The Crossroads Duet

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Looking up for the briefest of moments, I saw that everyone in the crowd had their eyes trained on me. I lowered my gaze, unable to face them in this moment.

  “It was all fun until I collapsed. I had gone to a yoga class high and stoned, all hungover and dehydrated, and as soon as I turned upside down, I was done. That’s all I remember. Apparently, I passed out cold. The owner of the gym called an ambulance in time, and I made it to the hospital for them to pump my stomach and help me dry out. That was the easy part in comparison to what came after. And now.”

  Once again, lifting my eyes slowly, I checked in to see if I should continue. Scanning the faces in front of me, I was relieved to see that they were overwhelmingly open, their expressions merely curious and supportive. Finally steady on my own two feet, I felt goose bumps break out on my skin as I prepared to finish.

  “I had one really close friend back then, and I haven’t seen her since I left the hospital. It’s not like she didn’t try, but I refused to add her name to the list of people who were allowed to visit me in rehab. It was too painful to think about her seeing the non-fun version of myself, so I locked her out, and I’ve been alone ever since. The relationship with my dad never got better, his guilt making it even harder to try, and without a good friend who really knew me, it was just me against the world. Problem is, the thought of living life this way for the next few decades is starting to scare me, pushing me to want to be the ‘fun me’ all over again, and I can’t do that either. So I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. Alone.”

  I stepped down from the front to applause from the audience, receiving affirmations from the people I passed on the way back to my seat. One lady stopped me and grasped my hands, urging me to not regret the past, and told me she’d pray for me.

  AJ was waiting for me. “It looks like you could use a shoulder or a flannel shirt to cry into, Bess,” he said as we walked toward the door.

  “I just hate being a burden to anyone. I guess it’s been way too many years on my own,” I answered.

  “A cup of coffee is not a burden,” AJ said as he held the heavy door open with his broad shoulder for the two of us.

  “I know.” I looked away, swiping a stray tear from my cheek.

  “Come on, let’s go.” He nodded to the cars.

  “Poor Brooks is alone all week. Why don’t you come over and I’ll make coffee, okay?” I asked, knowing he would agree.

  AJ winked at me as he said, “I’ll follow you home, pretty girl,” and we jumped in our cars.

  Bess

  With the radio on and Brooks lounging by the fire AJ built in my fireplace, we drank coffee and talked. It wasn’t odd; at least, it didn’t feel that way. AJ had spent plenty of time over at my place in the early days of my being out on my own, holding my hand while I got my life in order, allowing me to go through all the stages of recovery, and the emotions that went with them.

  His sponsor did much of the same for him when he first left rehab. Lucky for AJ, he didn’t need his sponsor that often. At least, not anymore.

  Like I needed AJ now.

  He wasn’t that much older than me, but he was much wiser when it came to life. He hadn’t wasted time on college because he had been in the throes of using since high school. After cleaning up, he started a construction business and made a life for himself close to where his grandparents used to live, finding peace in a simpler life.

  Finished with my mug, the scent of coffee and campfire hanging in the air, I leaned my head back, letting it rest on the back of the sofa as I closed my eyes. I’d been crying about how lonely I was, questioning, “Is it always going to be this way?” when I felt AJ’s hot breath move closer. It smelled like coffee and mint with the faintest trace of tobacco.

  His mouth lit a path of heat along my collarbone, and the sleeve of his flannel shirt grazed my wrist as he brought his hand up to caress my cheek. This did feel odd. My sponsor, the gentle but demanding man in front of me, had never touched me other than enveloping me in friendly bear hugs. This was a gentler touch, his rough and calloused fingers sending a message in their soft path.

  I lifted my head slowly, opening my eyes and taking in his inviting ones before dropping my gaze. I focused on his light brown five o’clock shadow as he spoke.

  “It doesn’t have to be that way, Bess. You don’t have to be alone. You’re not alone. You have friends, and you have me.”

  His eyes searched mine, begging me to understand the hidden meaning behind his words. I didn’t really have friends. And we were nothing more than sponsor and sponsee.

  I didn’t really have him. Or did I?

  “AJ . . .” I breathed out his name slowly, looking up but hesitating to meet his eyes.

  “Bess, don’t. I know this isn’t the best idea, but we know what each other has been through. I care for you, and I’m pretty sure you care for me. We could be good for each other. Let me be there for you. I don’t want you to feel alone.”

  Another tear made its way down my cheek as my heart pounded a frightfully fast rhythm in my chest. AJ was soothing and strong—a rock for me—and I felt something deep for him, but wasn’t totally sure what the feeling was. But as he looked at me with his clear sea-green eyes and his messy, dark blond hair falling over his forehead, while holding me tightly in his cozy flannel embrace, my body relented and my head nodded. I felt it moving up and down, small unsure movements, but a definite affirmative.

  I’m not alone.

  His hand reached down and squeezed mine while the other stayed steady on my cheek. My breath quickened and my heart doubled its already rapid pace, but I didn’t move. I stayed the course, waited for what was to come next, and then his mouth was on mine. Chapped yet tender lips took over my own, learning the feel and taste of mine.

  AJ was there for me. He was showing me; I felt it as our clothes slowly made their way to the floor—followed by us.

  I wasn’t a virgin, but I hadn’t been touched by a man in at least five years. The last encounter I remembered was following a long night out with some guy I met at a bar. There hadn’t been anyone since I became sober; this was all brand new. My hands shook as I tried to wrap my arms around the naked man on top of me.

  AJ held his weight up on one elbow and whispered, “Hey, it’s okay. We can take our time. Shh, relax.”

  And then he trailed kisses down my neck until he reached my cleavage where he alternated between my breasts, kissing, nipping, and sucking. I relaxed into the rug beneath me, the fire roaring to my left, nightfall filling the windows on my right. His hand made its way down my abdomen, only hesitating for a second while waiting for my nod, before dipping inside me.

  His lingering mouth finally joined forces with his masterful hand, and my core began to blaze as big as the flames lighting our silhouettes. Then the dam broke and I shattered, my own wetness only cooling me for a moment.

  I nudged AJ to make his way back up to kiss me. God, the flavors and sensations were all so vibrant. This was nothing like the muted lust of being high or drunk. I tasted myself on his tongue, smelled my orgasm swirling through the room, and felt his hardness pressing into me—igniting my heat once again.

  “You doing okay? Bess?” he asked me.

  “Yes.” It was quiet and breathy, but I definitely said yes.

  As he leaned back to grab his jeans, I felt AJ’s absence immediately. Silently wondering what he was doing, if he was leaving—if he didn’t want me anymore—I wondered if anyone could ever truly want me. Then I watched him pull a condom wrapper from his pocket, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Pathetic.

  He was back on me in a minute, searching with his eyes once again, waiting patiently yet asking me to hurry at the same time.

  I took the package, hoping I remembered what to do, then ripped it open and slid it on him—committing a major no-no in the recovery world—before he slid deep inside me, taking his time until we both had exhausted any worries of being alone on this night.

  Bess
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  AJ and I fell into a routine that meshed with my usual steady, less-than-exciting life—early evenings spent by the fire, then dark and sweaty nights rolling together between the sheets before parting ways in the early hours of the morning. The air grew colder outside, snow falling daily on my little side of the mountain, but our passion burned bright inside my cabin. A few days turned into two weeks, and all of a sudden we were a couple.

  He cooked for me, took me back to his house—the one he built with his own hands—and showed me all the rooms designed to hold a big family someday. I smiled and murmured my praise of his handiwork, but it all seemed presumptuous on his part.

  We went to AA meetings and sat separately, hurrying home to reconnect physically as soon as they were over. It was a relationship based in convenience, but didn’t feel exactly that way when we were in the moment.

  It felt passionate when we were together, but truthfully, who else wanted me?

  Lane invited me to Florida. No, he didn’t. Not really. He was just being polite.

  Was I settling? Was I confusing the first display of any physical attention in close to half a decade with passion and heat?

  And what really gnawed at me was that I imagined somewhere deep down inside AJ, he felt guilt or some responsibility to see this through with me. He was my sponsor first and my lover second.

  But it had been so long since I’d experienced affection of any kind. It was truly the first time my body responded so vibrantly to a man’s touch, I couldn’t stop whatever crazy train we were riding.

  Our newly formed relationship met head-on with its first obstacle today, Christmas Day, December twenty-fifth. It was a day for family, friends, lovers, prayers, wishes and peace, and I was driving my usual route to work as dusk colored the sky pale pink and gray in anything but peace.

  My warm breath created a smoky fog when it hit the cold air in the car, my gloved yet still-cold fingers fanned out over the wheel, my stomach tied in knots over my choice, but I had to do what I felt I had to do.

  I was working. AJ wasn’t.

  He wanted me to go to the dinner he was hosting for friends at his home. I wanted to work.

  It was an argument that began in the middle of the night last week. AJ slid out of me, taking care to wrap me tight in the blanket as he went to dispose of the condom, and came back with a warm cloth to clean me up. Always the caring, thoughtful one, he turned to me and tucked a stray hair behind my ear as he whispered, “Christmas is just a few days away, Bess.”

  “Really?” I said, somewhat teasing and a tiny bit sarcastic.

  “Yeah, babe,” he said, his voice cracking with something I didn’t quite recognize.

  I decided to try to lighten the odd tension I sensed building between us. “I got you a little gift!” I said while batting my eyelashes.

  AJ threw his leg over mine, careful to not lay all his weight on me, and gripped my hip firmly, letting me know he wasn’t in the mood for joking. “Got you something too, but that’s not the point. I want you to come to my place for dinner. A bunch of us from the meetings, we all get together every year to avoid big boozing-up type parties. We cook and relax by the fire, and I need you there.”

  “I’m working,” I whispered as I tucked my head under his chin, then placed a small kiss on his chest.

  “Get out of it,” he murmured as he kissed the top of my head.

  “I can’t, AJ. I work every year. You deal with the holidays your way, and I deal with them in mine.” I felt his body stiffen, and didn’t have the strength to look up and meet his eyes.

  “Bess, that’s not fair. We’re together. I’m there for you, and I want you to be there for me. I want us to be together for the holiday, under the mistletoe.” He tucked his finger under my chin and brought my face up to meet his.

  I shook my head. “I can’t, AJ. Please don’t push, but I need to work. It’s how I deal. I’m sorry, I know I’m letting you down, but I just can’t be with you on Christmas Day. I can come over for a little while when I finish up work, though.”

  At this, he moved to get out of bed and slipped back into his jeans and flannel shirt. “Well, that sucks and I can’t accept that, Bess. You’re not my booty call. I have feelings for you beyond you stopping by at night.”

  And then he left, just like that. The odd thing is, I didn’t even get up to watch him pull away.

  Yet as I drove to work this morning, images of his truck pulling away kept blending with memories of my mom walking down the stairs and never glancing back.

  It made me wonder—did he turn around and look behind him as he drove away?

  Lucky for both my drab mood and myself, my shift started as soon as I changed at the WildFlower. The line for Christmas brunch snaked down the hallway from the restaurant. We were full with reservations, but there was no way we would turn away the families who showed up at the last minute—we would just hustle even harder.

  Better for me. My mind will stay occupied.

  The crisp white tablecloths were dusted with glittery fake snow, and candles glowed inside the poinsettia centerpieces. The room smelled like fresh pine thanks to the dozen or so fresh trees lining the perimeter of the dining room, decorated with shiny baubles and wide gauzy ribbon shot through with gold thread, and every so often I caught a whiff of eggnog from the special French toast on the buffet.

  As Christmas carols piped through the speakers, I worked my tables with a smile and a red bow pinned to my vest. From a distance, I watched other families celebrating, sharing and experiencing a special day together. I tucked the notion in the back of my mind that this was how families were supposed to be—spending time together, tossing back champagne and clinking their glasses, then tossing back some more. Little boys and girls clanked mugs of hot cocoa filled with marshmallows, high on their own drug—sugar.

  Festivity cloaked the room like a heavy winter parka; there was no escaping it. Although the alcohol-infused orange juice in the room didn’t bother me, I was rattled by the sentimentality of it all. I couldn’t escape the pinch of pain in my chest while bearing witness to something I’d never had nor probably ever would. The occasional children’s laughter that rang out was the only salve to my pain. After all, how could anyone deny a child the experience of Christmas Day?

  After cleaning up and resetting the room from brunch, I was able to take a short break. I hid in the kitchen, having a bite to eat before dinner service began. Ernesto went home after the last pan of French toast made its way out. Before he left, he kissed me on the cheek and wished me a merry Christmas. It was one of the nicest gestures I’d ever experienced.

  It wasn’t like we didn’t celebrate as I was growing up; we did. After mom left, Dad would send his current secretary out to buy me a few “girl things” for Christmas. There were nameless Barbies, cardigans with tiny crystals sewn on the collars, and vanity sets. After Christmas, I would throw them all in the corner. I didn’t really know what to do with any of that junk since I didn’t have a mom. But I always pretended to be excited and sought comfort in my dad’s hug following my attempt at a heartfelt reaction. After all, it was my one chance at affection all year long.

  Dad didn’t cook, so we always were invited over to that secretary’s house for dinner. Every year it was someone different; he’d go through a few of them from one holiday to the next. We would eat, and then I would watch my dad and his secretary celebrate under the mistletoe.

  At some point in my mid-teens, I opted to work holidays for time-and-a-half at the local drugstore, which ironically, was how I funded my first bad habit—booze—a much better way to forget my lack of a mother than work. And an easy way to lure a fumbling yet warm teenage boy into my arms to give me the affection I craved.

  Caffeinated and nourished, I made my way out to the restaurant for the dinner service. The buffet had been taken away and the elaborately set tables arranged for us to serve a five-course holiday meal. More families dressed in their Christmas outfits filed in, different from the ones
we’d served breakfast to. But like the breakfast crowd, they oohed and aahed at the festive decor and ambience.

  After wishing each and every table a happy holiday and taking beverage orders, I went to collect drinks from the bar. This was the reason why I tried not to work too many dinners. The back and forth to the bar, the anxiety over the smells and seduction of the many burgundy and amber-hued liquids, and the guilt of being an innocent participant in someone else’s problem, all of it meant I normally stuck to serving breakfast and lunch. But I made an exception for a holiday.

  Sidling up to the bar where the drinks for the restaurant came out, I pulled out my tablet to take a quick peek at the menu. Without looking up, I said, “Hey, Robbie. What’s up?” The bar area was quiet; after all, who opted to spend Christmas alone other than me?

  I heard, “Happy holidays, Bess. Not much. Nice to see you on a dinner shift,” over the clinking of glasses.

  Yeah, I guess.

  Then I had the strangest feeling as an indescribable warmth coated me. It started in the center of my chest, radiating its way outward until I was fully covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

  And then I heard it.

  “Hi, Bess. Merry Christmas.”

  The heat source had come closer. It was now sitting on the end stool, its breath so close, I could feel it on my skin, singeing me. But it wasn’t an it. It was a he.

  I looked up and my eyes met his. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Wrigley.”

  “Lane,” he quickly corrected me.

  “Merry Christmas, Lane. What are you doing here?” I asked rudely with no regard for his feelings, or the fact that I was at work and he did business with my employer.

  “Well, that’s a bit complicated,” he said right before Robbie interrupted him, shoving a large tray of drinks my way.