Other Broken Things

by C. Desir

  I shake my head, swallowing past the boxing-glove-sized lump in my throat, and consider hanging up on Joe, but then it occurs to me that he doesn’t know. I’m new to him and everything in my history is a blank slate.

  “I do need to find a hobby. How about sexting?”

  “Oh Jesus. You’re a mess. Go to the meeting or go home. I need to get back to work.”

  I grin wide because I’ve flustered him, which is exactly where I like guys to be. “Bye, Joe.”

  “Bye, Natalie. Be careful.”

  I snort and then click End.

  * * *

  Friday, I leave for the women’s meeting early because I’m so fucking excited to be driving my car again. Even if I did have to breathe into a tube to get the thing started. Jesus, technology. I circle the block six times, and probably would keep driving but my practically blank court card is shaming me from inside my coat pocket.

  The church fellowship room is packed. None of this six-people-at-SFC bullshit; there are at least forty women in the room. My “I’m just going to listen” speech is going to be cake in this crowd. I may not even need it. Probably you have to raise your hand to share.

  I’m settling in, clutching my card in my pocket, trying to figure out which of the women standing by the coffee machine is the leader, when Kathy slides in next to me.

  “Natalie, right?”

  I nod.

  “Give me your phone.” She holds out her hand and I blink at her.

  “What for?”

  “Just give it to me.”

  I pull it out and hand it to her. She types in a bunch of numbers and hands it back. “That’s me. Again. You’ll probably delete it, again. I did that too when I first came. A lot. My sponsor gave me her number four times before I didn’t lose it on purpose.”

  Oh.

  I tilt my head and look at her hard. I used to intimidate opponents in the boxing ring with it, but Kathy doesn’t even blink. Just raises both eyebrows and looks at me like she could block any attack I’d make, left-handed. I sort of like Kathy. She’s crusty and her skin is complete shit. Like pockmarks from picking at acne and huge pores clogged up with grease and dirt. But still, she’s kind of real. And I think she might be a natural redhead.

  I don’t even know what I’m doing, but Dr. Warner told me that by my next appointment I had to have a sponsor so I mumble, “Will you be my sponsor?”

  “What?”

  I sigh and try again. “Will you be my sponsor?”

  She blinks. “Huh. That’s unexpected.”

  I shrug. “Why? Everyone says go to meetings, get a sponsor, stay sober. That’s how it works, right?”

  She nods. “I know how it works. I’m just surprised you were ballsy enough to ask me. I figured you’d be one of the types to avoid it. Think you could get better on your own.”

  I can get better on my own. I’m not even sick, but I’ve had that conversation enough in rehab to know it leads nowhere. So I raise a shoulder and say, “I don’t really want to put it all on my mom. We’re supposed to work the program with someone who’s been through it, right?”

  Kathy looks at me thoughtfully and I know I’ve got her. “Yeah. Your mom’s not a good person to be accountable for you. That’s really yours to own. But you can’t do it alone. So. Okay. We can try it. Meet me at the Starbucks on Seventh and Main, Sunday morning at nine, okay? We’ll go over some rules.”

  Rules? Jesus. The whole thing feels a little like asking a guy to prom and then finding out you have to coordinate your dress with his tux color and figure out the limo and everything else, and I sort of want to puke from it. But it’s done. Dr. Warner will be happy, Mom will be happy, Joe will be happy. Not that I’ll see that dude again, probably. But still. If I do, I got something to throw back in his face when he pulls that “you think I don’t know what it’s like” BS.

  The women’s meeting is way lively. And by the end I realize I’m dealing with a bunch of girlfriends at a sorority house. Even the way they complain about their husbands and kids is sort of hilarious and has nothing to do with being drunks. Mom would probably love this meeting. It’s like a stitch ’n bitch of teetotalers. The whole thing makes me antsy—the lack of real girlfriends in my life is painfully obvious every time these ladies mention hanging out together—and I probably would’ve slipped out to smoke and only come back for the last five minutes of the meeting if Kathy weren’t sitting next to me, providing commentary on every single woman talking.

  “She only looks that good because her husband’s a plastic surgeon.

  “That one comes every week declaring her years of sobriety and I’ve seen her coming out of the liquor store at least three times in the last six months.

  “She’s only going to AA because she doesn’t want to deal with her anorexia.”

  I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from laughing. Kathy, it turns out, is an asshole. And evidently not totally focused on her own sobriety, what with the gossip she’s got on pretty much everyone. Assholes, I know how to deal with. At the end of the meeting, as she’s signing my court card, I hand her a piece of paper with my cell number on it.

  “Look at you,” she says, folding the paper and tucking it in the outside pocket of her shitty pleather purse. “This might work out after all.”

  Chapter

  Seven

  Brent texts me on my way home Friday night, asking if I want to meet at Amanda’s.

  You don’t have to drink. We can just fuck around, he adds. Charmer. Like that hasn’t gotten me in a world of trouble before.

  Apparently he hasn’t figured out yet that I’ve dropped him from my circle. I consider texting him back a few choice words, or blocking his number altogether, but frankly I don’t give a shit enough to do either. Instead I pull out Joe’s card and call him up.

  “I got a sponsor,” I say smugly.

  “I already heard.”

  “What? Jesus. What the hell? Is my name in some database somewhere? I thought AA was anonymous. You fuckers are so full of shit.”

  He chuckles. “Relax, tiger. Kathy called me.”

  So maybe they’re a thing? “Are you dating?”

  He laughs again. “Nah. Nothing like that. She’s way too much woman for a guy like me.”

  “Am I too much woman?”

  He cough-chokes. “Are you flirting with me?”

  I smile inside my dark car. “I don’t know. Do you have any cigarettes?” Because yes, I’m out of them again.

  He laughs. “I always have cigarettes. I can’t figure out why you don’t. Your parents are rich, right?”

  “Oh my fucking God. Have you done a background check on me?”

  “Hardly. I saw your mom pick you up in a Lexus. I’m guessing you can’t get one of those on layaway.”

  I snort. “What even is layaway? Is that an old-guy thing?”

  This is all strangely comfortable and I’m not sure what to make of that. I’m not creeped out by it. If I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve fucked around with dudes I’ve had less conversation with. Maybe Joe is some kind of father figure; my sober way of working through daddy abandonment issues.

  “I’m at the O’Hare Oasis. If you feel like talking and smoking, have your mom drop you off here.”

  My stomach swoops a little, butterflies taking off in a mad frenzy. So I guess not daddy issues, then.

  I grin. “I’ll have you know, thanks to my dad’s handy-dandy car-starting Breathalyzer, I’m driving my own wheels. So I’ll see you in fifteen.”

  I click off the line and slide my phone into my coat pocket. I trace my finger along the edge of the business card Joe gave me. Geothermal heating-and-cooling specialist. What the hell is that? I drop his card back into my purse and smile to myself a little. I’ve never messed around with an older guy before.

  Chapter

  Eight

  My phone is going crazy with texts as I pull into the oasis. I’ve ignored them for the past fifteen minutes because I don’t need to
get back on the cops’ radar with a ticket for texting and driving. Plus that shit’s not safe.

  I park and pull out my phone. A passive-aggressive text from Mom. Just checking if the meeting’s over yet? And three booty call texts from Brent, plus one more saying, You owe me a conversation, Nat. Whatever.

  I text Mom back. Meeting is done. Having some fellowship time with some of the women here. Found a sponsor. Be home in an hour or two. Don’t worry, the Breathalyzer still works on the car.

  She texts back a smiley face, a Christmas tree, and two Santa emoticons. And I’m the one with the problem.

  The O’Hare Oasis is like a megamall of shitty food joints. Joe is sitting at a table outside Popeyes with two biscuits on a plate in front of him. I slide into the chair across from him and snatch a biscuit.

  “Why, yes, Natalie, I did buy those for you. You’re welcome.”

  I smile at him. “They wouldn’t be sitting here if they weren’t for me. These biscuits are addictive. I’m surprised you resisted the temptation of devouring them yourself. You must really like me.”

  He pulls off his baseball cap and sets it and a pack of Parliaments on the table. “Actually, I can’t figure out what I think of you yet.”

  “I find the quickest way for people to get a read on me is to get me naked. It clears up a lot of confusion.”

  I’m in my element here. This, I know how to do. Guys are such suckers for girls who talk dirty. I don’t mean really dirty, just enough to tease them into thinking you’re into them.

  Only, Joe doesn’t react how most guys do. “Natalie. What is it you’re trying to accomplish here? I’m not going to sleep with you, if that’s what you’re hoping. And I’m not going to enable you. So what do you want?”

  Huh. “You don’t want to sleep with me?”

  “I’m thirty-eight.”

  I smirk. “That’s not an answer. Plus you’re kind of hot for thirty-eight, and you look a whole lot better than most of those dried-out alkies.”

  “Do you know anything about AA?”

  “It works if you work it.”

  He rolls his eyes and I can almost see what he would’ve looked like at my age. Fewer wrinkles around the eyes, less stubble, whiter teeth. But he is still hot and the idea of kissing him isn’t one of my worst.

  “When you were in rehab, how far did you get in the Twelve Steps?” he asks, flipping the box of Parliaments over and over.

  “Well, they fast-track you in there, you know? So I’m at like Eleven.”

  His gaze bores into me. “Step Eleven? Really?”

  I pick up the second biscuit and take a small bite, licking my fingers afterward and watching him for a reaction. Nada. “Are you gay?”

  He grabs my wrist and I drop the biscuit. Whoa. Kind of strong. “I’m not gay. I’m not getting involved with a teenager. Stop licking your hands. Stop trying to mess with me. It will not work.”

  “Sheesh. Okay then.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, until it is painfully awkward, so I pop up and grab my purse. “This has been . . . whatever. So, I guess I’ll see you, Joe.”

  And because I can and because I’m sort of pissed, I snatch his box of Parliaments and shove them in my purse before heading out.

  “Step Four, Natalie. Go back to Step Four,” he calls after me.

  I lift my hand over my head without looking back and flip him off. Step Four: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. Step Four, my ass.

  * * *

  Brent is waiting outside my house when I get home. Fucking great.

  “What’s your problem, Nat?” he says as I lock my car door and take a step toward the house. He steps in front of me, steering me halfway down the block and into his car.

  When he gets in the driver’s side, I turn to him with a bland expression. “I thought I made myself clear the other day.”

  “Well, I thought we had a thing. An arrangement or whatever.” He’s pouting. I can’t believe I ever thought this guy was hot. He’s like a little boy.

  “You mean when I get hammered, then suck you off? That stellar arrangement?”

  He actually has the balls to blush. “It wasn’t only about that.”

  “Yeah. It kind of was. And frankly, the novelty of it wore off when I got sober.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t pull that shit on me. You’re sober now. I guarantee next year, next month probably, you’ll be back to partying. It’s who you are. And I, for one, don’t mind that girl. I don’t want you to be anyone else. I take you one hundred percent at face value.”

  “Well, that is a thing, I guess. But you know, B, I’m not sure I liked that girl.”

  This is actually the truth. It wasn’t just feeling like shit hungover or needing a water bottle full of orange juice and vodka to make it through my classes. It was everything. It was sort of a project, partying all the time. An exhausting project. I miss the numbness of drinking pretty fierce, but I don’t miss the BS drama around it. The constant figuring out how to drink more, how to slip past my parents unnoticed, how to get home from a kegger when everyone was too loaded to drive. Or the endless texts from Amy and Amanda about whose parents were gone and who has a fake ID. It was all more a pain in the ass than anything.

  And surprise, surprise, I got out of rehab and no one really gives a shit about me anyway. Except my Christmas Nazi mom. And Brent, who wants to rehash a bunch of shit. My friends are people who got loaded with me, and when I came back with a court card and a piss test requirement, I’ve become less fun to them. They’re around still, and they wouldn’t care if I hung out with them, as long as I didn’t kill their buzz.

  But Brent’s trying and I feel kind of bad about him now. I touch his cheek and he leans forward to kiss me but I stop him. “You’re not a complete prick. I just can’t get back into it with you, you know?”

  He slides his hand around the nape of my neck and pulls me forward. “Why not? We’ve got history. I don’t care if you’re sober or drunk. I’ll take you as you are.”

  I pull back. I so don’t want to get into our history. “Yeah. I know. I get it. But the truth is, I can’t be with someone like that. Fucking AA. I’m not supposed to be with anyone at all until I’m a year sober. But even though I don’t give a shit about that, I still can’t be with someone who parties. It’s too hard, you know?”

  I hate the itchy feeling on my skin. I hate the uncomfortability of truth. But I owe it to Brent, especially because I refuse to give him anything else. The least I can do is offer him part of an explanation.

  “I could’ve loved you,” he whispers, and now I do roll my eyes and push him away.

  “Don’t be stupid. Save that shit for someone who’s going to fall for it. Maybe Lizzie. She’s always been sort of into you.”

  He shrugs. “Not my type. I like girls with curly hair and big mouths.”

  He wags his eyebrows and I swat him, then pull the car door open. “Get over it, B. Virgins are people too. And maybe she’s saving herself for you.” I slam the door shut and trudge back to my house, wondering if I should call Joe to apologize.

  Before I figure it out, my phone pings in my purse. I pull it out when I get to my front porch. Text from Joe’s number.

  You should head over to the pancake breakfast after you meet with Kathy on Sunday.

  I add his name to my contacts and text back.

  You going?

  The front door opens and Mom looks at me anxiously. “What are you doing out here?”

  I hold up my phone. “Making plans with one of my AA buddies.”

  She ushers me in and fusses over hanging my coat as I read Joe’s return text.

  It’s not a date, Natalie. But I’ll hook you up to start working the breakfast if you’re interested in fulfilling your community service.

  I smirk and can’t help typing back, I knew we weren’t done with our hooking-up conversation.

  Mom is watching me, but I don’t even care. I stare at my phone and wai
t for his response. It comes thirty seconds later.

  Brat.

  Chapter

  Nine

  Brent texts me again on Saturday morning, because he’s either stupid or tenacious. And I’m actually starting to wonder if I’m going to have to have a real conversation with him to clear some stuff up. Which would suck because I’ve worked too damn hard to forget about that mess.

  I’m almost never up until afternoon on the weekends, but since I’ve been sober, I can’t seem to sleep in anymore. So I get up, send Brent a leave me the fuck alone text, then shower and smoke two cigarettes out my window before going downstairs to see what Mom’s doing.

  Dad is at the gym, sparring. I used to go with him. It was our bonding thing. It’s how I got into boxing in the first place. At first he was impressed and thought it was cute to have an eleven-year-old who was such a good fighter. But then I got really good and it became a problem. Because young ladies from rich families don’t box. That’s for hood rats. I haven’t touched my gloves since before I got my DUI, before I started drinking every day. It was a stupid idea in the first place. Not something I could ever really have.

  When I got out of rehab my parents tried to do this family-meal-togetherness thing because they thought I’d fallen in with the wrong element due to lack of family bonding. But that lasted two days before Dad said he had too much work and I was fine anyway, just needed to realize my potential and stop spending time with wastes of space. Wonder what he would think of Joe and the KILL knuckles.

  Mom blinks in surprise when she sees me now, her eyes red and her face splotchy.

  “You’ve been crying?” I ask.

  She takes a napkin and dabs off her face. “I’m fine. Just listening to some of those ‘Stories of the Season.’ ”

  I roll my eyes. Seriously. The radio station does these sad-sack stories twice a day where people call in and give all the details of their lame lives and then the radio station pays their heating bill or some shit. It’s the stupidest fucking thing ever. Some woman talking about how she has incurable cancer and the radio deejay being all, “Well, you’re in luck, because we’re going to take care of your heating bill with the help of our very generous sponsor, Commonwealth Citizen.” It’s the worst kind of opportunistic douchery. And it ends with the cancer woman crying grateful tears as if she’s super happy that she’ll now be able to die in the comfort of a fully heated home.