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For a long time, my higher power was just affectionately known as my H.P. Alex laughed the first time I told her, calling it myDaniel Radcliffein jest. But that H.P. slowly transitioned into a general belief in a force, unnamed for me, controlling the universe. And that had -has- worked for me. Even in the unknown, I find comfort in the idea that there is a guiding hand at work. I’ve seen too many strange things happen to simply believe in coincidence anymore, especially after the last several weeks.
So, as Greg works through the introductory part of the meeting, has Diane read How it Works, a quick overview of the program meant to summarize the meaning of the twelve steps and the work we do inside and outside of this room, I find myself zoning out a bit. Lulled by the comfort I find in this space, I let my brain wander.
Last night felt like a hazy memory of a TV show I’d watched a long time ago. The details were there, but they felt clouded by too-good-to-be-true feelings.
I made out with Fitz.
Fitz Westfall.
In my bed.
After hebrought me dinner.
And then he tucked me into said bed, cleaned my living room, made me take my meds and then walked my dog before he left.
Too good to be true feels like an understatement.
And given my time in this exact room, I try my damnedest not to think the next thoughts that flash through my head. But they do, anyway.
When does the shoe drop? Something this insanely positive in my life, where is the overwhelming negative that typically accompanies it?
As I slide into a booth across from Lisa at our go-to diner after the meeting, and Rose, who’s a member of the same group as us, wastes no time in bringing over two cups of coffee with all the fixings. I make my usual - three creams, one sugar - as Lisa scowls at it.
“You would think after three years you’d be used to my milk-coffee.” I take a long sip, sighing.
“You would think after three years you’d text me when big shit is happening.” I look at her over my cup, raising my eyebrows, and she stares right back. “Don’t give me that look, you know what I’m talking about.”
Carla isso dead.
“He stayed over last night,” I said finally, setting my cup down on the worn black table and crossing my legs on the torn booth. I had managed to change out of my outfit from the night before, and am wearing an appropriate (for me) pair of stretchy black pants that let me fold up easily underneath myself. Lisa at least has the gall to wait a few seconds before smirking at me.
“And how was that?” She sips at her coffee, black, and looks at me over her white glasses, a stark contrast to her deep skin and beautiful brown eyes.
“Surprisingly wholesome.” Lisa gives me an appraising look. “My stomach started acting up.” Her eyes flit down to the coffee in front of me. I know what she’s thinking - that it’ll irritate my stomach further. She’s not wrong. “This is about fifteen percent coffee. Let me enjoy the little things while you press me about my non-existent sex life.” She holds up her hands defensively
“I wasn’t going to say anything.” I fix her with my stare. “Ok, I was, but mostly just say you seem…happy?” The last part is a question, but before I can question, her phone rings on the table. She flips it over, looks at it, and then says “Shit, be right back, Bridezilla calling.”
I roll my eyes as she jumps out of the booth, answering the phone with her best customer service voice and stepping outside the glass double doors.
Lisa Kate, everyone, florist extraordinaire.
I realize for the first time that I never looked to see if Fitz responded this morning, and dig in my purse. His response was a .gif of woodland creatures cleaning in Enchanted.
PIPER DELMONICO
Clearly underrated Disney movie.
Immediately, three dots appear.
Jesus, was he waiting for me to text back?
FITZ WESTFALL
Absolutely. Prince McSteamy is the internal monologue I have every time I watch a romance movie.
Oh boy. Well. He’s trying.
Chapter 17
