by Emma Scott
On the subway back to the dinky studio apartment in Brooklyn I shared with my boyfriend, my pulse wouldn’t slow down. Sweat was sticking to my back under my gray old man sweater. I had just danced. For the first time in more than a year. A tiny little step that was a mile wide; it covered so much empty distance.
Today, I stepped into the humid June of New York City. Three years ago, I’d stepped off the bus at Brooklyn Metropolitan Detention Center after a three-month stint for misdemeanor drug possession. A year and a half after that, I OD’d at a New Year’s Eve party. Rock bottom.
I hadn’t danced in all that time—it felt wrong to allow myself to do something I loved when I’d been polluting my body and mind. But Roy Goodwin—the best parole officer in the world—had helped me take the steps necessary to shorten my parole. I’d have mandatory NA meetings for another year, but otherwise a clean slate. And I was nearly finished getting an esthetician’s license and massage therapist certificate.
And today, I danced.
Things were getting better. I was getting my shit together. And Kyle…I could fix things with Kyle. We were going through a rough patch, that’s all. A rough patch that had been going on for two months.
My hopes deflated with a sigh. Just this morning, it took three tries to get him to answer to his name. Lately, his smiles were full of apologies, and he had a detached fade in his eyes. I’d seen it before. There’d be no big drama. No epic fight. Just a disappearing act. Maybe with a note or a text.
Despite the heat, I shivered and walked faster, as if I could outrun my thoughts. I wondered—for the millionth time—if I were trying to hold on to Kyle because I cared about him, or because I couldn’t stand the thought of letting another relationship slip through my fingers.
“It’s not over. Not yet,” I said as my combat boots clomped down our block.
This time I wasn’t going to fail. Not again. This time I could do something right. I’d been clean for more than a year, and with Kyle for longer than that. My longest relationship. I wasn’t a fuck up. Not anymore. I’d hold on tighter, if that’s what it took.
On the third floor of the shabby walk-up, I opened the door on 3C, and stepped inside…and nearly tripped on the duffel bag. Kyle’s duffel bag. It was stuffed so full, the zipper looked ready to burst. I shut the door behind me and looked up, squinting, as if I could minimize the pain of what I was seeing.
Kyle was at the small kitchen counter writing a note. He set down the pen when he saw me. Slowly.
A note, not a text.
“Hey, babe,” he said, hardly looking at me. “I’m sorry, but I....”
“Don’t,” I said. “Just don’t.” I hugged myself at the elbows. “You weren’t even going to tell me?”
“I…I didn’t want a scene.” He sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “I’m sorry, Darlene. I really am. But I can’t do this anymore.”
“Can’t do what?” I shook my head. “No, never mind. I don’t want to hear it. Not again.”
Again, I’m not enough. Not good enough. Not funny or pretty or something enough.
“Didn’t hold on tight enough.” I murmured.
“Darlene, I do care about you, but…”
“You’re sorry, but. You care about me, but.” I shook my head, tears choking my throat. “Go if you’re going to go, but don’t say anything else. You’re just making it worse.”
He sighed and looked at me imploringly. “Come on, Dar. I know I’m not alone in this. You feel it too. There’s just…nothing left in the tank, right? The engine’s grinding and grinding, and we’re hoping something will catch and spark back up again. But we both know it’s not going to happen.” He sighed and shook his head. “It’s not you. It’s not me. It’s us.”
I opened my mouth to speak. To deny. To scream and curse and rage.
I said, “Yeah, I guess.”
Kyle sighed again, but this time with relief. He came to me and I hugged him tight; tried to absorb the feeling of his arms around me one more time. I inhaled him, to hold on. Then exhaled, and he slipped away.
He moved to the door and I stepped back toward our tiny kitchen.
Kyle hefted his bag onto his shoulders. “See you around, Dar.”
I kept my eyes averted and then squeezed them shut at the sound of the door closing. The click was as loud as a slap.
“See you around,” I murmured.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Zelda asked. The screech of an incoming bus lurching into the depot nearly drowned her words, and a light summer shower sprinkled diamonds in my friend’s long, dark hair.
Beckett, her fiancé and my best friend, towered over her. Instinctively, he leaned in slightly, to shield her from the elements. I don’t even think he realized he was doing it. A frown pulled his mouth down. Worry made his blue eyes sharp.
“I’m sure,” I answered Zelda, hefting my heavy-as-shit backpack higher on my shoulder. A porter came and took my green army duffel to stow it under the bus. “Whether or not I’m ready to do this, is another question.”
“Are you ready to do this?” Beckett asked with a small smile.
Zelda nudged him. “Smart ass.”
My gaze went between them fondly…and with envy. Zelda and Beckett were living their happily-ever-after, publishing their comic books, and busy being madly in love. Jealousy bit at me for what they had; a kind of love that seemed impossible for someone with my history. But I wasn’t leaving the city to find someone, I was leaving someone behind. The old me.
Leaving Zelda and Beckett was scary, but because they were my best friends, I knew they would not fade away to the background of my life as I left New York.
“Holy shit, I’m leaving New York.”
“Yes, you are,” Zelda said. “Not just leaving the city, but going clear across the country.” She pursed her lips and fixed me a look with her large green eyes. “Tell me again what San Francisco has that Brooklyn doesn’t?”
The chance to start over where no one knows me as a former drug addict.
“A job, an NA sponsor, and a six-month sublet,” I said, mustering a smile. “No fear; if my new city chews me up and spits me out, I’ll be back in NYC by Christmas.”
“You’re going to do great,” Beckett said, pulling me into a hug.
I clung tight. “Thank you.”
“But call if you need anything. Any time.”
I hid my fallen smile against his jacket. I was never the person someone called when they needed help. I was the call-er, never the call-ee.
But I can change that.
Zelda took her turn with a hug that smelled like cinnamon and ink. “Love you, Dar.”
“Love you, Zel. And you too, Becks.”
“Take care,” Beckett said. The rain became more insistent. Beckett shielded Zelda with his jacket.
“Get out of here before I cry,” I said, shooing them.
They started away and when they were out of sight, I stepped into the rain and turned my face to the sky.
There was nothing like New York rain. I let it baptize me a final time before I stepped on the bus, praying I would step off in San Francisco, clean and new.
Turns out, there’s nothing cleansing about a three-day bus ride.
Three thousand miles of road later—most of which was spent with a little old lady snoring on my shoulder—I stepped off the Greyhound into sharp, early morning San Francisco sunlight. It was more gold and metallic than New York’s hazy yellow, and I stretched in it, welcoming it. I let it infuse me, imagining it was a beam of golden light that was going to fill me with mental fortitude and the willpower to be a better version of myself. The sun’s warmth didn’t magically turn me into one of Zelda’s comic book superheroes, but it felt good anyway.
After the porter emptied the underbelly of the bus, I found my huge army duffel and slung it over my shoulder to join the weight of my purple backpack. I walked out to the bus plaza and searched for a transit map to show me the way to my new neighborh
ood. My eyes landed on a young guy leaning against a cement pillar, scanning the crowd. He was Hollywood-handsome; an actor playing a greaser from the 50’s with his gelled blond hair and chiseled jaw. He wore a white T-shirt, jeans, and black boots. All he needed was a cigarette tucked behind one ear and a pack rolled up his sleeve. He caught sight of me and pushed himself off the pillar with his shoulder.
“Darlene Montgomery?”
I stopped. “Yeah? Who…? Are you Max Kaufman?”
“That’s me,” he said, and offered his hand.
“Aren’t you a little young to be a sponsor?” I asked, my gaze roaming over his broad, muscled chest, then up his handsome face and piercing blue eyes.
He’s way too hot to be my sponsor. Lord, have mercy.
“The powers-that-be seemed to feel I have experience enough to be of some help,” Max said. “I started down the path of turpitude early.”
I grinned. “Advanced for your age?”
Max grinned back. “First in my class at juvie.”
I laughed, then heaved a sigh. “Dammit, you’re adorable.”
“Say again?”
I planted one hand on my hip and wagged a finger at him with the other. “Let me just tell you straight off the bat that I have sworn off men for a year. So no matter what, nothing is going to happen between us, got it? If I call you up crying and desperate some night, you have to stay strong, okay?”
Max gave an incredulous laugh.
“I’m only half kidding,” I said. “I’m not presuming you want to jump in the sack with me, but I can guarantee you I will have at least one lonely night, and you’re ridiculously good-looking. A bad combination.”
Max laughed harder. “I can tell I’m going to love this assignment already. But your chastity is safe, Darlene, I promise. I’m gay.”
I narrowed my eyes. “A likely story.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Fine. That’s a good place to start,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean you’re not going to get that phone call, that’s all I’m saying.”
Max chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I can handle it.” He offered me his arm and I hooked mine in it. “Let’s see your new digs.”
“You’re my official San Francisco welcome wagon?”
“Brought to you by Narcotics Anonymous and the Justice Department.”
I harrumphed. “Three meetings a week is excessive, isn’t it? I’ve been clean for a year and a half.”
“Not up to me,” Max said. He glanced down at me. “You know you can’t skip any, right?”
“I won’t,” I said. “And while I might have a lonely night or ten, that doesn’t mean I’m going back to using. I won’t. Not ever.”
Max smiled thinly. “Good to know.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “You’ve heard it all before.”
“Yep, but it’s a good place to start.”
We stepped out into San Francisco and I turned my gaze all around, taking in my new city. The street sign on the corner read Folsom and Beale. The letters were black on white, instead of New York’s white on green.
“Brand new,” I murmured.
“What’s that?” Max asked.
“Nothing.”
From the bus depot, Max led me underground and we took a Muni train—San Francisco’s public transit system—deeper into the city. Compared to New York’s subway system; the red, green, and yellow snakes on the transit map looked simple.
“This doesn’t look too bad.”
“The city is only about seven by seven miles,” Max said, holding on to the overhead bar, as the Muni train screeched underground to my sublet in a neighborhood called the Duboce Triangle. “Big enough to feel like a real city, not so big as to get lost in.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I didn’t come here to get lost.”
“On the contrary,” Max said. “You came here to find yourself.”
“Ooh, that’s deep.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
I nudged his arm. “Are you on the clock already?”
“Twenty-four, seven. I’m here for you whenever you need me. I know how hard it is to start over.” Max scratched his chin. “Or even just to keep going, come to think of it.”
I smiled as warmth spread through my chest. “Did you have someone like you as a sponsor when you were recovering? I hope you did.”
Max’s clear blue eyes clouded up a bit, and his smile tightened. “Yes and no.” The train screeched to a stop. We were above ground again and the day was brilliant. “This is you.”
We exited the train, and Max tossed my army duffel over one shoulder as if it were nothing, while my overstuffed backpack felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
“I hope it’s not a far walk,” I said.
“What’s the address again?”
I told him and he led me west along Duboce Street.
“This is a nice neighborhood,” Max said. “You found a place here?”
“My friend said it was the last rent-controlled Victorian in all of San Francisco.”
“Your friend is probably right,” Max said. “In most parts of the city, the words ‘rent-control’ bring about fits of disbelieving laughter.” He grinned. “And then crying.”
“Then I won’t tell you what my rent is.”
“Bless you.”
“So when you’re not spending every waking hour being my sponsor, what do you do?” I asked.
“I’m an ER nurse at UCSF.”
“Really? You weren’t kidding. You are an around-the-clock lifesaver.”
He shrugged nonchalantly, but his smile told me he liked hearing that. “And what about you? Do you have a job lined up?”
“Indeed,” I said. “Massage therapist by day…”
“Yes?” Max said into my silence. “Usually there’s another half of the sentence.”
“I used to dance,” I said slowly. “In my old life, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” he said. “Old life, drug life, new life. The life cycle of recovery. So did dance survive the drug life to re-emerge in the new life?”
“That remains to be seen,” I said with a small smile. “But I have hope.”
Max nodded. “Sometimes that’s all you need.”
We walked along a row of Victorian houses, each tucked between another, in a variety of colors. I glanced down at the address on my hand, then up to a cream-colored three-story wedged between a smaller, beige house, and one the color of old brick.
“That’s the one,” I said, pointing to the cream-colored.
“You’re kidding.” Max stared. “You’re going to live there? By yourself?”
“The studio on the third floor,” I said, hefting my backpack. “It’s really pretty, isn’t it?”
“Really pretty?” Max gaped. “That house is rent-controlled?”
“There’s that word again. Are you going to laugh or cry?”
“Cry.” He whistled through his teeth. “What you have here is a unicorn eating four-leaf clovers while shitting rainbow turds in the shape of winning lottery numbers.”
I laughed. “Well, it’s only for six months, and then I have to give it back and find a new place.”
“That’ll suck,” Max said. “After this Shangri-La, you’re going to be shell-shocked at how the rest of us plebes make it in SF.”
“That’s easy, I’ll just shack up with you.”
He laughed. “Maybe. But I could be outta here in a few months. Maybe sooner.”
I sagged. “What? Noooo. Don’t say that. I like you too much already.”
“Nothing set in stone, but I have a potential job transfer to Seattle in the works.” Max smiled down at me with warmth in his clear blue eyes. “I like you a lot, too. I don’t think I’ve ever made a friend faster.”
“I don’t like to waste time,” I said with a grin. “Want to come check out my unicorn?”
“So I can be more jealous? Some other time. In fact
...” He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and checked the time. “Oh shit, I gotta run. My shift starts in twenty,” he said. “But I’ll take your bag up.”
“Nope, I got it.” I took it off his shoulder and dumped it on the sidewalk.
“You sure?”
“I carry my own weight, bub.”
“Okay, then.” Max offered his hand. “Good to meet you, Darlene.”
I scoffed at his hand and gave him a hug. His arms went around me and I felt his broad chest reverberate with a chuckle.
“Mmmm, you smell like bus.”
“Eau de Greyhound.”
He pulled away, still grinning. “I’ll see you Friday night. At the Y on Buchanan Street. Room 14. Nine o’clock, sharp.”
I pursed my lips. “Friday night? Ugh.”
“Disappointed?” He held his hands out and started walking backwards to the bus stop. “Cry it out in your rent-controlled penthouse.”
I laughed and hefted my army bag with a grunt, and stepped up to the house. The Victorian really was beautiful, and perfectly maintained. My key turned in the lock and I stepped inside a tiny entry.
I was no architect, but I could tell the house had once been a house and was now cut up into separate flats. I peeked around a wall that no sane homeowner would put in the entry, to see a tiny laundry room with one coin-op washer and dryer. On the other side of the hallway was a door with #1 on it. A potted plant and welcome mat with bright colors adorned the threshold. Faintly, I could hear what sounded like Spanish music and the sound of children’s laughter.
I dragged my army duffel up the one flight of stairs to an awkward landing—also a new construction to give the second floor some separation. The door on this floor was marked #2 and had no welcome mat or plant or décor of any kind. Silence on the other side.
I continued up one more flight. The ceiling was lower and angled, and door #3 opened on a tiny studio. Bed, table, chair, kitchen and postage-stamp bathroom. My friend in NYC who had arranged this sublet for me said the owner—a gal named Rachel who worked for Greenpeace—had cleaned the place out of everything but sheets, towels, pots and pans. It could not have been more perfect; I didn’t need much.
