by Kacey Shea
“Thank you.” My throat tightens and tears sting my eyes. This AA community and the meeting group back in Richmond have been the backbone of my recovery. I don’t know why I expected my admission would be met with anything other than acceptance and forgiveness. “Perfectionism is a hard habit to break. Apparently. I still have work to do in regards to acceptance.”
“We’re a work in progress. Always. This work is never done. Addiction is a part of who we are. You are loved. Not only in spite of your addiction, but because of it.” I take in her words. Let them settle in my mind. She’s right. Of course she is, but I’ve never considered my addiction to be a thing someone else could love about me. It’s always been this mark on my soul, something ugly I need to hide.
Though, that’s never felt true around Chase. Our addiction is what binds us, what brought us close. I see his strength, his honesty, his vulnerability. Together, we challenge each other to live more authentically. To be the truest versions of ourselves.
Maybe this shift in perspective is what I need. It definitely challenges me to love myself a little more, and that’s never a bad thing.
51
Chase
My knee bounces, my leg unable to remain still while I’m stuck in this chair. God, this sucks.
Alicia was right. Therapy is torture. I’m only a half hour into my session and have spilled everything. The accident. My tempestuous relationship with my father. Hooking up with Alicia. Hell, I even told her about the kittens. But there’s exactly twenty minutes left on the clock and I feel no more resolved than when I stepped foot in her office.
Of course, I don’t mention last night. Not the letter, nor how I reached for Alicia and used her in the same way I used to use alcohol.
My therapist glances down at the intake form I completed before coming in, scanning it as if she’s looking for something. “You haven’t mentioned your sister.”
“Stepsister.”
“It’s interesting you make that distinction with her, but not your brother.”
My face feels hot and I glance down at where my hands are clasped in my lap. I pick at the cuticles, needing something else to focus on.
“Chase.”
“Yeah, well, some shit went down with her and it’s pretty fucked up.”
“I think we should explore it. That is, if you’re feeling brave today.”
My gaze snaps up to my therapist. She’s playing dirty. I might feel weak every day, but there’s no way I’ll use it as an out. I don’t back down from a challenge.
Her lips curve with the hint of a smile. “This is your time to work through things you might not even realize play into your behaviors. Tell me about your relationship with her.”
Her choice of words brings on a fresh dose of shame. Part of me feels speaking about this will only make it worse, but honestly, it’s eating me up inside. It’s like a wound that’s been festering for years but I’ve been too afraid to go to a doctor. Fuck it. This is the only place I can let this out freely. “We slept together.” I hold her stare, waiting for her judgment, a cringe or visible disgust. When none comes I continue. “Multiple times over the years.”
“When did that begin?”
It’s such a direct question. One no one has ever asked. I answer honestly and without hesitation. “I was fourteen.”
Her brows lift in the slightest, as if I surprised her.
“I mean, that was when we started messing around.” I glance down at my hands.
“Was your family aware of this?”
“God, no.” I balk at the idea of them knowing. Though maybe they suspect? The rumors that ran rampant after Tiff completely lost it and attempted to murder my ex-girlfriend, Alicia’s best friend Callie, would be enough to tip anyone off. Shit. I wonder if Alicia’s heard the story? Does she know I slept with Tiff? No, it’s impossible. She would’ve said something and never moved into my house. Right?
“That must have been difficult, keeping it from your family.”
“Not really.” I swallow back the urge to be sick. I’ve locked away these memories for so long, discussing them aloud feels like shining a spotlight on the worst parts of my life. My first sexual experiences are shrouded in shame and guilt. Who the hell sleeps with his stepsister and enjoys it? It’s not as if we were raised in separate houses for most of our lives, or were strangers. I was a baby when our parents married. She was someone who took care of me. I trusted her. “I never wanted anyone to know, and she made me promise not to tell.”
“Chase?” My therapist’s voice is gentle. “You said you were fourteen when this began. How old was your sister?”
My body prickles with unease. “She’s eight years older than I am.”
“This is going to be a difficult question, but I need to ask. Did she force or coerce your consent?”
My eyes burn and my nostrils itch, as if I’m about to cry. Stupid. Fucking ridiculous. I sniff back any evidence of emotion and sit up straight, letting loose a rough chuckle. “She didn’t rape me if that’s what you’re implying.”
“That implication offends you. Why?”
“Tiff never hurt me. She didn’t lock me in some dark closet and inflict herself on me. It wasn’t like that with us.”
“How was it, then?”
“My dad was absent my entire life. My mom died when I was born. Pops married Cam and Tiff’s mom, and that’s all I ever knew. Dad was always working and she hated me.”
“Your stepmother.”
“Yeah. But Cam and Tiff ran interference, they looked after me. And Tiff, she always, I don’t know, made me feel special.”
“How many years were you together?”
“We weren’t, like, dating. It was just sex.”
“Right. For how long.”
The last decade, it was less and less. I didn’t want anyone to ever find out. I didn’t want to be known as the guy fucking his stepsister. I tried to cut things off. I turned her down many times. But there was always something about the way she spoke to me, or caught me at a low moment, that broke down my resolve. “We hooked up on occasion. But most of the times . . .” I swallow hard. “Were when I was young.”
“Are you still hooking up?”
“No.” I shake my head. “She’s in prison. Will be for a very long time.”
“If she weren’t?”
I scrub a hand down my face. “I have no interest in that. Not anymore.” I blow out a long exhale, a feeble attempt to calm my nerves. “She’s a sick person, mentally, and I don’t love her. Not in the way she feels about me.” My knee goes back to bouncing. “Look, can we not talk about this?”
“Okay.” My therapist closes her notebook. “But this week for your homework, I want you to reflect on your past relationships. With women in particular. You lost your mother at a very young age. Think of how you might have sought out those maternal needs in other people. How people in your life might have taken advantage of that. How maybe you still look for that mother figure in your present relationships.”
“You’re saying I want to fuck my mother?” Now I really do blanch.
She shakes her head. “No, Chase, I didn’t say that.” She regards me with a calm confidence that sets me at ease. It only lasts a second. “Look, you are the one who has to do the deep digging. Just know you’re allowed to feel however you feel. It seems there were quite a few women who let you down.”
“My mom didn’t get an infection, die, and abandon me on purpose.”
“I know that. You know that. But maybe fourteen-year-old Chase had every right to feel that way.”
Her articulation hits straight to the heart. I did feel that way. For many years. I was alone. In a new family where I didn’t quite fit. I was angry—at my mom for dying, for never getting to know her. Am I still angry? I swipe away a traitorous tear as it streaks down my cheek. “Okay, then. I guess we’ll do this again next week.” I shove to my feet and start for the door.
She calls after me before I make it too far. “Chase?�
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“Yeah.”
“Be gentle with yourself. This is a lot. You’re doing the hard work. Sometimes, when we examine parts of us we don’t particularly want to see, it can be unsettling.” Her warning rings true, as much as I wish it didn’t. Is she worried I’ll relapse? She’s probably right to be.
I don’t know what I’d do right now if I didn’t have Alicia waiting for me. It’s silly and maybe even a little sad, but knowing she’s been through therapy and wants to celebrate that with me pushes me to walk straight back to the community center. I don’t want to fuck this up. I have no desire to get drunk. But today’s session dredged up memories I need to deal with and move past. Especially if I expect to have a healthy relationship in my future.
52
Alicia
Chase is quiet on the way home. I want to ask him how his therapy session went, but I also don’t want to badger him. I’d rather he talk when he’s ready. Besides, it’s not as if I expect him to recount what they discussed. That’s private. He shouldn’t feel the need to share any part of his sessions with me. I only want to make sure he’s okay.
It’s not until we pull into the driveway and I cut the engine that Chase clears his throat. “Let’s go down to the beach tonight.”
I shake my head, the strands of my purple hair swishing around my face. “Oh, I am not getting attacked by seagulls again.”
“After dinner.” He grins, likely at my antics. He reaches for my hand, not making any move to get out of the car yet. “I’m in the mood to burn something.”
“That’s kinda dark.”
He meets my stare and shrugs. “I’m feeling extra broody.” He releases my hand with a squeeze and climbs out of the car. I follow him up the steps and inside, our usual routine. Strange how after such a short time we’ve developed what takes some years to find. I try not to think about that too hard.
Chase hesitates inside the house. His body tenses. His grip around the pet carrier tightens and his knuckles go white.
“Hey,” I touch his arm, hoping it’ll help ground him in this moment. He lifts his stare to mine, but his eyes are wide with panic. There’s a demanding urge to take care of him and soothe what’s got him so twisted up. I hate that he’s hurting. “Want me to get the kittens settled? Dinner should be here in a few minutes.” I ordered before we left the center.
“You don’t mind?” His shoulders sag with relief.
“Not at all.” I take the carrier from him. “I also need to throw in a load of laundry.” My brows furrow. “I mean, if that’s okay?”
“Alicia. Seriously?” His hands move around my waist, pulling me close. I snuggle into his body, hoping my touch offers him the same comfort he does me. “If it’s not clear, I am insanely into you. You can have whatever you want, and you can use any of the appliances in this house without permission.” He breaks our connection, stepping back and stealing a kiss that’s over too quickly.
“Any?” I waggle my brows and take a step backward toward the laundry room. “You’d trust me with your precious Traeger?” I’ve seen the way he lusts after that grill.
He winces, crinkling his nose. “Anything but that.” It’s a relief to see him joking and teasing. “Now, I’ve got a fire to start.” He turns and heads for the back deck.
“I thought you were in the business of putting them out!” I call after him.
He turns, meeting my stare. “Oh, I put out.” He winks. My worry from earlier dissipates and my anxiety eases with his smile. That is, until I think about the upcoming weekend. Jill and Callie are driving down on Saturday—less than two days! I need to tell Chase about it. I will. Tonight. Maybe.
Annoyed at myself, I take care of the kittens and then run upstairs, gathering my dirty clothes and bringing them back down. While I wait for the food to arrive, I tidy the laundry room. On one of the shelves is a stack of mail tossed haphazardly in a pile. I begin to straighten it, only my fingers freeze when I notice the letter on top is addressed to Chase. Which I wouldn’t give much thought, but the return address strikes a fresh wave of alarm.
It’s from a prison.
Why is Chase getting mail from a prison? Maybe he’s in more legal trouble than he led me to believe. Shit, maybe this is why he’s been so stressed. The idea of Chase locked behind bars steals the air from my lungs. I’m not excusing the harm he caused his co-worker; it’s a horrible tragedy. But after all the work Chase has done to get sober, it doesn’t quite seem fair.
The envelope rests in my hand, the temptation strong to read what’s inside. I shouldn’t open it. I didn’t even mean to snoop. Only I need to know what’s inside. The contents could affect me too. I need to know what’s got him on edge. If this helps me understand, I could offer my support.
I’ll just take a quick peek. I don’t remove the letter fully, just sliding the paper out a few inches and unfold part of it so I catch a glimpse inside.
The letter is not at all what I assume. It’s hand-written. To Chase, from Tiff. Fuck. I didn’t know they were still communicating. If that’s not alarming enough, the words that jump from the page certainly are.
I will always love you.
I always have.
I only want us to be together.
I don’t get the chance to read more before the laundry door swings open.
I drop the envelope back onto the pile. “Chase!” My voice is too high, my smile too wide. Act normal, damn it. He’s going to know I found it and never trust me again.
“Pizza’s here.” He glances at me and then down at the kittens who are a good yard away. I see his wheels turning. He’s trying to connect the pieces. Some part of me understands he would be livid if he knew I saw the letter. He had every right to be. It wasn’t mine to read.
Yet there’s a deeper part of me that wrangles with Tiff’s written words. They’re not what a sister would write to her brother. I could be taking it out of context, but considering how things went down when Tiff got arrested a few years ago, I have to wonder where Chase plays into all this. I have a niggling feeling it’s nothing good.
“Oh, shit.” I realize I need to tip the delivery person. I squeeze past Chase to get to the front door. “Is he already gone?”
“Yeah. Pizza’s in the kitchen.”
I wince, hating that I dropped the ball. Mad at myself for being so engrossed in picking up that letter, I didn’t even hear the knock at door. Damn it. “I meant to give him a tip.”
Chase smiles, and it doesn’t seem forced. “I got it. I had a few bills in my wallet.”
He cooks. He’s great in bed. He tips well. And he might’ve been or could possibly still be in love with his stepsister. I really know how to pick ‘em.
“Great!” I say too brightly, then beeline for the kitchen. “I’m starved! Aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Chase regards me carefully, as if I’m acting weird, which I totally am.
But instead of being mature and asking him about the letter, I shovel food at my face, effectively cutting off my ability to converse. I don’t even bother with a chair, standing on one side of the kitchen island eating straight from the box. Chase doesn’t call me on my odd behavior, which only makes my mind race at full speed. Maybe I’m overreacting. Blowing it out of proportion. I didn’t even read the entire thing. I could be taking the words out of context. But I can’t ask him because then I’d have to admit to invading his privacy.
I have so many questions, but I’m afraid to ask any of them. I’m scared that if I know the truth I won’t be able to look at him the same. That it’ll ruin us. That thought turns my stomach. I drop my half-eaten slice back into the box. I can’t eat anymore.
Chase doesn’t have much of an appetite either. Together we don’t even make it through half the pizza. He won’t look at me, his gaze trained out one of the back windows.
“Should we go down to the beach now?” I say, unable to stand the silence anymore.
“Yeah.” He stands straight. “Give me a sec?”
&
nbsp; “Sure.” I close the box on the pizza and slide it into the fridge. I walk to the back door and catch him coming out of the laundry room. He shoves something into his back pocket and I just know . . . it’s the letter. The unease in my gut multiplies at an alarming rate. I can’t meet his gaze. I don’t attempt small talk. I don’t even wait for him to meet me at the door. I head straight for the blazing pile of wood set in the sand.
Chase meets me a minute later with two folding chairs. It doesn’t escape me that he didn’t bring a blanket. Maybe he doesn’t want to sit close. Maybe this is his way of shutting me out. “Here you go,” he says, setting one chair next to where I stand.
I mutter my thanks, watching him set up his own in my peripheral.
He sinks into the chair with a sigh, but not before he pulls the letter from his back pocket. Sliding it between his fingers, he rotates it and stares into the blazing fire. The flames dance across his face, highlighting the furrow of his brow. He looks miserable. Battered. Lost.
My worry transforms to concern. The distant crash of the waves and the crackle of the fire fill the silence. They’d be soothing on any other night. But instead, they spark further alarm. “Are you okay?”
I don’t think he’s going to answer me. He doesn’t say anything for so long I wonder if he even heard my question. I part my lips to ask again, but his gruff voice breaks through the night.
“Do you ever look back on your childhood and think, no wonder I’m an alcoholic?” He stares down at the letter. It hits me that he’s not attempting to hide it.
A single laugh escapes my lips. “All the fucking time.”
He swallows hard. “My therapist kicked up all this stuff, and it’s got me really confused.”
“Want to talk about it?” I offer, both out of curiosity and the urge to help. “It’s also fine if you don’t.”
“I just wonder if my entire life has been . . . a sham.” He pauses and I let him take as long as he needs to work through whatever’s weighing heavy on his mind. “Like, everything I’ve done wasn’t for my own desires and wants. Was I just trying to be noticed? Wanting to be loved? Did I ever have a chance, or was I a victim from the start?” He clears his throat, turning his gaze to meet mine. “I sound like a pussy, don’t I?”