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I shake my head, refusing to believe that. “That’s not true. I would’ve never drank that much and you didn’t have to call the medics. I would’ve woken up. I was just depressed.”
“There were empty beer and vodka bottles in all of your drawers. I started to count them as we threw them away, but I stopped at fifty...” He’s on the verge of tears. “We’ve been lenient and hands-off because we love you and don’t want you to leave us like Leah did, but... You have a problem, Emerald. You have to stop denying it.”
He averts his gaze from me and looks out the window. I notice him wincing and wonder if he’s waiting for me to storm out of his office in anger, but I don’t.
I look out the window too, trying my hardest to remember those blacked out months, but I can’t. I want to tell him that there’s no way I can be an alcoholic because I don’t need alcohol to function. I can live without it.
Furthermore, I don’t always drink when I’m sad or angry. My first thought when I’m pissed isn’t to grab a drink and sleep the day away, and I don’t depend on liquor to help me cope with my feelings. There have been days when I haven’t had any alcohol (the past few weeks to be exact) and I haven’t woken up craving it, wanting, needing it.
I’ve served it to men at The Phoenix without yearning for a sip, without wishing I could slip into the bathroom and sneak just one gulp. Even yesterday, when the other girls finally started talking to me and ended my silent treatment with a toast (they gave me a bottle of water), I didn’t want any of the top shelf champagne that was in their glasses; I was completely happy with my water.
That last lie hits me like a wrecking ball.
I am an alcoholic...
In complete shock, I sit silently for several seconds—playing back the parts of the last few months that I do remember.
Rejection letters. Shots. Rejection emails. Shots.
Rainy morning. Half a cup of vodka. Sunny morning. Half a cup of gin.
My heart hurts like hell. “Why didn’t you say something to me about the drinking before, Henry?”
“You’d started working and you were a little more upbeat.” He turns around, looking surprised that I’m still here. “At least you were until you got into that accident. I just couldn’t say anything because I really didn’t want you to...” His voice trails off and I can tell he still harbors guilt for letting Leah run away. “Promise me you’ll keep going to rehab and no matter what any of those people say, you won’t storm out again?”
I nod slowly. “I promise.”
“And you’ll try and come to church with us sometime?”
I give him a blank stare and he laughs.
“I thought so.” He laughs even harder and walks around his desk, hugging me as if he doesn’t want to let me go. “Are you sure you want to keep working at that diner all the way out there? Is the pay really worth all those bus rides?”
“Absolutely.”
––––––––
Henry pulls into our driveway hours later and tells me he’ll be at the church shut-in for the night.
“I love you, Emerald,” he calls out to me before putting his car in reverse.
Numb, I think about the past two hours that I spent in his office, the hours when he hugged me and didn’t let me go, when I didn’t want him to let me go.
It’s five thirty, and as much as I want to see Carter, I send him a text: “I don’t feel like going out today... Can I have a rain check? Let me know if you’re still willing to take me to work tomorrow...”
There’s a sudden knock at my door and I roll my eyes. If it’s Carter I’m going to threaten to call the cops—after I stare at him for a while.
Annoyed, I open it and see my probation officer. He’s six foot five, at least three hundred pounds, and his low buzz cut and usual USMC shirt boast the fact that he’s a former Marine.
“How are you today, Future Convict?” he asks.
“Does the judge know you call me that?”
“Of course she does.” He pushes his way past me. “Who do you think named you?”
“Beautiful.”
He walks towards the bathroom and pushes the door open, holding out an empty cup. “Let’s get this over with shall we?”
I sigh and take the cup, allowing him to pat underneath my arms and between my thighs before letting me step inside.
“Don’t flush. Don’t turn on the tub or the sink, and if you take more than sixty seconds—”
“It’s an automatic negative test.” I roll my eyes. “I’m aware. Although, aren’t those rules pretty pointless since you keep the door open? Wouldn’t you hear me flush or turn the water on?”
