by Kacey Shea
“But that night the drinks were drugged. We didn’t . . .”
“No.” I shake my head. “Don’t give me a pass. I knew what I was doing. Sure, I blacked out that night. But it wasn’t the first time.” I close my eyes, remembering how it felt to wrap my arms around him. The heady control. The buzz of teetering on the edge of lucid consciousness. His hard, strong muscles. Willing body. A thrill of lust rushes through my veins, but I open my eyes and shove the feeling away. “That was rock bottom because I torched something good in my life, and all for what?” I didn’t fuck him, not that night, but only because Callie caught us. I would have, though. Nothing else would have stopped me. Self-loathing thickens my next words. “I broke a friendship. A sisterhood. And yes, she’s forgiven me, but nothing I say or do will ever make up for the pain I caused her.”
We stop near the entry, neither of us moving to go inside the coffee shop. Silence settles around us, an uncomfortable, static sound.
“But that helps?” He stares back at the way we came. There’s no cocky arrogance in his stance. No judgment in his gaze.
There have been so many times I’ve been angry with Chase. For his flippant attitude. For playing a part in my self-destruction and lowest point. For hurting my friend. For showing up here—in a place that’s supposed to be my escape and a fresh start to my new life. But none of that is his fault, and I’d never deny someone else the peace that comes from forgiveness. The understanding that comes with recovery. “It does. I don’t know where I’d be without the AA community.”
He holds my stare, his eyes full of so much emotion they threaten to sweep me away. “You make me want to be better.” He clears his throat. “That it’s possible, even for me.”
“We’re all worthy of redemption, Chase.” I reach out, my fingers resting gently on his arm. I can’t imagine the guilt he feels. I don’t need to ask about his rock bottom, because it was so public. I want to ask him about his friend, if he’s doing okay, and whether he’s reached out to make amends. But I don’t. The hurt in Chase’s gaze is too fresh. He needs to work through the steps in his own time. He doesn’t need someone to push him, that’s not how healing works. What he needs most is a friend to sit with him in the in-between. The moments when the world feels simultaneously hopeful and overwhelming. Both lost and found. I can be that person for him.
He steps away, his smile sad as he reaches for the door. “I wish I could believe that.”
36
Chase
All day I contemplate my rock bottom. I can’t stop thinking about it. Almost obsessively, I push myself to complete each task within record time. But my attempt to throw myself into work to forget my past is pointless. Each time I close my eyes I see Maverick, motionless and bloody after the crash. For once, I wish I had gone to see him before coming down to Kitty Hawk, just so I could brand a different image to my memory. Not that it changes the facts. He’s paralyzed forever.
I should be the one stuck in a chair for the rest of my life. I’m the one who got behind the wheel. A deep self-loathing sinks into my soul. I’ve been pretending to be someone else these past two weeks, a version of myself I could learn to like. But what’s the point? I don’t deserve to be happy. I don’t deserve anything.
My phone rings just before I break for lunch. My father’s name flashes across the screen. Of course he calls today. I want to send him to voicemail, but that’ll only piss him off. I can’t imagine why he’s calling. Certainly not to congratulate me on my outstanding volunteer work. Surely not to check on how I’m doing.
I roll my eyes, my finger hovering over the accept button. Another part of me is just as scared to answer. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. I’m twelve days shy of achieving my one-month sobriety coin. It’s a milestone I never expected or planned to reach, but now that I’m so close I don’t want to fuck it up. There’s a good chance his words will trigger me, and that makes me feel like a coward. What adult man can’t pick up when his dad calls?
On the fourth ring, I hit the button to accept his call. “Hello?”
“Chase.” His voice is a gruff bark, as it’s always been.
“Hey, Pops.”
“You got a minute?”
Normally I’d offer a snarky reply, but poking the bear doesn’t hold the same appeal. “Yep. What’s up?”
“I got some mail of yours at the house. Mostly advertisements.”
“Okay.” I pause, unsure of what he needs. “Just throw out the junk. There shouldn’t be any bills.” I have my cell phone bill automated, and well, without a car or apartment there aren’t any other expenses.
“Right. There’s also . . . uh . . .” He clears his throat. “Something from the prison. I think it’s from your sister.”
“Tiff?” A sinking feeling drops inside my gut.
“Should I send it down to your uncle’s place, or hold it here? I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to open it.”
“No.” God, no. Fuck. I scrub a hand along my jaw and rein in the coil of anger that pulses in my veins. I exhale slowly so he doesn’t detect the fear in my voice. “Send it here. If you don’t mind.” I want to tell him to toss it, or better yet, burn it. God only knows what’s in that letter. My stepsister’s mental illness has been our family’s secret for as long as I can remember. But like most things we don’t talk about it, I don’t know if he knows the extent of it all. He’s never asked and I’ve never said. A letter from her is not something I want to read, but I don’t want him or anyone else to see it even more.
“I’ll drop it in the mail today.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, then.”
Static silence stretches between us. The miles that separate us are miniscule compared to the disconnect in our relationship. There’s so much I wish I could ask him. Is he still disappointed in me? After this summer is there any chance he’ll let me come back to the county fire department? Does he hate me for all the pain and disgrace I caused? Does he live heavy with regret, the same as I do?
But we’ve never had that kind of connection. Without firefighting, there’s no common ground. I wonder whether he longs for more, or if he’s content to be strangers with his son.
“I finished my first one hundred hours.” The words blurt past my lips, the need to fill the space stronger than his resolve to stay silent. “Should have this wrapped up mid-August.” I ache for his approval. An acknowledgement. Something. I pull the phone back from my ear to make sure we’re still connected. “Dad?”
“Good for you.” But he doesn’t sound pleased. “Now maybe you can start to man up.” His words pack a punch. “Look, I’ve got to run,” he says in a rush, his dismissal clear. He’s done with this conversation. He’s done with me.
“Oh, okay. Bye, Pops.”
He doesn’t even say good-bye.
I lean back against the wall of the block building, staring incredulously at the screen of my phone. The urge to smash it on the ground tightens my grip, but I don’t give in. Irritation prickles my skin and a restless, angry feeling swirls in my gut. My mouth salivates, a thirst for something harder than water taking hold. All from one call with my dear old dad. Fuck. I give him too much power. I always have.
I need to get out of here. Leaving my gloves and supplies at the side of the building, I don’t check out or talk to anyone as I stalk away. I hardly even look up as I walk to the corner gas station. Inside, I move through the aisles, not with my usual lazy gait but at an almost manic pace, as if I can’t wait to throw my dad a big fuck you by walking out and guzzling down a forty. It’s not until I’m standing in front of the wall of refrigerated beverages, door open and cool air blasting my face that I hesitate.
Am I really doing this?
Maybe it’ll piss off my dad, but what will Alicia do if she finds out?
If I lose my volunteer job, I won’t see her every day. She won’t stay over at my place tonight.
The ice-cold cans lined up in their rows taunt my resolve. They beg for me to
give in. For a moment of relief. I grit my teeth together, unwilling to either reach for one or walk away.
“Good idea, man,” a voice says from behind. “It’s hot as fuck outside.”
I let the door fall shut and turn to find Hunter standing to my left. “Yeah,” I say, scanning the store to find a ton of teens from the community center wandering the aisles. No Tyler, though. Fuck, I completely left him to feed the kittens alone. I need to get back.
“We’re on break,” Hunter says in response to my scowl, mistaking my displeasure for something else. He opens the door next to mine and pulls out an energy drink.
I point at his hand. “Make sure you pay for that.”
He laughs uncomfortably. “Right. I was going to.”
I shoot him a stare, one that lets him know I’m on to his bullshit. It’s almost comical. Who am I to dole out lessons on morality when before he walked in I was ten seconds from popping a beer and then heading back to work? Honestly, I could hug the little shit, because he gave me the pause I needed to get out of my own head.
I’m not going to be the guy who becomes self-destructive every time I have a run-in with my dad. That’s no way to live. I’m done with that life. I might not have all the tools, but at least I’m on my way.
37
Alicia
“Hey, you’re staying over again, right?” We never discussed it, so when Chase finds me at the end of his shift I’m relieved.
“If you don’t mind.” I steeple my hands together.
“Alicia. Please.” He narrows his gaze, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I wouldn’t offer if I did. But maybe we could stop by the store on the way home?”
“Of course.” I glance at the kittens, the box tucked inconspicuously into the corner of my office. “I can stay in the car, or I can run in if you give me a list.”
“Cool.” He nods, leaning into the doorframe. “I’m thinking of grilling chicken. Veggies too.”
“You don’t have to feed me.” But I really don’t want him to stop.
“Don’t be silly.” He rolls his eyes. “I like feeding you.”
“Then we’ll go halves on groceries.” Seriously, I can’t allow him to give me free room and board, and food. I refuse to take advantage.
“We’ll sort it out later.” He waves me off. I don’t know exactly what his financial situation is, and while it’s possibly better than mine, he’s not getting paid for his work this summer. That’ll put a dent in anyone’s savings.
“I should probably grab another change of clothes. Mind if we make a stop there too? I promise I’ll be quick.” I close the open tabs on my computer and power it down.
“Not a problem.” He steps inside and walks over to pick up the kittens. “Why don’t you pack a few days’ worth of clothes? That is, if you want.”
“Okay,” I say, a little stunned. Not that I should be. It’s practical and easier if I plan for the rest of the week. No use running back and forth. But there’s something in Chase’s offer that causes me to pause. Maybe because of our shared past. Maybe because I feel guilty for not telling Jill or Callie where I’m staying. Hell, I haven’t even told my sponsor. I can write off one night, but this feels a little like moving in, and that’s not something I can hide.
After we run our errands, feed the kittens twice, and devour the meal Chase made, it’s still too early for bed. I should be tired after the day. Exhausted even. But my mind will likely keep me up for hours. This is one of those times the old me would have thrown back a few shots for a little relief. While I don’t have the urge to drink, I do wish I could get my brain to turn off.
“I hate to jinx it, but I think they’re going to sleep better tonight,” Chase says, tucking Paws next to the other kittens in the box. He sets the empty bottle on the counter. The littlest of the litter, Paws, takes the longest to eat but I can tell Chase has a soft spot for him.
“I hope so.” I take the bottle and rinse it out before setting it on the counter to dry. “I wish I could drink a bottle and pass out.”
His brow furrows with concern. “You didn’t sleep well last night?”
There’s no way I’m mentioning my dream, or how restless I’ve felt all day because of it. “I’m always like that the first night in a new place.”
“Cool.” He leans his forearms on the counter. “If it’s the mattress or something, switch to another room. I want you to be comfortable. There’s a cleaning crew that comes by every Friday, so don’t worry about leaving a mess.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think that’s it.” I wipe my hands on a dish towel and hang it to dry. “You should see the room I share with Charlie. This place is like a castle in comparison.”
He chuckles. “What you’re saying is you may never leave?”
“I’ll be the nicest squatter your uncle’s ever seen.”
“No doubt.” He glances out the window and nods. “Have you been down to the beach yet?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“It’s no bottle, but it sure is relaxing. A few minutes of listening to the waves crash and you’ll be ready to pass out for the night.”
“Let me grab a sweatshirt.”
“There’s a bunch in the closet by the front door if you don’t feel like running upstairs.” Chase takes the box of kittens and sticks them in the laundry room, probably because it’s warmer in that room. It’s sort of adorable how considerate he is with them.
“Your uncle thinks of everything.” I find the closet and reach inside to a variety of jackets and sweatshirts. “This really is the best.” I pull a fleece hoodie off the hanger and tug it over my head before heading back into the kitchen.
Chase returns a second later with a blanket tucked under one arm. “How about we bring that bag of candy you bought and head down?”
My jaw falls open. I thought he hadn’t noticed my impulse purchase.
“Yeah, I saw you try and sneak that in.” He chuckles. “Chocolate doesn’t get past this guy.”
“You have a sweet tooth?”
“You have no idea.” He winks and nudges me with his shoulder as he passes by for the back door. “Come on, Alicia. Let’s get candy wasted.”
“Fine.” I open the cabinet and retrieve my hidden stash, pretending to pout. “But you’re buying the next bag.”
Outside, the sun has already set and there’s a light hue over the blue night sky. The breeze sends a shiver down my spine. I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie, and follow him down the wooden steps to the path of decking that trails from the property out onto the beach.
We both slip off our shoes then trod through the sand. Chase shakes out the blanket and lays it out. He sits down and pats the other side. “Come on. Hand over the good stuff.”
A giggle escapes my lips and I rip open the bag, setting it between us. Picking a few, I ceremoniously unwrap one of the small foil packets and pop the delicious candy in my mouth. I try to hold back a moan, but it’s useless. Okay, not completely true. I like the way Chase’s eyes won’t leave my lips. I crave his attention, however wrong that is.
“Now, that’s just mean.” He shakes his head and reaches for a chocolate.
“Sorry not sorry,” I say before unwrapping another one. I lean back onto my elbows, my gaze turning to the shoreline. Deep cleansing breaths fill my lungs. A gentle breeze lifts the tendrils of my hair so they dance around my face. The steady crash and roll of the waves slows my pulse. I settle into this moment, a sense of awe-inspiring greatness mending my soul as it hits me how lucky we are to be here. In the world. On this beach. Alive. Sober. “This is amazing,” I whisper, needing to share my appreciation with Chase.
“My favorite place in all of Kitty Hawk.” He clears his throat, as if it’s thick with emotion. There’s tension in his shoulders, a tightness to his features, and I wish I could take it away. He turns his gaze, catching me staring. “Can I ask you something?”
I nod, picking out another chocolate.
He leans for
ward, drawing lazy shapes in the sand with his finger. “Have you ever tried therapy?”
I tilt my chin, considering his question. “Like aroma, or self-help?”
He rolls his eyes but there’s a playful grin on his lips. “The latter.”
“Chase, I spent the better part of a year in weekly counseling. I still go.” I shake my head, needing to amend that. “Or I did before I moved here.”
“Oh.” His gaze drifts to the rolling waves of the ocean. “And it helps?”
“I wouldn’t be here without it.”
He regards me, his stare full of skepticism. “Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic.”
“Maybe. But talking with someone and working through the layers of bullshit in my mind—the false narratives and truths, questioning and unlearning toxic behaviors, and identifying triggers—I can’t imagine doing all that on my own. Can you?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs, leaning back onto the blanket. “Maybe my dad’s right. Maybe I just need to man up.”
“Ugh.” I shake my head and pretend to gag. “What does that even mean?”
“I’m a firefighter. Or at least I was.” He can’t even meet my gaze. “I’m not supposed to be the one in need of help.” He’s fighting a battle, one most people can’t see, and it’s an isolating journey. Recovery can be that way, but it doesn’t have to be.
“Being a hero doesn’t make you invincible. You run toward a burning building when everyone else flees. That’s kinda fucked up when you think about it. Don’t tell me that doesn’t mess with a person’s head.”
Chase chuckles wryly. “Fair enough.”
“It’s okay to ask for help,” I say, willing him to lift his gaze to mine.
His lips press together. The tide rolls and waves crash. It’s only seconds, but it feels like minutes before he finally meets my stare. “But I didn’t ask.”
“Didn’t you, though?” I expect him to look away, embarrassed or unable to face this truth down, but he doesn’t so I push a little harder. “Someone doesn’t get behind the wheel of a vehicle with the blood alcohol count you had that night unless there’s a problem.”
