by Susan Ward
“You and your freaking schedules.”
I stand up. “It works for me, OK?”
“Whatever rocks your sobriety, brother.”
“Don’t forget to text me.”
“Hourly updates as ordered.”
I give him the finger and take off while he’s still laughing at me. Don’t care what anyone thinks, I can’t do this year any other way than I am. The amends list in my pocket won’t let me.
It’s a fast two-mile walk to the rec center. The doors are closed when I get there, the meeting’s under way, but I trot up the stairs.
The room’s packed. This neighborhood has more than its fair share of recovering addicts. Unfortunately, a few are familiar faces for me. It’s why Hank and I don’t come here together. There are things about me I’m not ready to let my camping buddy know.
I take a chair in the back and listen to the guy at the dais while my gaze fixes on the cloud of bleached blond hair in the front row. She’s the only person in the room who knows who I really am.
“Anyone want to share?”
I stand up and the guy calls on me. I make my way to the front of the crowd, breathing steadily to keep my nerves at bay. It’s time I do this. I’m certain it’s why I’m stuck and not moving forward with why I’m living here.
I stare out at the crowd.
Time to test the rule that what happens in rehab stays in rehab. One thing I’ve learned this past year, you can’t move forward in recovery without trust.
Still, this is fucking difficult.
I clear my throat and hold steady the icy blue gaze drilling into me. “Hi. Most of you know me as EJ, the homeless street musician. But recovery is about letting go and trusting yourself again. Right? So I need to be honest with you before I can be honest with me. I’m Eric Manzone. I’m an addict and an alcoholic. I’ve been clean and sober 357 days. Which isn’t easy because there’s a hell of a lot of people out there looking for me.”
“KEEP COMING BACK, it works!”
I hurry from my chair, grab a cup of coffee, and exit the building quickly. My heart is beating rapidly. I’m not sure if that was a good move or a bad one. Only time will tell.
I sit on the top step and wait.
People start trotting down the steps beside me.
Not the legs I’m looking for.
There’s quiet as I continue sipping my coffee.
Then the door opens.
Something hits the back of my head and I turn to see an empty cup fly away from me to land next to a pair of white Keds.
“That little speech in there didn’t change anything,” announces a harsh voice. “You’re still an asshole.”
I grin. “Still a man-hater, I see.”
“Fuck you, Eric.”
We both laugh as Ivy drops down to sit next to me. After running into her two months ago, I’d have never thought we’d be friends, but somehow we are. Probably because we both share addiction and recovery.
“357 days. Congrats.”
“You’re up to two years, aren’t you?”
She nods and lifts my coffee from my hand. “How many days is it now that you’ve been in front of Mel’s playing?”
I pretend I have to think about it as she polishes off the last of my coffee. “Sixty-three.”
“Not as slick on your feet as you used to be, are you?”
I chuckle. “No. Smarter. Timing matters.”
“In sixty-three days you couldn’t find the right time to start your amends to Willow? Sounds more cowardly than smart to me.”
That criticism has bite. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated at all,” Ivy says.
Oh, but she’s wrong.
When I first located Willow, it wouldn’t have worked out well to launch into why I looked her up after all this time. Willow was so wary and tight-lipped when she spotted me singing in front of the bar. She was very different from the kind, confident, fun-loving girl I remember.
She was as skittish as the dog in the park—that part of how she’d changed I hated seeing and prayed to fuck my amends might undo what I’d done to her—though it did confirm it was good that I’d put her on my amends list.
How closed up the years since I’d known her had made her told me it wouldn’t be easy making amends for what I did when I was twenty or even telling her who I am and apologizing.
It became painfully clear I’d hurt Willow badly. How she holds back even now when we’ve got a nice ongoing banter between us tells me she’s not completely over it. One thing for sure: she doesn’t trust men anymore.
It’s taken sixty-three days to make a small crack in her wall, and that’s with me showing up every day in front of the bar and trying to work an opening with her.
Yep, I do a nine-hour shift in front of Mel’s seven days a week, mapped out around Willow’s coming and going. I get there one hour early so I don’t ever miss her arriving and I leave once there’s a nice wad of bills in my case from the after-work peeps.
After two months, we almost have a comfortable routine. I’m hoping that means I’ll soon have her walls lowering enough that I can get on with the reason for why I’m here.
Ivy shakes her head. “You need to get on with it, Eric. Being afraid isn’t good for your sobriety.”
“I can’t rush it, Ivy. I’ve gotta do it my way.”
“No. Here’s what you have to do. You walk up to her. Say something like, ‘Hello. Willow. Do you remember me? I’m the guy who fucked up your life seven years ago. I want to apologize for lying about who I am, coming between you and your dad, then breaking your heart, and by the way, here’s the money that ruined your life that you laid out for me because you believed in my lying, cheating ass.’ Just say something like that. That ought to get things moving.”
I rake back my hair, grimacing “Yeah, that’s a great version of how a guy should make amends. We’re all going to feel so much better after that.”
She shrugs. “I thought it wasn’t about you feeling better. It sounds good to me. Straight. An accurate accounting of what you did to her. I don’t think the words matter. You hurt her so badly there just needs to be an I’m sorry in there somewhere. It will be enough for Willow that you face her and let her know you feel like crap for what you did to her. Despite how it seems, she hasn’t changed that much.”
Enough for Willow—but not even close to enough for me. Fuck. “Not everything I said to her back then was a lie.”
“You’ve been in front of Mel’s for months trying to figure out a way to approach her. Whatever you think is going to happen isn’t as bad as what you’re imagining. And don’t try to parse the parts that are true from the lies. You owe her a total amends. Don’t fuck it up with whatever pieces you’re trying to convince yourself weren’t shit. You can’t wrap truth in a lie and have it still be true. A donut found lying in a hog pen still tastes like shit.”
But it wasn’t all shit.
No matter what Ivy thinks.
That’s the hardest lesson I learned from finding Willow. I really did love her seven years ago. That’s the only party of what I did to her not a lie. It makes it hurt more the things I did and how unfair I was to her.
And to add to this already fucking complicated amends.
Sitting outside her bar.
Seeing her every day.
Just being close to Willow.
I’ve fallen in love with her again.
Willow
The present…
AS I FIGHT TO MERGE across two lanes of clogged traffic toward my off-ramp, my phone rings.
Perfect timing—not.
I don’t need to glance at the dash for the caller ID to know who it is, but I do it anyway. Of course, it’s my sister calling from her comfy home in the burbs that she never has to leave unless she wants to, thanks to her husband’s thriving tech company.
Keeping my eye on the Audi determined not to let me get i
n so I can exit the freeway, I listen to the rings and debate whether to answer. I know what this is about, and I can’t decide if it’s better to take the call now five minutes out from work, so I can cut it short, or wait until I’m somewhere quiet not battling a.m. commuters.
After the third ring, my thumb hits the answer button on my steering wheel before my mind has committed to talking to Jade without having had my first cup of morning coffee.
Damn it, why do I always feel obligated to answer her? “Hey, Jade. I’m almost to work. Can I call you later? Traffic is a bitch this morning. I won’t be able to focus until I’m parked, and we don’t want me getting into an accident—”
“No, not letting you call me later,” my sister says over my words. “We haven’t talked in a week. You’re avoiding me. Are you angry? I don’t want you to be. It couldn’t be helped. You know that. Can we talk about it and move on? I can’t stand it when we’re not talking.”
“Sweetie, I’m not angry. I’ve had a busy week. That’s why I haven’t had time to talk. And I understand why you felt it necessary to invite Dean to your anniversary party.”
There’s a noticeable pause where I try to figure out if I said that part about my ex-husband in a believable way. My mouth scrunches left, right, then does it again.
Oh crap, the silence from the other end continues. That means Jade’s digesting. And tells me, no, I wasn’t believable.
“Dean is Gary’s business partner,” she replies in her softest voice, the one she uses when she wants me not to get emotional. “I don’t like it, but that’s a fact. And we can’t exclude him. My husband and your ex are friends and partners. It’s one of the things we have to manage.”
We? Who’s the we here? I’m the one who worked while Dean made no money with his tech start-up, and was divorced by him right before the company took off and the dollars started rolling in.
It wasn’t Jade or Gary who got left high and dry by my selfish, cheating ex.
They’re living their oh-so-happy life fully appointed with the best of everything while I struggle working fifteen-hour days trying to keep our dad’s bar—disappointing inheritance though it is—from going under.
Where’s the we in that? I let the silence remain for another block of driving, and then say, “I understand. I wouldn’t want to create a problem between Gary and Dean, and we’ve all known each other since college. You’ve gotta believe me. I get it and I’m not angry. I’ve been wearing big girl panties twenty-four/seven since Dad died.”
“I’d help you with the bar if I could.”
That statement irks a bit, though I’m pleased with the change of subject. “I know you would, Jade. I appreciate how busy you are with the kids and how Gary wouldn’t want you working in a bar to help me out.”
“You should sell it,” she pipes in with an enthusiastic, perky voice. “Gary would help you get it appraised, find a broker, then make sure you don’t get ripped off.”
“I know. He’s amazing to offer to get me out from under it.”
“Then why don’t you?”
I slowly pull in a calming breath. “Because I’m not ready to. I don’t know what I’d do without the bar to keep me busy. I’m still not over everything.”
“Which thing? Dad dying or Dean cheating?”
“Both.”
Jade stifles what sounds like a sob. “I hate that you’re hurting, and I can’t fix it. Not about Dad or Dean. I’m angry, too, with them both for what they did to you.”
That’s enough to make tears burn my eyes, and my makeup looked perfect this morning when I left the house. I struggle not to let the waterworks that sneak up on me too frequently run loose. “I know you are, honey.”
“I would never see or speak to Dean again if it could be helped.”
I make a fast left turn, relieved I’m less than twenty feet from my parking space. “I know. But I wouldn’t want you to take sides.”
Another sniffled sob, louder. “There are no sides. You’re my sister. You’re my side.”
I turn off the ignition and wait for the phone to switch over to hit the speaker button. “I know, Jade. You’re a great sister. We’re just stuck in a lousy situation.”
“Then get unstuck,” Jade advises spiritedly. “I know a guy you should meet. He’s hot, successful, and nice. I could set up drinks later this week before the party. That way—”
I halt in collecting my things from the passenger seat. “No, Jade. No blind dates. No fix ups. I don’t need you to find me a great guy. I can do it on my own. When I’m ready. I’ve already told you I’m not interest—”
“But why?”
My mouth moves faster than my brain. “Because I’m sort of starting to get interested in someone and I want to see where that goes.”
She bursts out in giddy cackling, and I tense.
Oh no, why did I say that?
Wrong, Willow, wrong to lie to Jade. Now she’s going to be up in my business about my imaginary romance.
Crud.
I lean back in my seat and wait for the thousand questions to come my way.
“Who is it? Is it that guy you’ve been flirting with? The one you bump into as you walk to the bar who’s all charming with you?”
My eyebrows hitch up. I never expected Jade to remember my strategically vague info dump about the street musician who set up shop at my front door two months ago.
Strategically vague, Willow? Ah, try ninety percent bullshit, scrubbed of all relevant facts except that he’s sweet and gorgeous. I left off that part about him also being homeless, probably dangerous, and likely with a criminal or mental disorder background.
Definitely not Mr. Right material.
I’m confident he doesn’t even qualify for Mr. Wrong status. With my history for picking lousy men, he should probably be on my too big of a mistake to dare list, even though he’s an exceptionally fine specimen of a man with dreamy blue eyes and a raspy voice that makes me melt…
“Are you bringing him to the party?”
“No, we’re not there yet!”
“Why not? Get there. He sounds amazing. And you’ve been talking about him for weeks. Your voice glows whenever you mention him.”
Glows? Can voices glow? Crud, I shouldn’t have told Jade about him. She’s probably halfway to starting a wedding registry at Nordstrom. Absolutely one of my less-thought-out moves to stop my sister from meddling in my love life.
“I’m taking things slow these days, Jade.”
“I’m not suggesting you marry him. Invite him to coffee. Drinks or something. Then work into it that you need a date for a party and, there, it’s all fixed.”
“But I don’t need a date for your party. You think I need a date. I’m perfectly fine going by myself.”
“Hell no.” Her raised voice makes me jump. “You’ve been divorced for two years. It’s time to stop letting Dean think you carry a torch for him.”
My body goes cold as my cheeks burn. “Is that what he thinks? Has he said that to Gary?”
Jade growls, annoyed. “No. But he doesn’t have to. That’s how men’s minds work. You’re always alone at every function where Dean is. Men are vain and conceited. What’s he supposed to think?”
“Well, not that. My not seeing anyone has nothing to do with him.”
“Are you so sure about that?”
My stomach shimmies. “Yes.” But I don’t feel as confident in that answer as it sounded when I said it. Why did my sister have to ask me that question? It’s one I avoid asking myself at all costs: am I over Dean? I should be, but I don’t know for sure.
“Invite him to coffee,” she wheedles, “and just see what happens.”
“I don’t have time. Not even for coffee dates.” Agitated, I grab my purse and climb from the car. “I’m at the parking lot. I gotta get moving. Can I call you later?”
“You’re annoyed with me again. I’m only trying to help.”
“I’m no
t annoyed.” I snap the clicker so the car will beep. “Hear that? That’s me locking the car so I can start work.”
“Yes, I heard it. And it was more like one of your Jade, butt out cues.”
I pout. “I don’t want you to butt out. I want you to hang up and then bug me later. Does that sound all right to you, sis?”
Jade’s melodic laughter fills my ear and I smile.
“I’m not giving up until we both have everything we deserve and are nauseatingly happy. You know that.”
Briskly walking toward my Java Hut on the corner, I roll my eyes. “Yes. That’s what I love about you. You never quit. Not even on me.”
“What do you mean not even on you?” She’s emotional. “You’re wonderful. Too good for almost every man I know, and deserve nothing but the best.”
Things are getting heavy between us again. I joke, “And instead I got Dean.”
We both laugh.
Good.
“Think about having coffee with the flirty guy. I like how you sound when you talk about him. Like you did before Dean.”
She’s not giving up. “Hanging up now. I love you, Jade.”
“Love you, too.”
After dropping my phone into my tote, I push the glass door and enter the Java Hut. Smiling at the morning regulars seated at the heavy wood tables and chairs—the retired group, the patrol officer coffee klatch from the local precinct, and assorted usual suspects—I fall in at the end of the short waiting line.
From his spot beside the cash register, Boomer looks up from the order he’s taking and says, “Morning, Willow. The usual today?” Before I answer he turns to shout, “Matt, grab a large coffee, black, and an egg/sausage breakfast sandwich.”
I frown at him. “Stop that. I can wait in line like everyone else. No special treatment, Boomer.”
“I’ve known you since you were no higher than my knee. That makes you special here.” Somehow he says that while continuing to listen to the customer ordering and simultaneously hitting keys on the register. “Make sure you double cup that coffee for Willow, Matt.”
I shake my head at him, but I’m smiling. Even after six months of collecting his rent, it feels strange to be his landlord. Boomer was like a second dad, and in a lot of ways a much better dad than my own.
