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The sad thing is, I no longer miss her at all. There’s a numb spot in my heart and mind that she occupies, and if I never see her again, I’d be perfectly happy.
I stuff my phone in my jeans pocket, walk over to the window, and glance across Park Avenue. There’s a liquor store across the street from my building, and I could really go for a beer right now. After all, it’s not beer that has ever gotten me in trouble in the past. It’s bourbon. Warm, smoky bourbon sliding down my throat, relaxing me, making me feel invincible ...
No. Nope. Not today.
My thoughts are going down the wrong path. I slide my hands into my pocket and finger my sober chip.
Then I pull out my phone and call my sober coach, Andrew. We aren’t scheduled to talk for another couple of days, but Andrew answers after two rings, sounding cheerful. “Hey, Mason. How’s it going?”
I grimace. I don’t actually want to talk about my mother, so I deflect, as usual. “Excellent, thanks. Except for that nightmare of a woman who keeps torturing me in the name of ‘improving my image.’ Please imagine me doing air quotes as I say that.”
“Yeah, you mentioned her before. Nightmare?” Andrew says. “Tell me more.”
An image of Rowan swims in front of my face, with her tight dancer’s body and her shining hair flowing over her shoulders, and the way she chews her pens when she thinks I’m not looking. “Well, she’d be nice if she wasn’t dedicated to publicly humiliating me, and she’d be hot if she stopped lecturing me like a schoolmarm.”
“What I’m hearing is ‘nice’ and ‘hot.’”
I glare at the phone. “Do not even go there. This woman made me wear a clown costume, and then a Scrooge McDuck costume.”
“Didn’t you tell me that you played ‘Macarena’ twenty-seven times in an attempt to make her homicidal?”
My glare fades into a smug, self-satisfied grin. Make me dress up like a clown, huh? “Yes. It was classic.”
“So you’re basically pulling her pigtails like a boy in first grade. Have you dipped them in an inkwell yet?”
I snort in contempt. “The 1920s sent a message by carrier pigeon. They want their cliché back.”
“Yeah, yeah. So, other than wanting me to know how incredibly hot you don’t think she is, why are you calling me?”
I imagine the warm sting of bourbon burning my throat, the tension fading from my body, the fuzzing of thought.
“No reason.”
“It’s not no reason. Listen, I used to be an addict. I’ve come up with every excuse and lie in the book. So don’t bullshit a bullshitter. What’s up?”
I sigh. And then I start talking, even though I hate dredging up the ugliness that clouds my thoughts whenever my mother calls.
I tell him about how she’s appeared out of nowhere, how she’s bombarding me with texts, and how I just want one beer so I can relax, just one, and how I’ve never had a problem with beer.
“Well, you know what I’m going to say to that. Unfortunately, you have proven to be a person who cannot have just one of any kind of alcohol. It’s just not an option for you. And you don’t have to do this today. Take it day by day, remember?”
“You’re right. Pains me to say it.”
“Mason.” Andrew’s voice is warm with sympathy. “You’re one of the strongest guys I know. You are stronger than your mother. You are stronger than alcohol. We’ve talked about avoiding stressors whenever possible. Why don’t you just block her number?”
“Why indeed.” I grimace. “I guess there’s this tiny little grain of guilt left in me, like I should be taking care of her. But you know what? You’re right. This is messing with my head. I haven’t even craved a drink in weeks, and now here we are. As soon as we hang up, I’ll block her number.”
“Why don’t you go for a run after you do that? That always seems to clear your head. Do you want me to come with?”
“Nah, I’m better off alone.” The words echo in my head and heart as I say them. They’re painfully true. Always have been, always will be. Lexi didn’t appreciate it, but breaking up with her was the biggest favor I could do for her.
“All right, then. Call me when you get back.”
I hang up and change into jogging gear.
I cast a quick glance around my house. I can’t stand to be here right now. I can’t stand to be anywhere, really, so I’ll run until my muscles burn, run from my problems, run until I’m gasping for breath.
I head over to Central Park, which is only a couple of blocks away. I’m just about to start my run when I hear a familiar voice and a trill of laughter that somehow lightens my mood a little. Looking around, I spot Rowan standing by an ice cream cart, next to a girl who looks like a slightly younger version of her. Late teens, maybe.
