Still, I would love to know what it would feel like to kiss him.
Hattie stands. “I’m headed back up for a cat nap before dawn. Come find me tomorrow, I could use your help with something.”
Her complete redirection throws me off, leaving the advice she’d just shot me straight with echoing around in my brain.
“What’s that?” I finish off my glass and clear both to the sink.
“There is an advanced computer course at the middle school during the summer months, but the teacher is an incompetent moron. I volunteer about town, since I sold the shop, and someone in the receptionist’s office mentioned that the kids needed to learn coding. I think you’d be perfect to help them.”
“Aw, Hattie, I don’t know—” I start to object, because I’m not a kid person, nor do I have the patience to teach.
“Hush, child. No one says no to me. It would serve you good to just shut up and show up when you’re told. It’s not like you’re busy with anything else, hiding out here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Keeping my mouth shut, I nod, because what else am I going to do.
When I finally do stumble back to the cottage, more tipsy for the wear, I collapse onto the bed and fall into another dark, dreamless sleep.
9
Fletcher
Examining my online bank account, I tilt my head.
In a good way, that is. Because I’ve saved way more than I previously thought. It’s almost like digging in your pockets and finding a twenty-dollar bill. Except, in this case, I found thousands more than I thought.
Shit, I’ve been way more frugal than I thought I’d been. Which means … I can finally attempt to do something I’ve been waiting years to do.
Shutting my laptop, I throw on a pair of sneakers and a ball cap. Mom is already dozing in her rocker in the living room, Alex Trebek asking questions on the TV. Planting a kiss on her forehead, I quietly leave the house.
Opting to walk the mile over to Forrest and Penelope’s place, I turn my face upward to the setting sun. Summer is my favorite season in Fawn Hill. Being outside does something good for my soul, I’m far too jumpy being cooped up in the winter. Plus, I’m not freezing my nuts off while I walk across town.
My mind strays to Ryan, and what she’s doing over at Presley and Keaton’s house. Poker night isn’t there, and as much as I’ve denied myself when it comes to her, part of me kind of wishes I was seeing her tonight.
Is she thinking about our almost kiss? How long is she staying in town?
I haven’t seen her in a week, since that night. I’ve been busy in the wood shop, and at work. And she is busy with … well, I’m not sure. I can’t exactly ask about her daily activities or how long her stay will be, because then my family will only meddle harder.
I arrive at Forrest’s and realize that I’m the last one to the party. Bowen and Keaton’s cars are here, and when I walk in the side door without bothering to knock, I don’t hear the kids.
“Are the kids asleep?” I ask Penelope when I find her in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of red.
She kisses me on the cheek and picks up her wine. “Nope, they’re at Marion’s for the night. You guys are having poker night, and Mama is watching The Bachelor with a drink.”
My eyes avoid looking at the bottle, but I can still smell it and I back away toward the door to the basement. “Sounds great, have fun.”
It’s been five years, and still, my fingers ache to reach out and grasp that bottle in my hands.
“Hey, man. What took you so long?” Keaton asks when I step off the last stair.
Forrest and Penelope finished their basement about six months ago. It’s a full-on separate apartment almost, with a tiny kitchen, a pullout couch, a bathroom with a shower stall and vintage arcade games for the boys. I would have considered moving in here, if they’d asked and I was able to put up with the chaos of their household on a daily basis. Which I was not.
My brothers have cleaned out the downstairs bar and taking the place of Bowen’s favorite bottles are liters of soda, iced tea, and lemonade. I appreciate that they keep poker night a sober event for me, hell, it’s probably bad enough I’m gambling. But card games were never my problem and aren’t the things that trigger me to want to drink.
Everything triggers me to want to drink, on a minute-by-minute basis. I figure I shouldn’t have to rule out guy time with my brothers just because I crave the smooth burn of bourbon sliding down my throat every second.
“I walked here,” I say, grabbing an iced tea and joining them.
Bowen shuffles the deck and deals. “Get ready to give me your money, suckers.”
“Nah, I’m feeling lucky tonight. Plus, my roof.” Forrest points up.
I just smirk, because I’m usually the victor here. My brothers have lousy poker faces, especially Keaton.
“I’m not even going to attempt to brag, because we all know I’m crap,” my oldest brother admits.
“That’s his one curse word for the week and we got to witness it!” Forrest teases.
Glancing down at my first hand, I ask for two new cards in exchange for the ones I discard. My brother’s heads are buried in their own hands, but by the crease in Bowen’s brow, and the way Keaton is chewing his lip, I know I can manage to pick up a better combination of cards than them. Forrest is a little tougher, especially because my twin and I usually play very similarly.
“Hey, do you guys know of any cheap listings in town?” I throw the question out, knowing they’re going to start prying.
But since looking at my bank account, it’s all I can think about.
“You mean house listings?” Bowen asks, curious.
“Yeah. I’ve checked into my finances, and I think I’m ready.”
“To buy something? You sure you want that much responsibility?” Keaton eyes me.
And here we go. “Yes, Dad. I’m almost thirty fucking years old and live in Mom’s guest room, believe me, I think I know how to handle myself.”
All three of my brothers exchange a look, and suddenly I’m envisioning slitting their throats with my cards.
“What?” I cry, exasperated.
My twin speaks up. “It’s just … you don’t want a house. It’s so much work, and if I had to do it again as a bachelor, I totally would have rented a small place. It was dumb to own a whole home, and I didn’t use half of it.”
“What you’re saying is, you all think it’s a bad idea for me to get my own place. Just admit it, I’m not a moron, despite your opinions of me.”
I was only saying what everyone in the room was thinking. I’m not sure why my temper is getting the best of me … honestly, most of the time, I’m a really laid-back guy. Probably because, for the past five years, I’ve proven to myself and everyone around me that I can be sober, responsible, reliable, and all the other positive personality attributes you can think of. I’ve spent a lot of time repenting and allowing my family to keep me under close watch.
And now, the first time I try to tell them I’m ready to spread my wings, they’re batting me back down to the ground.
Keaton’s face frowns in sympathy, and I know what he’s about to say is all going to be pandering bullshit.
“That’s not what we’re saying, Fletch. We’re just … we worry about you. We see how well you’re doing, and how great your life is right now, and we just want the best for you. You’re doing good at Mom’s, with your job and your woodworking … why change something? Consistency is best, correct? Buying a home, it’s a big step with lots of frustrations and problems that could arise. You don’t need that kind of stress.”
I want to throttle him, and I have to bite the back of my tongue hard to keep from letting my fury out. They all look at me like the little brother slash screw-up that they still think I am. Have I ever interfered in their lives, or kicked them while they were down? Not once. Yet, they always seem to be ready and willing to do it to me.
“Have you not been watching for the last five
years while I clean my life up and get it in working order? Do I not show up for Mom more than any of you these days? Have I found a passion that I’m good at, that I have begun to make money off of? When will my recovery be enough for you guys to look at me like a normal person, instead of your alcoholic, troublemaker brother?”
And that’s the crux of it. What has been weighing on me for so long, just knocking at my heart to be let out. They don’t view me on the same level as themselves, and that’s why this is working me up so much.
I throw my cards down, more than done with this poker night. Fuck, I need a meeting so bad right now.
Without another word to my brothers, I march up the stairs and out of Forrest’s house. Their calls after me hit my ears, but I don’t stop.
I fume down the street, speed-walking away from the house toward Mom’s. It’s nearly nine o’clock, which means I won’t be able to get to an AA meeting until tomorrow morning. My throat is dry and my fingertips are cold, and this is the time I know I’m most vulnerable. When nothing I can think of in the world sounds like it will make me feel better.
That’s when alcohol, my old buddy, pops into my head. Alcohol always made me feel better. It picked me up when I felt worthless. It wrapped a warm arm around me when the girl I wanted went home with someone else. It kept me company when everyone else was moving on with their lives.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’m jonesing, and I know it. So I pull out my cell phone, tapping on the first number on my favorites screen.
“Fletch, how’s your night?”
Cookie’s warm, raspy voice fills my ear, and instantly, I can feel my anxiety level lower.
“Not great.” I blow out a breath of air, stopping as I turn the corner onto an unlit street.
I take a seat on the curb and rest my elbows on my knees, almost needing to take a pause and regroup.
“Tell me about it,” my sponsor says, knowing that I both need a moment, but need to vent.
The first time I went to an AA meeting, after I left rehab, I was so freaked out; I didn’t talk the entire time. I sat there listening to stories of people who were twenty years sober, of others who had stolen money from their family or gotten so drunk that they’d ended up face down in a pond, gasping for air when their nervous system finally woke them up. One guy had smashed into a family of five on their way home from church, injuring all and almost killing one of them. He’d gone to prison for seven years and had been sober for fifteen.
What struck me most about the meeting though, was how not alone I felt. I’d never, in my life, encountered people who spoke about alcohol the way I thought about it. Like it was inevitable to consume, an old lover whom you both hated and desperately needed. For years, I thought my relationship with drinking was just more severe than those of my imbibing, partying counterparts.
Being in that meeting had shown me, truly, that I had a problem … but I wasn’t the only one.
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.
Falter: The Nash Brothers, Book Four Page 5
