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The Meeting
She started drinking to give up smoking.And she’d started sleeping around to give up drinking.
She’d given up none of those things. Yet.
That’s why Gia Barone was in a Church of Christ on a Tuesday afternoon, sunshine beating in the side window of the Fellowship Hall. A/C on full blast, a dozen strangers sitting in a circle on hard plastic chairs with metal legs that creaked when inhabitants shifted. And did they shift. Some stared at their feet, shoes on top of speckled marmoleum deserving their unfettered attention. Some avoided eye contact. One woman made intense eye contact with each new speaker. A hint of bleach clouded the air, which was heavy with truth.
Gia listened and observed. Was she ready to do this?
It’s not that she was an addict. Except, that’s exactly what she was.
She’d moved to Palm Springs the Saturday before her first meeting, in search of a new start after her girlfriend of three months ended it. “It’s just not working out,” Abby had said. Not an “it’s just not working out” virgin, Gia took it in stride. She cut her dark locks short, just below the ears, so her natural waves would be their waviest, got a new earring in the cartilage of her left ear, used an entire package of Biore strips in 24-hours to clarify her olive complexion, and vowed to change more than just her physical appearance. It was time for a re-lo.
So, she’d printed a map of the United States, pinned it to the wall, and thrown a dart. Where the dart landed is where she’d start again—assuming it didn’t land in any of the cities she’d already tried. Having learned all her best decision-making skills in the back of bars—where the dart boards were—Gia felt this was as good a way as any to decide her fate. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and released the dart with a swift flick of the wrist. Joshua Tree National Park. Not inhabitable, so she called an audible and moved it a quarter inch to the left. A quarter inch meant she’d move to Palm Springs. Land of swimming pools and movie stars. Or was that Beverly Hills? Regardless, therewereswimming pools and movie stars. And no one who’d ever heard the name Gia Barone, which was exactly what she wanted. Anonymity was an opportunity. She’d stuffed her hatchback with only what would fit—some clothes, a few kitchen items, an air mattress—and hit the road, driving until she was tired and camping in truck stop parking lots along the way.
“First meeting, huh?” the woman asked, tucking a loose strand of hair the color of a raven’s feathers behind her ear. She’d caught up to Gia at the snack table and interrupted a reach for a cinnamon sugar cake donut. “My favorite.”
“Hm?” Gia asked.
“Cinnamon sugar cake.Mi favorita.”
“Ah,” Gia nodded, her smile unwilling to appear that afternoon. It was a serious occasion. Not somber, but serious. She’d tried meetings before and fallen off the wagon, too many times to count. Most recently, she’d given up seven months of sobriety when a bottle of tequila took her to the ground with a forceful thud. “Mine too.”
“So, you new in town?” The woman grabbed a chocolate glazed donut and took a bite.
“Yeah. I thought cinnamon cake was your favorite?”
“I’m unpredictable,” she shrugged, and turned to walk away.
“Roxi?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for sharing today.” Gia’s golden eyes caught a glint of sunlight that streamed through the side windows.
“You remembered my name.”
Of course Gia remembered her name. She was the only other queer in the group. You wouldn’t know it just to look at her—her presence was just feminine of center. She wore a sleeveless Queen T-shirt over dark tights. Black leather boots came to her knees and were spotless. Long, dark hair was draped behind her ears, which held large gold hoop earrings. But Gia had a sense for these things. Just as she knew if a cocktail had been pre-mixed and stored in a jar behind the bar. Just as she knew a Marlboro Red from a Black. She knew a girl who loved girls from a mile away. Old Gia—OG—would’ve already been on a mission to take her home. New Gia wouldn’t go there.
“I did. I’m—"
“—Gia.”
“Good memory. I’d ask what brings you to church on a Tuesday, but I already know.”
“Yep, same to you. Want to grab a cup of coffee to go with these donuts? They mean well, but this stuff iscaca.” Roxi motioned to the large silver urn at the end of the folding table, a stack of paper cups sitting to the right.
“Is that allowed?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know—I just—”
“It’s just coffee. Come on, let’s go. There’s a good place to get acafé con lechea couple blocks away.”
Gia liked how she said, “café con leche.” That’s all it took to get her to agree—a woman with an accent was her kryptonite. Even if it was a selective accent. Even if she’d made herself a promise to stay off the market.
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