Other Broken Things

by C. Desir

He shrugs. “Yes, you did.”

  I shake my head. “No. I didn’t.”

  He plucks a fresh biscuit out of the basket and puts it on my plate. “Of course you did. You wouldn’t have come back otherwise. You wouldn’t have called me an hour and a half ago. You wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “I had to come back. Court ordered.”

  He pauses then and taps my wrist again. “What happened? Something’s wrong. Something more than your drunk friends.”

  I gnaw at my lip for a second, then say, “How do you know the difference between letting go of something because it’s too hard and letting go of something because it’s the right thing to do?”

  “Are we talking about them?” He waves in the direction of the door.

  “Yes. No. Sort of. I don’t know. I just think that I always walk away when things get to be too much and maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should live with it.”

  He nods. “Well, that’s true. If you bail because it’s getting tough, then you’ll never learn to deal with anything. But sometimes we have to walk away because it’s the best thing for us. And maybe it’s hard and maybe it’s easy, but in the end, it’s still the best thing for us.”

  “I don’t know what’s best for me. It’s not how I work. I work on a feel-good spectrum. If it feels good, then I’m in. If it doesn’t, I bail.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve spent enough time with you to know you’re not that shallow. You know what’s best for you. Now eat your biscuit and tell me how far along you are with Kathy.”

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  “Did you make your list?” Kathy asks as soon as I slide into the plush velvet Starbucks chair across from her.

  I kick my feet up onto the table and take a long sip of coffee. “Yeah. It’s done.”

  Kathy shakes her head. “No. It’s not. But let’s hear what you’ve got so far.”

  I take another sip. “No ‘good morning, Natalie.’ No ‘you made it on time,’ just right to the list, huh?”

  “Good morning, Natalie. Did you go to all your meetings this week?”

  “I talked to you yesterday. You know I went to all my meetings.”

  She pulls off a bite of scone and pops it in her mouth. “That’s right. We talked four times this week. And every single time, you didn’t say anything about the Fourth Step or your list. So. We’re here to work and I want to know what you’ve got so far.”

  I take a deep breath, suddenly nervous. I jotted down a few things, but I kept getting tripped up on the past regrets thing. And on the sex thing. You start looking at your life in terms of the guys you’ve had drunken hookups with and things get real depressing real fast.

  I pull out a piece of yellow lined paper I got from my dad’s office and stare at it for a few seconds. “I resent my parents. They want me to be a certain way. I’m inconvenient for them and that sort of pisses me off.”

  Kathy nods. “Yeah. That’s probably a big one. Did you think about whether or not that’s something you have control over?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She leans forward and her boobs droop low, pressing against her button-down shirt. I hope my body never gets old like this. “I mean, think about the Serenity Prayer. Half the reason people drink is because they’re worked up over things they have no control over. So every time you start getting worked up, you got to put up a mental block that stops you and reminds you to focus back on what you can control.”

  “I can’t control anything.”

  I’m not sure I mean to say this, but as soon as it slips out, it feels an awful lot like truth. Like every time I want something so bad, I never get it. And there’s always so much disappointment. And that’s probably the reason I let go of stuff when it starts to get hard, because I’m so fucking sick of disappointment.

  “You can control things,” Kathy says. “You can control your choices. You can control how you choose to react to others.”

  “In the grand scheme of things, that doesn’t feel like very much.”

  “Exactly,” she says, sipping from her coffee. “And the minute you realize how little control you have over things, it all gets easier. We’ve talked about this before. There’s nothing you can do about other people and their shit. You have to mind your own business, do your work, trust God, and help others.”

  The God thing continues to be a bit of a holdup for me. Even growing up in a pretty progressive church, I feel conflicted about faith. Kathy knows it too. She keeps on focusing on the agnostic stuff in AA because she knows I’m not a full believer. There are just too many holes in most religions and too many people using religion as an excuse to be an asshole. But I’m not quite the skeptic I was when I left rehab. And if I’m being completely honest, it’s because Joe and Kathy haven’t let me down. Which maybe doesn’t really equate to any kind of higher power, but I’ve let Kathy draw me into those discussions because she thinks Joe and her were put in my life by God.

  “I get that I can’t control my parents, but it might be nice if they did me a solid every once in a while and stepped up to the plate to actually parent.”

  Kathy snorts. “What do you think rehab was for? What do you think that Breathalyzer on your car is for? The world doesn’t revolve around you. There’s only one God and you aren’t it.”

  “Way to hit me with the tough love, Kath. Is this how you get all young alkies to keep coming back?”

  “Hardly. But you’re a brat and you need to get your head out of your ass and own your shit. You got money, you got a mom who cares enough about you to send you to rehab, you’re young, and you got a lot of options for the future. Look at the life that’s laid out before you. You can take all these winning lottery tickets you’ve been handed and cash them in, or you can go get drunk and piss everything away. You’re a lot luckier than most of us. When I hit rock bottom, my choice was a halfway house or living on the street. I’d lost my husband, my job, my home.”

  I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to feel bad because my life is better than Kathy’s. It isn’t my fault. “This sounds like stuff I have no control over.”

  It’s a bitchy thing to say and I know it, but Kathy doesn’t lash out like I expect her to. “You’re absolutely right. And it’s not my sharing time, it’s yours. So what else do you have on that list of yours?”

  “I resent Mrs. Hunt. She’s one of my teachers who’s been riding me to get all my assignments made up.”

  Kathy nods. “You should be making them up. That’s your job. That’s something you can control.”

  “I’m under a lot of pressure right now.”

  “Oh, cry me a river. You want to know pressure? Try having your ex, who you love more than anyone, show up and ask you if you want to get back together, which is incredible, only you know saying yes will put you right back in that place of wanting to drink. All the time. And saying no feels like it will carve the inside of your heart into pieces and you may never recover from that.”

  “Whoa.” I sit back and stare at her. “So. This is about some shit you have going on.”

  “No.” She waves a hand. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. It’s sort of spilling over into all parts of my life.”

  “Have you talked to your sponsor?”

  She nods. “Yeah. An hour a day for the past week.”

  “You really love your ex? And he wants to get back with you?”

  “Yeah. But it’s really complicated.”

  I shrug and take a sip of coffee. “Well, seeing as I’ve already covered you off on the two things on my list, you can take a turn if you want.”

  Kathy’s head tilts. “Huh. Look at you. Trying to help people.”

  I grin. “Don’t get me wrong. The world still revolves around me. But since you happen to be in my life, I’m willing to let the spotlight wander onto you for a while.”

  “So generous,” she says, then sighs. “Do you know my ex is Joe’s brother?”

&
nbsp; I nod. “Yeah. He told me.”

  “Figured. He doesn’t talk to Joe anymore. I didn’t think he’d ever talk to me again either.”

  Whoa. Again I’m surprised. I thought Joe had all his steps locked, but now I wonder how much is a front and if maybe Joe isn’t as together as I thought.

  She shakes her head and gives me a pathetic look. “I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  I stare at her but she doesn’t say anything else. I feel like I should probably have some words of wisdom, but I don’t know shit. So instead I go back to talking about Mrs. Hunt and school, which is weak sauce, but Kathy doesn’t seem to mind.

  * * *

  Monday at school, Camille invites me to sit with her and her friends at lunch. I’m not even sure what to do with this and I barely say a word to her until almost the end of the period.

  “How come you asked me to sit with you?” I finally blurt out before shoving a large bite of sandwich into my mouth.

  She shrugs. “You seem lonely. You’re always sitting with the burnouts, but you don’t talk to them, and I know you’re trying to stay sober.”

  I nod. I should say something. Apologize. Or make amends or what-the-fuck-ever I’m supposed to do here. But I can’t.

  “You’re welcome, Nat,” she says, and then turns back to her friends.

  Alex is at the meeting on Monday afternoon. He raises his eyebrows when I walk in and pats the seat beside him, but I take a different one across the room. He is persistent, I’ll give him that. As I’m watching the clock, waiting for the leader to stop chatting and start the meeting, I think about Kathy. I still feel weird about everything she let slip on Sunday. I gather she and her ex have a really tumultuous past and I’d be as worried as she is if I were in that place. And the fact that he and Joe don’t talk makes me wonder how far Joe really fell before he got sober.

  It also makes me again think maybe I don’t belong here. Maybe the problem isn’t alcohol, it’s me. And there’s no undoing that in twelve steps.

  Joe slides in next to me just as the old bald leader with shaky hands starts the meeting. “Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Stan and I’m an alcoholic.”—“Hi, Stan”—“This is the four thirty closed meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous . . .”

  Alex stands outside with us after the meeting, smoking menthols. He looks at me too close and I have an urge to hide behind Joe.

  “What’d you do for New Year’s, baby girl? Stay sober?” Alex asks, taking a step closer to me.

  “Yeah, actually. I finished up some of my school assignments and then met Kathy for dinner.”

  Mom wanted to stay in and do a romantic-comedy movie marathon, but Jesus fucking Christ, there’s only so much I can take of pretend family bonding. And it’s not like any of my friends were knocking on my door to hang out.

  “You got to call me next time you want to go out to eat, beautiful. I’m way more fun than Kathy. Even sober,” Alex says, and winks at me.

  “How was your New Year’s, Alex? Did you go for a drive?” Joe asks, and immediately something in Alex’s face shuts down.

  “Just fine, cabrón. Yours?”

  Joe inhales and nods. “Good. Went to a meeting. Caught a movie.”

  Alex lights another cigarette. I notice he’s dropped his first and left it on the ground. I’m waiting for Joe to lean down and pick it up but he doesn’t move. “Sounds like fun. Hope you didn’t get an upset stomach from the popcorn. That happens to my dad. He says it happens to all old guys.”

  Joe blinks. I step between them because whatever kind of bullshit posturing is going on here, I feel compelled to break it up.

  “What’d you do for New Year’s, Alex?” I ask.

  Alex flinches and I realize I’ve said something wrong. But then just as fast, his face softens and he smiles at me. “Nothing, querida. I got a brother who died on New Year’s, so my family went to his grave site.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. His eyes look sad and haunted and I don’t want to push, but I wonder what the story is here. And how Joe seems to know it.

  “It’s okay,” Alex says, then moves forward to tuck one of my curls behind my ear.

  Joe grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him. “Alex . . .” The warning is as clear as day.

  Alex laughs and drops his cigarette. “I don’t know what you think you’ve got going on with this girl, Joe, but she’s too much for you to handle. And too young. She needs a man her own age.”

  “Too bad there aren’t any men her own age around. Just boys,” Joe answers.

  I blink. “Are you kidding me with this? You’re measuring your dicks because of me? No. I don’t think so. I don’t want any part of this. Whatever shit is going on between you two has nothing to do with me.”

  I drop my cigarettes back into my purse and head toward where my car is parked. Alex calls out after me, but I ignore him. I slide into the driver’s seat and take three deep breaths. I’m about to breathe into the tube to get the car started when Joe taps on my window.

  I open the door and peer up at him. “What the hell was that about?”

  “I told you. Alex goes after girls who come through AA. He’s given at least one an STD.”

  “I wasn’t trying to date him. I was having a conversation. I was showing sympathy for his situation with his brother. What the hell? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Help others.”

  “His brother died in a car crash while Alex was driving him home drunk.”

  I gasp. “Jesus. Really?”

  He nods.

  “You’re a dick for bringing it up,” I say. He flinches, and I know I’m right. Even if Alex is responsible for that, there’s no need to pour salt in those wounds. He’s probably beating himself up more than anyone else could.

  Joe lets out a long breath. “Can I just talk to you for a minute?”

  I nod and he comes to the passenger side and gets in. I raise an eyebrow at him and he rakes his fingers through his hair. Neither of us speaks for several seconds.

  “You’re right. It was a dick move. It’s just . . . I don’t know what I’m doing with you,” he says finally.

  So he’s ready to put it out there. Which I guess shouldn’t surprise me, because AA is so much about being honest with yourself and others. But the thing is, I’m not ready for it. I know I want him. I’ve wanted him for a while. But I can’t tell how much of it is real and how much of it is that he’s there in a way no one has been for me. Plus he wants me, which I like and want because it makes me feel like I’m worth something. Which maybe isn’t the best reason to start this conversation. My ambivalence over all the layers is what keeps stopping me from saying or doing anything.

  “You’re being a friend,” I say, and reach out to squeeze his hand, because that’s the best I can do.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t feel this way about my friends. I don’t have this instinct to protect them like I do with you.”

  I give a sort of sad laugh because it’s everything I crave for probably all the wrong reasons. “I guess I’m special then.”

  He takes my hand between his two and it feels so good and so confusing all at once. I want to hop into his lap and make out with him. But I want to be drunk to get to that place. Like somehow if I’m drunk all these things I’m feeling will be okay. All this want would make sense if we were just fooling around while we were high and it wasn’t a big deal. But it is a big deal. He’s a lot older than me. I’m newly sober. He’s an ex-con, and I’m supposed to be applying for college or figuring out what the hell to do with my life. There are a million things wrong with this. And this is hardly the easy path.

  “You are special, Nat.”

  It’s too much. How he’s looking at me and how my heart is beating and how I can’t stop staring at his mouth and wondering what he’d taste like, if he’s a good kisser, what his hands would feel like.

  “You should go,” I whisper, and he lets out a long sigh. Almost like relief.

  “I should.
” He squeezes my hand once more and drops it. Then he opens his door and slides out of the car. “Talk to Kathy. She can help more than I can at this point.”

  I nod but don’t say anything else. He doesn’t know about his brother or what Kathy’s going through, and it’s not my place to tell him. They obviously have some sort of history and I’m not about to get involved with that.

  I breathe into the tube to get the car started, then make my way home, thinking the entire time about my hand sandwiched between Joe’s and how I didn’t really want him to let go.

  * * *

  That night I slip downstairs into our basement gym and work out hard. I even have a go at the punching bag, but I’m too rusty and my arms start to hurt after five minutes. Mom comes down and watches me for a while.

  “Do you miss it?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “Boxing.”

  I shrug. “You don’t want that kind of daughter.”

  She shakes her head. “We never should’ve asked you to pull back. We lost you after that.”

  “I’m right here.”

  “Lost,” she says again, then after a pause, “You could go back.”

  “It’s too late. I’m not in any kind of shape for it. I’m not good enough.”

  “Jerry says you’re good enough.”

  I pause my bicep curls and stare at her. “When did you talk to Jerry?”

  “He called a few weeks ago asking about you. He didn’t want you to know, but I’m tired of all the secrets and lies. He asked if you were really sober.”

  “Why is that Jerry’s business?”

  She stands and crosses the room to me. She grabs the towel folded on the treadmill and hands it to me. “Because he thinks you have talent. He thinks you could do this, if you really wanted it. You’re not too old to start training for the amateur circuit. You’d need to work hard, but . . .”

  I drop the weight at my feet and hold my hands up. “Don’t pretend this is okay with you. That you’d be fine with a fucking boxer as a daughter. Dad made himself perfectly clear on that score two years ago. ‘Our kind don’t box professionally.’ ”

  She shakes her head. “Do you really want this?”