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Running alongside Merrick, I’m conscious of everything; where we are, if I’m keeping a good enough pace for him, the pain in my right knee that I can’t seem to shake off. I’m far too cognizant of the task itself and of each breath I take.
When we reach the park that flanks a popular beach, we stop for water; jogging in place while we take a breather. Merrick smiles at me and wipes at the sweat on his face with his forearm. “Ready to head back?”
Grasping the bottom of my tee, I pull it up and use it to wipe my face before answering. “Sure. Sounds good.”
Merrick nods, looking away quickly, his nervousness reappearing once again. Seems strange to me that the guy would be nervous at all, since he’s always come off as someone who is not lacking in confidence. But what do I know. “Lead the way.”
This time, he’s a step behind me and our pace is less hurried than it was when we started out. The fog has completely lifted, the bright sun beating down as I retrace our steps back home. For the first time in a long time I feel good, energized in a way I can only assume has to do with the fact that I barely drank anything last night. I’m well aware that I use alcohol to cope. Sort of the way I use running to atone for my drinking. This skewed justification has worked well for me for a very long time. But not only is the alcohol starting to affect my job, it’s tearing my body to shreds.
That all sounds like every reason why I should stop drinking altogether. But the idea of laying my head down at night and willing myself to fall asleep, sounds like torture. Sleep comes only after I’ve numbed myself to the memories and the pain. I’m almost afraid to face a night without alcohol now. Or the sleeping pills. I can only guess at the horrors that a sleepless night would reveal.
By the time we reach home, I’m weary, but my body feels amazing. The high that comes with physical exertion like this has me feeling freer than I have felt in years….decades maybe. My blood is humming through my veins as I walk to cool down, the loud thump-thump of my heart steadily slowing while I pace the sidewalk. Merrick keeps a similar cadence, walking in wide circles around his driveway, occasionally wiping his brow with his forearm.
“Feel okay?”
Nodding, I reply, “Yeah, I’m good. You?”
He grins at me. “I’m good too.” He drags his fingers through his wet hair and raises one brow. “Wanna come in for something to drink…water, or perhaps a beer?”
I glance at my watch and snicker. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”
He chuckles and beckons me to follow him to the house. “Absolutely.” He leads me directly into the kitchen, where I plop down on a barstool, same as I did the other time I was here. He pops off the tops on our beers and hands me mine, along with a chilled water bottle, leaning on the counter opposite me as he takes a long pull of the ale.
His eyes roll over my face as he asks, “What do you have planned for the rest of the day?”
I shrug and pick at the label on the bottle with my thumbnail. “Probably laundry.”
“Exciting.”
I scoff. “Not so much.” I glance around the spotless kitchen, noting how uncluttered the countertop is, which is such a contradiction from the chaos that is mine. Or rather, was mine. The only “kitchen” I have now is more like something you’d see in an RV: tiny, with only the bare essentials.
This space appears to have been recently remodeled, with stainless steel appliances and granite counters that hold only a coffee maker and a blender. Merrick is a no-nonsense guy; neat and tidy, perfectly pressed at all times. Such a contrast from my messy, bare-bones apartment and my faded, wrinkled clothes.
He strolls over to the fridge, pulls the door open, and speaks to me with his head stuck inside. “I’ve got stuff to make omelets, or sandwiches. There’s some leftover Chinese, though I can’t recall when I ordered it. On second thought, scratch the Chinese.” He’s grinning as head pops up over the door, eyebrows raised in question. “Pick your poison.”
“You don’t have to feed me. I need to get home anyway.”
He comes out from the behind the refrigerator door with his hands full of vegetables. “Why, is your laundry getting impatient?” Setting the items down on the counter, he turns back to the fridge. “Stay and eat with me. The chores will still be there when you get home.”
The ease with which I find myself agreeing should unnerve me. I’m not this guy…the guy who goes for a run with a buddy, then hangs out shooting the breeze and sharing beers. But something about today has me looking at my so-called life through a different set of eyes. Eyes that are tired of just existing. Surviving. I see how for the first time in almost six years, I want—no, I need—to do something other than drink myself into oblivion and drown in my pain. And if this is the first step out of that endless black hole that I’ve been living in for so long, I think I’ll take it.
