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“No, alcoholics try to avoid swapping one addiction for another.” She pauses for a second, peeking out at me again. “I don’t like the idea of being dependent on something again.”
For a minute, it’s quiet, as I’m at a loss for what to say. It’s not something I’d ever considered, that slippery slope from one substance, one addiction, to another. But she had an absolutely fair point.
“You can ask me about it, you know,” she says softly, and I look back to see she has both eyes open. She tilts her body to the side, curling her long legs up closer to her chest and leaning the side of her head - the non-injured side - against the wall to face me. “About the drinking. I know Alex told you.” I nod, taking another sip of water to give myself time to think.
“I didn’t know when I sent you the champagne.”
“I know.” She gave me a wide smile that made me relax a little bit. “You had no reason to. Most of us don’t go walking around with a pin that says ‘I’m Sober!’” She glances around the room. “Though, I’m pretty sure I have one here, somewhere.” My shoulders shake with a small laugh as I sit up, pushing myself closer to the opposite end of the bed and crossing my legs to give us both room. My bed at home is a King, but this definitely is not. She turns her head to face me, using the remote to pause the movie still rolling on the TV behind me.
“Did it start after your…” I trail off, unsure of how to finish my sentence.
“After my husband died?” I nod, and she does too. “Yeah. I mean, I never really even touched alcohol when we were younger. Alex was the wild one, I just-” She pauses, seeming to catch herself in whatever she was about to say. “I didn’t drink, and then suddenly I did. And it was easier to numb the pain than to actually face it.”
I lean back on one hand, using the other to give Bex a couple of scratches down her back. She looks up from the toy she’s chewing on, just long enough to give a satisfied “humph,” before going back to it.
“It seems like you’ve faced it since then.” I try to make it a statement, but it comes out as a question, and she smiles.
“I’m trying. Trying to figure out who I am after everything.” She gestures around her room. “You should have seen what my house looked like when Mickey and I were together. This is me. This is my safe space, my sanctuary. That was what I told myself I should be…” She shudders. “The best thing I could have done for myself was walk into my first A.A. meeting. The second was moving out of that place and here with Carla.”
“Is she sober too?” I ask, because I’m genuinely curious. She nods.
“Almost five years. She’s been through some shit too.” Piper pauses, and then stretches out one of her legs, nudging Bex with one of her sock-covered feet. Bex doesn’t even look up, and Piper purses her lips. “I guess we all have. Even this one.” She smiles down at her dog, and for a second, I swear tears welled in the bottom of her eyes, and then they were gone in an instant.
“I’m sorry for my part in that.” I look down at Bex, avoiding Piper’s eyes as she takes in my words. This conversation was turning deep, and when things turn deep, I curl into myself. I reinforce that shield with ice and pikes and don’t want anyone to make eye contact with me because I risk showing what I’m feeling. I’m not sure how she handles tough conversations.
“I don’t blame you.” Her voice is quiet, and I give a small nod, still not looking at her. “Hey.” I see her move out of the corner of my eye, and she’s sitting up, crossing her legs in front of her and leaning toward me. “Look at me.”
I feel my heart pound in my chest as I finally do what she asks, and her eyes are steel. Cold, blue steel as she wills me to listen to whatever she has to say.
And I’ll do it. For that look of determination, the strength, I’d do just about anything, I realize.
“I don’t blame you,” she repeats, tossing her hair over her back and raking her hands over her face before continuing. “And I want you to look at my face when I say this, because I want you to know that I mean it.”
I’m sure my mouth hangs open a bit at her words - like she’d read my fucking mind, and wanted the exact opposite of what I was thinking. Of what I would have wanted in the situation.
“You are not my trauma - you’re not to blame for it, you’re not the cause of it.” She gives a small smile. “Was whatever Andy and I were back then traumatic in the end?Fuck yeah. And did it lead to me throwing myself into something more traumatic with another down-home country boy baseball player with a tendency to cheat on fabulous women? Probably.” I chuckle as she gestures up and down to herself. “I mean, who does that? I’m amazing.”
I want to agree with her, but I don’t interrupt.
“I had resentments toward you, yeah. Probably still do. But I’m noodling those out, I’m going to meetings, I’m working with my sponsor.” I tilt my head, trying to make sense of that last sentence. “But this brooding, can’t tell whether you’re constipated or happy thing has gotta stop.”
A shocked sound comes out of the back of my throat, but I try to hold in the laugh that bubbles up.
“That!” she exclaims, hands both pointing at me like I’m the letters on a Wheel of Fortune board, surprising both me and Bex, who looks back at her with wide eyes. “That’s what I’m talking about!” She pulls herself up on her knees and wades over the sheets toward me, settling back down on her heels right next to my legs. “That was funny, and you wanted to laugh, but that stick is shoved so far up your ass you’re not sure whether you’re smiling or grimacing.”
A bark of laughter falls out of me, and her grin widens.
“I donotgrimace,” I correct, one hand on my chest, offended.
“That,” she repeats, ignoring my interruption and pointing to my face. “That’s what I want. That’s what I need from you, if you’re really sorry.” She puts a hand on my knee, and I’m frozen momentarily, watching her as her thumb strokes a lazy circle over my bare skin. “You’ve gotta stop treating me like you did all those years ago, with that mask. I don’t think you’re the same person - you wouldn’t be here if you were.” She gestures to me, in her bed, sitting next to her dog, having just shown up unannounced with food and telling her forcefully to go to bed in a non-sexual way.
Piper gives my knee a squeeze. “I’m not the same person, either, but I’m also not the person I was between then and now. Not always, at least.” In that second, her confidence falters, and then she says, almost as if to herself, “I’m not fragile.”
Before I register what I’m doing, I push myself up on the bed, sitting up on my knees and reaching my hand out to grasp the back of her neck, my fingers lacing through her curls. Trying to be gentle with her already aching head, I guide her to sit back up on her knees with my other hand on her lower back, head tilting so she’s looking me in the eyes.
There’s panic in them, but also, as they search my face, something else. That same thing from the kitchen.
“You arenotfragile.” Her eyes dart away, and I pull her hair, just slightly, so she’s looking at me again. She bites her lip, eyes wide, and I have to steel myself before I continue, praying that she doesn’t feel my immediate reaction against her stomach.
