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“Other than my time, nothing.” He shrugged and finished his coffee, throwing it into the trashcan next to them.
“Time.” Haize clicked her tongue and followed his lead, throwing her cup away. “Seems to me, the time is going to pass anyway. How would you rather spend your time, Michael?”
“I’m not following.”
“Would you rather spend it out here in the free world, eating what you want, not having a guard telling you what to do every second of the day, or would you rather have that razor wire surrounding you, lying on a small cot with no air conditioner and a cellmate that has no boundaries?”
The crinkle in his eyes returned. Haize was learning that was his reaction to things he wasn’t sure about. “Point taken, ma’am.”
“Haize. Not ma’am.”
“I understand. I’ve just got a year of this. It’ll pass fast.”
Haize put the boxes of donuts in the cabinet, ready for the early bird meeting in the morning. “Are you getting anything from these meetings?”
“I am.”
“Like?” She motioned her hands for him to continue.
“I’m not the only one with problems, that’s for sure. Some of these people make my situation seem like it’s nothing. I guess that helps in the grand scheme of things.”
Haize noticed his green eyes against his dark complexion. He was a good-looking man who had unfortunate events happen to him. She didn’t know his story – convict on parole with a ton of parole stipulations… more than she had ever seen in the people she had encountered. What had he done? Had he murdered someone? She shoved the thought aside – as if how a person looked mattered when it came to these things. But it sort of did. He didn’t fit the mold. He seemed to have a boyish charm that typically got people like him out of the trouble they caused.
“I want you to talk at the next meeting.”
Michael took a step back, his eyes widening at the comment. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“No one ever is.”
“I’m not sure what I’d say.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and took a deep breath. “Start with your name. With how many days you’ve been sober. I’m not asking for you to spill your life story, but you can start there. You don’t even have to tell people you were in prison.”
“They know. This is a small town. I’m from here. They know everything about me. I don’t need to stand up on that podium and tell them.” He pointed to the front of the room.
“I don’t know everything about you,” Haize replied, patting her chest. “And I’m not asking to know everything. But I’m here to help. I know it just seems like you’re going down a list, checking things off to satisfy your parole and keep from being sent back, but I think if you open your mind to this, it can help you.”
“It does seem that way,” Michael nodded. “But if you knew my story, you wouldn’t be standing here giving me your time. There’s no helping me, ma’am. I’m surprised I even made parole.”
“Do you wanna stay outta prison?”
“Of course, I do. But life just keeps throwing me curveballs.” He opened his mouth to say more but stopped himself, adjusting the baseball cap on his head, exposing his dark hair underneath, spiking in different directions, disheveled from wind and sweat.
“That’s what life does. And these meetings will help adjust your swing to what is thrown your way.”
His eyes crinkled yet again, but this time he laughed. “You therapists and your metaphors.”
“Stop and think about it, Michael. Ever wonder why I’m here? Ever wonder why I chose this career?”
“Great pay and benefits?” He smiled, exposing a gorgeous smile he needed to use more often.
“I certainly didn’t do this for the pay. Over 80 percent of chemical dependency counselors have been through it. We’ve made it out. And we want to share our experiences with others. We want to show you that you can overcome it. You just have to trust the process. Stop viewing it all as a requirement and use the tools you’re being given. I’m living proof that it’s possible.”
“You share your story, I’ll share mine.”
“Someday soon, Michael.” She glanced at her watch. “Keep coming to these meetings, open your mind, and someday soon…” She smiled and grabbed his hand. His palms were calloused, and his skin was tan. He must’ve had an outdoor prison job. “It’s getting late. Go home and get some rest. You’re gonna need it to prepare to tell your story at our next meeting.” She pulled a writing pad from her pocket and jotted her digits down. “It’s my phone number. Call me if you need anything, okay? Day or night.”
He made a face as he looked at her handwriting. “Okay.”
