He visibly flinches, but any sign of discomfort, stress, or any emotion whatsoever is washed away in that flip of a movement. “Because we care about you and want to see you do good. You’re on the right track, Gracie.”
I can only stare at him. “I really hurt you guys, both of you.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “It can be forgiven.”
I’m silent for a moment, and with my next words, I pretend my father isn’t standing right next to me. “I’ve been with both of you. You know, sexually. Isn’t that going to be a –"
“Problem?” Devon shakes his head, his jaw ticking as he stares at me, eyes shrouded in deep thought. “We’re both over that high school shit. While we both have loved you, we’ve moved. We can’t fight over that shit for the rest of our lives when neither of us will ever be with you again.”
That hurts. It’s a punch to my gut, and I suck in a sharp breath but hold my head high. I deserve it and I know that. They were the best things to ever happen to me, and I fucked it up. I lost them because I chose drugs and booze over them. I know that and understand it well now. I deserve whatever is thrown at me. I’m just lucky they decided they’d at least help now.
“You start therapy with Robert next Tuesday. So, he can get you situated with a good therapist in his office,” my father says, trying to twist the subject at hand into something else. Listening to his daughter’s sex life can’t be comfortable. “I expect you to be there, Gracie. I will be checking in with him. You know that’s a stipulation to getting out of rehab.”
I nod and eye Devon before dropping my gaze. “I need a ride. I don’t…” That truth, I can’t say.”
“Her license was revoked. I’ll pay for the gas—”
“You don’t have to pay for gas. I’m happy to take her.”
I look up at the girl on the couch. She’s staring at Devon lovingly. The way I feel inside. Proud of him for having such a caring heart. Instead of jealousy swirling inside of me, I feel a gentle calm wash through me. At least I know he has someone to care for him, someone who won’t just skip off for drugs or booze. This chick looks like the most she’s ever done is sip a glass of wine while watching a Netflix show at night, and that’s about it. They deserve better than me, and I know it. I have to accept that.
Chapter1
Gracie
The nudge against me reluctantly lifts my hand into the air. I’m not exactly keen on sharing, but I know it’s vital to the process. I’ve already done the last three meetings without uttering a single word. It didn’t help that my sponsor hadn’t been able to attend them, therefore making it way too easy for me to hide. She’s back, though, urging me to stand in front of the room and spill my guts.
What fucking bullshit.
The meetings help, sure, but it was a drag to put my heart on my sleeve in front of a room full of almost strangers. I’m only glad that neither Owen nor Devon has any substance dependencies that would make them part of this whole ordeal. Sometimes they join as support, and when they do, I make sure I only share the tip of what is on my mind. They don’t need to know everything. Do they?
Pulling myself to my feet at the acknowledgment of being noticed, I take one more longing look at Trish, who gives me an encouraging smile and urges me forward. I push myself to the front of the room to stand behind the podium and face the judgmental asshats that make up an AA sobriety meeting. There's a lot of judgment for a bunch of people who sit in uncomfortable wooden chairs, listen to other people’s problems, eat flaky stale donuts, and drink scorched coffee. There’s more judgment in one of these meetings than a pack of PTA moms at a bake sale.
“Hello, I’m Gracie.” I clear my throat. “And I’m a drug addict.”
“Hello, Gracie,” they greet in unison, a few chairs squeaking as people move restlessly in them.
I fight the urge to cringe, gripping the edges podium tightly in my effort. Something about how my name is said in the robotic way of greeting always rubbed me the wrong way. Complaining about it vocally, however, would do me no good. I know better. I would only get scathing looks and eye rolls.
“Today,” my voice cracks. Words scrape against my throat as I drop my eyes to the podium before reaching down to the pocket of my hoodie and tugging out the bronze coin, flipping it between my fingers and lifting it up into view so the group could see it.
“Nine months today.” I pause while clapping ensues. “It’s my first nine months sober. I’ve never gotten this far before. Last time, it was three months, the first time a few weeks. Not even two months.” I graze my thumb over the considerable number nine imprinted on it, focusing on the triangle.
I stand for a moment, listening to the breathing of those waiting for me to speak again. Somebody coughs. Whether it’s a dry cough or one trying to make me feel the pressure to continue on, I decide to just ignore it.
“Nine months. I started drugs when I was thirteen. I thought I was being cool; you know, be part of the in-crowd and all. They were okay. Those guys didn’t have a desire to just keep going. They didn’t have the aching desire to keep doing drugs like their lives depended on it. I don’t really remember those years—just bits and pieces. I know I screwed over people I love. I even hurt my mom really badly at one point.” I shake my head, and with my free hand, I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment. “I don’t know where I’m going with any of this. It feels weird to be sober, but in a safe way. My family actually wants me around, and I don’t have my sisters or even my mom trying to hide valuables or their purses to make sure I won’t steal from them.” I open my eyes and lift my head to look at their somber faces, each watching me curiously. “That’s what I hated the most, you know. The fact that they couldn’t even trust me. I wasn’t even allowed around my nieces or nephews alone.” I swallow hard. “I borrowed about two thousand from my niece almost a year-and-a-half ago and kind of screwed her over in the process. That was for her college, and I messed it up for her. I wasn’t thinking straight, I just cared about getting my goods, and that was it.”
I stop, feeling the anxiety of my words trickle through me, icy cold and urging me to stop talking. Jabbering on and on isn’t like me. But that’s the point of this. I need to talk. I have to get it out, or I’ll just drown in my feelings and thoughts, and the results will be disastrous. I don’t want to return to the life I had once before led.
“I left a toxic relationship,” I spit out, my voice shaking in this dangerous territory.
Not even my sister, who’s my sponsor, knows this part. Secrets can’t be kept any longer.
“About eleven months ago, I left a guy I thought I really did like, and I thought he liked me. We both were into drugs and alcohol, so I didn’t really care how he treated me. If I was drunk or high, he could do whatever. Then one day, I threw up. I didn’t feel good, and after a few days, I still didn’t feel good, so I went to the doctor. I was still drinking and doing drugs and not caring.” My voice cracks and hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. “I was pregnant and –” I draw in a slow breath, my words quivering as I continue. “I told him. I begged him to get sober with me for the baby. So – So, he hit me and kept hitting me. He’d done that before so many times. Always said he was sorry, gave me flowers or gifts, whatever I wanted, to apologize. Then he did it again. But that time, he kept going. Until I could barely breathe, and I couldn’t move.” My fingers twitch on the podium as I let out a wretch sob. “I lost the baby.”
There’s dead silence this time.
It’s always the worst stories that keep everybody sober—a sordid reminder of why we each chose to walk away from the things that blocked reality but took our lives away.