Chapter Five
Ian
I waited until I saw Sam pull away in her little compact car, and as soon as she disappeared down the road, I promptly pulled my phone out and dialed George while walking to my own vehicle. He was on shift at the veterinary hospital where he worked, but I hoped I could catch him between patients. And fortunately, I did.
My heart thumped with excitement as I bypassed the greeting, instead blowing straight into, “What did you think?”
“About Angelo’s?” he said, deadpan. “Still good. Always thought their patty melts were a little greasy, though.”
“No, you jackass.” I pulled open the door of my Subaru and slipped into the front seat. “Sam. My lunch date.”
He was silent for a second, as though he was carefully considering his words.
“You know, it’s interesting,” he finally remarked. “I know you haven’t been, like, a chaste little schoolboy or anything like that since you got sober, but I haven’t actually seen you out with anyone. You never talk about anyone, either. It’s always the shop, your art, your house—when we’ve asked you about relationships, you’ve just blown us off and said it wasn’t the right time.”
I thought for a second. “You’re right.”
And he was. My drinking years were marked by an endless series of unmemorable—and often unremembered because I was blacked out—one-night stands, and a couple of toxic relationships that centered around alcohol and yelling at each other more than anything else. When I got sober, I deleted all of those numbers out of my phone—the ex-girlfriends who never quite went away, the reliable drunken booty calls, all of them—and settled into something a little quieter. Sure, I went on dates. I had sex. But it was all more normal now, without the urgency and poison that saturated my life when alcohol was behind the wheel.
“But c’mon man—knitting class?” George continued. “When did that become a thing?”
I blew out a long breath and settled back into my seat. “It’s the Itch. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I do. I still can’t stand crepes. You ruined me for life.” He paused for a second. “Are you going to tell her?”
Wasn’t that the million-dollar question. Some women ran screaming in the opposite direction when I told them right off the bat that I was a recovering alcoholic. Other women didn’t like it when I mentioned it later on. There was just never a good time to tell a potential partner that, hey, you know that wine bar you wanted to go to? Well, I’ll have ginger ale.
My addiction and my recovery weren’t secrets. I was proud of how far I’d come. But they were still private and personal, and I didn’t always feel like flashing my scarlet A-for-Alcoholism as soon as I met someone. Which was hard, considering the degree to which most social situations—including and maybe even especially dating—usually involved alcohol.
So, yeah. To say dating was complicated? Understatement.
“I have to tell her,” I finally said to George. “And soon. I really like her. A lot.”
“That’s the other thing.” George’s voice was gentle. Concerned. “If this is the first woman you’ve really liked since you’ve gotten sober, is that a big deal? Is there any…you know, unhealthy stuff in there?” He paused. “I don’t want to sound shitty about it or anything—I genuinely don’t know the answer to that. I just know that your alcoholism and your need to just dive into stuff were connected pretty closely, and I wonder if you’re jumping headfirst into something with this Sam lady the same way you jumped into crepes or learning how to do Led Zeppelin riffs—”
“Which were awesome, by the way,” I interjected. “I looked so cool with a guitar.”
“You absolutely did,” he agreed with a chuckle, then grew serious once more. “Just…be careful, okay? I’m not saying don’t do it. I’m saying keep both eyes open and stay focused on your recovery. Because sober Ian is my favorite Ian, and I support whatever choice keeps you on the straight and narrow.”
After I ended the conversation with George, I sat in the front seat of my car for a long minute, thinking hard. He had a point. A really good point, but he would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the expert on addiction or sobriety.
I needed to call in the big guns.
“What?” Edith barked after answering before the first ring even ended. “What is it?”
“How’s my favorite girl?” I drawled. Edith wasn’t one for pleasantries, but sometimes she liked being buttered up a little bit before I asked her for something.
She snorted. “You and I both know that you’re a world-class mama’s boy, so if you want to know how your favorite girl is doing, you better call your mother and ask, dipshit. Now what’s up?”
“I met a woman,” I said carefully. “And I could use a little advice.”
She was silent for a moment. A long moment. Finally, she whooshed out a gusty sigh.
“How about I come visit you at the shop?” she asked.
By the time I pulled into my parking spot at the shop, Edith and her boat-sized Buick already waited in the lot. Jesus, she’s really taking this seriously, I thought. It’s just dating.
“After you,” I said as I unlocked the door and motioned her inside. “Just head straight back into my office.”