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Shit.
“Welcome,. My name’s Michael and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hello, Michael.”
The chorus of voices echoes through the room, but I don’t say a word, sitting in silence and staring down at my lap as he continues.
“I’ve been sober now for over twenty years,” he says before going into the usual spiel. I’ve been through so many of these meetings and they always start the same way—a rambling introduction before the floor is opened up to sharing. Nobody seems to be feeling chatty so he suggests, “Why don’t we talk about forgiveness?”
I laugh under my breath. I can feel his gaze.
They talk. I listen.
The meeting lasts ninety minutes.
It feels longer than those ninety days I spent in rehab.
After it’s over, I linger in my seat, letting everyone else filter out of the basement. Michael strolls toward the exit, his footsteps stalling beside my chair. He stares at me for a moment, his expression hard, before he walks away without saying anything.
He’s gone when I make it out of the church. They’re all gone, the parking lot empty. I’m alone.
Pulling out my phone to call Jack, to let him know I made it to that goddamn meeting like he asked, I notice I have a voicemail. Kennedy. She called an hour ago.
I press the button to listen to it as I head through the parking lot, my footsteps faltering when the voice clicks on. No, not Kennedy. Madison.
“Mommy said I could call you ‘cuz when I woke up you were gone. She said you ate spaghettis, but then you had to go. And I’m gonna eat some now ‘cuz it’s my favorite other than cheese pizza with just cheese. Maybe we can have some tomorrow when I’m not at school! We can play again if my mommy says it’s okay, but you should ask and not me, ‘cuz it’s a school night but she might say yes if you ask.”
Kennedy laughs in the background, saying, “I can hear you.”
“Uh-oh,” Madison whispers. “I gotta go now.”
Smiling to myself after she hangs up, I open my texts and send one to Kennedy. Sorry I missed it, but thanks for letting her call.
Her response comes right away. Of course.
I consider it a moment before typing: Any chance we can do it again tomorrow? I’ll supply the pizza if you'll supply the kid.
As soon as I hit send, I type another. Completely my idea, of course.
There isn’t a response—not right away, at least. I slip my phone in my pocket and make the trek to the inn, the neighborhood quiet.
Reaching the place, I step up on the porch as my phone vibrates with a message. I look at it, my stomach dropping.
I don’t think so.
Before I can put the phone away, I see she’s typing again. It goes on and on and on as I stand here, waiting, trying to not get my hopes up.
It feels like a fucking century before the message comes through.
I’m going to be busy at work, but Tuesday is better. Is that okay with you?
Sounds good.
I slip my phone away as the front door of the inn yanks open, McKleski appearing in the doorway. “You planning on coming in or are you going to spend the night out here?”
There’s a bite to her words, but it doesn’t get under my skin. I step past her. “Not sure which would be more comfortable.”
“Porch, probably. I might even toss you a pillow.”
“They always did say you were hospitable.”
“And they always said you were a bit of a rascal.”
“A rascal,” I mumble.
“Indeed,” she says, “but if you ask me, I’d say that’s putting it mildly.”
“Well, good thing we’re not asking you, huh?”
She laughs at that, patting me on the back. “Certainly is, because if we were asking me, there’s quite a bit I’d have to say.”
“Like?”
I regret it the moment I ask that. This woman wouldn’t hesitate to drag me to hell and back with venom of her words.
“Oh, no, I’m not playing that game.”
“What game?”
“The one where I give you more reason to mope around here with that ‘poor me’ attitude.”
“I’m not moping.”
“He says in a mopey voice.”
I laugh as she mocks me. “I’ll have you know I’ve actually had a good day.”
“Well, good for you,” she says. “If you’re hungry, there’s food in the kitchen, but I’m going to bed, so keep all the ruckus down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Monday came and went.
I almost spent the entire day in bed, but McKleski wasn’t having that shit. I woke up to pounding on the bedroom door sometime in the afternoon, a list of chores tossed at me.
Things to do.
“Since you’re staying here,” she said, “you might as well do something.”
I did it all—or at least, what I could. Cleaning, hanging pictures, fixing a creaky door. It wasn’t easy with my wrist fucked up, and I’m not used to manual labor, but I made it work, keeping busy, waiting for Tuesday.
