In between, I visit Kathi and nap with Roy. I make sure the mansion doesn’t burn down with Agnes inside. I thank Benny for pretending to prune the rosebushes. I bring Kathi her favorite foods, her e-cigarettes, her laptop.
“How are you?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Are you still ready to get rid of Orion?”
“Yes and no.”
I tidy her nightstand. “Cool.”
“You seem distracted,” she says.
I sit on her bed and blurt, “There’s this guy.”
“Ugh. Tell Orion I’m gonna need to relapse to hear this.”
* * *
Reid and I use a Groupon to join an Australian circuit-training class called Training Mate, where hot Australians scream at us to work harder, move faster, lift heavier. They give us nicknames, “Reidy” and “Char-o.” I mean, my nickname is not as adorable as Reid’s, but I’m grateful to be identified with a moniker that’s not Cockring. Reidy and I work out, we walk to breakfast, we go back to his place.
Reid owns a home near Larchmont Village, a cute little boutique shopping area not far from my shitty apartment. His home is small but lovely, decorated sensibly, a couple of bowls still sit on the kitchen floor for his late doggie.
I’m looking around. “You’re like a real adult,” I say.
“Come here,” Reid says, walking down a hallway decorated with pictures of his family, his friends. We enter his bedroom, decorated in shades of white, with views of his green back lawn framed in every window. Reid sits on his bed and pulls me close to him.
“May I look at you naked?” he asks.
“What?” I say, looking around, all the lights on, the curtains open, sunshine pouring in.
“You can trust me.”
“May I look at you naked?”
“Yup. But I asked first.”
Reid makes me smile. I’m flattered, amused, aroused.
I slowly reach up and take off my shirt, which messes up my hair. I start to fix it.
“No,” Reid says. “Don’t touch it. You’re perfect.” He nods: Keep going.
I can feel my bangs dangling in front of my eyes, my tousled locks long and growing, just brushing my bare shoulders. I unbuckle my belt. I let my jeans fall. I hook my thumbs into my underwear and pull them down. I step out of them. I study Reid’s sweet, handsome face. I feel safe and alive and a strange ownership of my body, my life, though still, some insecurity lingers. I’m exposed and hyperaware of all the little things I wish I could change.
“I love your hair,” Reid says, examining but not touching. “I love your ears. I love your nose. I love your skin—the little scars on your face from some hard days as a teenager. I love the little bit of fat on your stomach, the proof that you enjoy life, that you live for life, not for pictures on Facebook or something.”
I’m getting hard, relishing that Reid seems to love all the things about me that I don’t love about myself.
Keep going.
“I love your humor, your work ethic, your nature as a caretaker. Turn around,” he says.
And I turn, feeling hotter and hotter knowing Reid is bearing down, assessing.
“I love your ass. I love your thighs. I love your back.”
I hear him stand. I feel him walk toward me, push his clothed body against my nude one.
“I love this bit here,” he says, pinching my stomach.
“I love this bit here,” he says running his hand along my jaw.
He takes a step back, slaps me on the ass.
“I love this bit here,” he says.
We laugh and I look over my shoulder at his fresh red handprint on my right butt cheek. I reach to touch it.
“No, no,” he says, guiding my hand back to my side, guiding my head upright, positioning me to look into a mirror across the room. I watch us. I see him kissing my neck, putting his hands on my shoulders, moving them down, wrapping them around my waist, his big forearms hard and cold against me.
I see in my reflection a warm and happy face, and I feel new. I see that my body is actually getting lean, fat starting to melt away. I see that Reid has been good for my body, mind, heart.
Reid asks, “What’s your passion, Charlie?”
I blurt, “You.”
Reid smiles, pulls me back close to him, and we fall backward onto his bed.
* * *
Everything is dark. I’m sleeping. I’m dreaming of a different life.
“Hey,” Reid says, groggy, freshly awakened, prodding me. “Your phone.”
I sit up, notice my phone is lit, and reach for it on Reid’s nightstand.
KATHI: WEATHER ALERT! Let’s book flights! Northern lights are on fire tomorrow night. Let’s go see them! Let’s go to Canada!
ME: Canada? Book flights? How does this work? Is Orion coming?
KATHI: Orion left. I’m all cured. I got an A plus.
“Babe,” I say softly to Reid. “I think I have to go to work.”
18
Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask Kathi, packing her suitcases, loading the usual Ziploc baggies of toiletries, underwear, Christmas lights. My eyes are heavy from no sleep, from leaving Reid at four A.M., from forcing myself awake to call Kathi’s travel agent.
Kathi got an alert from the National Weather Service a few hours ago that conditions were perfect for a spectacular display of the aurora borealis.
“Yes, we must go,” she says. “I’ve wanted to see the northern lights my whole life, and this showing is supposed to be historic.”
Some people get weather alerts as a means to save their lives—tornado warnings, or to save their livelihoods where rain may ruin crops. Kathi Kannon gets weather alerts for vacation planning.
“I don’t understand how we can be leaving,” I say. “What happened with Orion?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve had a billion sober coaches. He was the best one. He said I passed with flying colors.”
“Passed? You got a grade or what—”
“Yeah. Don’t forget to pack gloves,” she says, looking at her phone. “Oh, the time! We have to go!”
Don’t swim after you eat. Don’t fly if you’re too pregnant. But there are no rules for travel upon termination of your sobriety coach. And so it is, potential relapse be damned, that Kathi and I are on our way to LAX to catch a ride to see in real life her beloved hotel-room check-in namesake: aurora borealis.
I resume my questioning in earnest: What happened with Orion? Why did he leave? What’s the next step?
“The next step is I quit self-medicating,” Kathi says. “One day at a time, you know?”
“And he just left? Is this normal? I want your sobriety to be permanent.”
“Nothing is permanent,” Kathi says.
“Maybe I’ll call Orion.”
“No,” Kathi says. “Call Miss Gracie if you must. She’ll tell you. It’s all good. You did good hiring him. You get an A-plus for that.”
“Well, I want your sobriety to be as permanent as possible. I want you to stay healthy and happy and for us to continue on our fun journey and whatnot—”