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“Okay,chica. What’s going on? You look like you have the flu or something.”
“Rox—” Gia sighed again and smoothed her hair. She didn’t think she looked like she had the flu, but Facetime had a way of revealing things traditional phone calls didn’t. “I almost had a drink tonight. Like, I was a split second away from it.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t. I thought hard about it. I had the ‘no one will know’ conversation with myself. I was just about to take a drink when Courtney interrupted me. She saved me and doesn’t know it. I’m so close to my one year.”
“Shit.” Roxi stared through the airwaves and sunk down onto the closed lid of a toilet.
“I know.”
“No, no. That came out wrong,lo siento. I’ve had that moment. I know the self-loathing that comes with it.”
“You have?”
“Oh yeah. I didn’t know theatre people sing showtunes all day and night, or that they’re fond of Woodford and water. Every time I turn around, someone’s offering me a drink. The peer pressure is heavy.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Gia sat straighter in the bed.
“Because I didn’t want to burden you with my stuff.”
“That’s funny, because I didn’t want to burden you with MY stuff!”
“You can always tell me things, you know. I’m not going to judge you. Well, I may judge you, but only from a place of healthy care and concern.” Roxi giggled.
“And you can tell me things, too.”
“So, we’re both trying to protect each other from our demons—and we have the same demons.”
“It sounds like it,” Gia said. “I’m sorry it’s been hard. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, it’s okay. I’m taking it one day at a time. The thing is, I don’twantto drink. But I also don’t want people making a big deal that I’m not drinking. Sometimes it’s a lose/lose.”
“I get it. I like my life right now. And I’m still me. I still have moments where I could use a relief valve. I don’t even know who put a drink in my hand, but once it was there, it was like, ‘oh, this is a thing.’”
“Yep.” Roxi nodded. “I’m proud of you. You were tempted, but you didn’t. Live to fight another day.”
“Yeah, I went to an OA meeting, and that helped. But I was so mad at myself.” Gia didn’t confess the full reason for her anger. If she blew her sobriety, two weeks from her one-year mark, she’d blow more than just a streak. She’d risk any chance of a relationship with Roxi. “Can I tell you something else, non-related to demons?”
“Of course. As long as it’s not about musical theater!”
When she sat in the OA group meeting that evening, listening to others’ stories, a theme emerged. Most people wanted to get control of their addiction because they were hurting themselves and the people they loved. Gia’d never thought about the impact of her addiction on others. She’d felt it was her life, her body. Her decision to get serious about sobriety had been one of desperation—she didn’t want to become her mother. But her motivations had changed.
“I’ve missed you. I’m glad you’re chasing your dream. But I’ve really missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. A lot.” Roxi wiped at the corner of her eye—was that a tear? “I can’t wait to see you at the premiere.”
One day at a time
She’d dug through every rack at the Church of Christ’s thrift store in search of something theatre-worthy that fit, looked good, and was under $100. A purple velvet suit jacket from the men’s department paired with slim-fitted black slacks, a black button-up shirt, and a pair of black wingtips set her back $107.47, but she felt rich when she put the makeshift suit on. Forget rich. Gia felt fancy.
A long-overdue visit to the salon—not Supercuts, for a change—resulted in a fashionable new haircut and color. The stylist had added amber highlights to her dark hair that shimmered in the sunlight, and Gia assumed, under spotlights like those found in theatres. She’d cut it just below the ears and given Gia some new product to smooth the waves.
Milling about amongst other theatregoers, Gia Barone pretended to be comfortable. As if she spent her evenings attending play openings and weekends at art galleries. As if she knew the difference between Sondheim and Larson or impressionism and baroque. She overheard a man telling his date that he’d just taken a meeting with Universal and felt confident they were going to option his screenplay. The woman had replied that was “nice” and grabbed a glass of champagne from the tuxedoed cater waiter distributing pre-show buzz—er, booze.
Red patterned carpet underfoot, and a soundtrack of Neil Diamond playing at a very reasonable volume through the outdoor sound system, Gia was anything but comfortable. Her left wingtip had rubbed a blister on her big toe, and it screamed out in pain with each step. She’d arrived too early to enter the auditorium, which had landed her in the fresh hell of socialites socializing, and she thought about leaving. This was not her world. The cocktail dresses and tuxes and studio meetings and fake enthusiasm seemed so ridiculous from an outsider’s perspective.
Despite the urge to bug out and wallow in the comfort of the Comfort Inn where she was staying, Gia held fast. The auditorium doors would open soon, and she could wallow in the comfort of the third-row seat Roxi had reserved for her. She’d never sat in the third row for anything, unless you count the handful of times she’d gone to church with her mother.
