It’s easier than getting into a deep conversation or asking each other personal questions. I know this game well, the one that’s all charm and innuendo, rather than really getting to know someone. If this is how she wants to play it, I can do that, too.
As it stands, I’m kicking myself for even asking her to sit here with me.
“Only the ones who specifically know nothing about my sober journey but see me coming out of an AA meeting. Really freaks ’em out, ya know? That’s what I’m going for.”
“Shock and awe?”
“Or a sketchy past and a shaky future,” I joke self-deprecatingly. “How about you? Do you always eat half an apple turnover with your best friend’s husband’s little brother?”
Ryan chuckles. “That’s a stretch of an association. Can’t we just say we’re friends? I mean, you have seen me naked.”
My cheeks definitely adopt a deep shade of pink. I’ve always been prone to blushing, and it has always annoyed the shit out of me. Something about it seems … unmanly.
“Fine, friends it is. Then we don’t have to make this weird and call it a date.” I try to keep my voice as humorous as possible.
Although, my cock would beg to differ. He has thought of dating Ryan in a very serious way, for a very long time. Probably from the first moment I saw her in that tight black dress at Keaton and Presley’s rehearsal dinner. Her hair had been a spiky bob back then, and she’d looked so different from all the women I knew.
Like some ethereal, dark angel.
“I’m not dating men right now, anyway.” She says it nonchalantly, but I hear the tension behind it.
I raise an eyebrow. “
So, you’re dating women?”
Ryan laughs, and I preen at how I just mixed her choice of words up. “No, although I might have better luck. No, I just mean … I’ve promised myself I won’t get into anything for a year.”
For some reason, that makes me both relieved and irked. “That’s good to hear, considering I’m not in the market for anything either.”
As if she asked, dumb-ass. What the hell am I doing? I basically just told her that I wasn’t interested in her either, as if she said it first and I was saving face.
“Oh, really? And why, may I ask, is that?” She lowers her mouth to the straw, sipping coyly as amusement plays over her features.
I realize that she’s flirting with me, and I could answer with some charming, sly remark, but I choose to tell her the truth.
“When I got sober, there is this recovery rule that says you shouldn’t start a sexual relationship within the first year of working the program. I took that seriously, and then I just extended it. I don’t plan to start anything unless I’m completely serious about someone.”
My answer puts a damper on the genial nature of our conversation, but I live my life owning my truths these days. Secrets keep us sick, that’s what Cookie says.
“How long have you been sober?” she asks quietly, and I know she’s probably been trying to work that question into the conversation for a while now.
“Five years. I got back from rehab shortly before Keaton and Presley got engaged, so I guess you’ll never know crazy-party-animal me.”
Most of me is glad about that. I was a mess as a drunk; sloppy and needy, always trying to be the life of the party even if it meant I’d break a limb. The things I said to women, how I treated them … it was disgraceful. I’m happy Ryan will never have to witness it. Even if she isn’t dating men.
“You should be really proud. It isn’t easy overcoming addiction.” She says this as if she has some deeper knowledge on the subject, and suddenly, I want to ask her how she knows.
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