“All of who?”
“Grown-ups. You just gave the perfect description of being an adult. It’s not like you reach a finish line and they give you a medal. Even if you succeed at one challenge there’s just another, bigger, probably nastier challenge waiting.”
“I thought you were Mr. Glass Half-Full.”
“You know, a glass is always full,” I pointed out. “Even if half the volume is composed of air.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Somebody has on his cranky pants.”
He blew a very soft raspberry. “I can’t sleep. I can’t do anything if I can’t sleep. But every time I try, I just lie here with racing thoughts. What if, what if, what if. I’m all full of dread and worst-case scenarios.”
“That must be awful.”
“Whenever I used to feel this way, I did whatever I could to take the edge off, but now I just have to lie here, listening to every fucking sound. This house isn’t new, so it makes settling noises. Joanne’s door squeaks, and when anyone flushes the toilet, it sounds like a jet engine revving.”
“I hate adjusting to new environments too. It always takes me some time.”
“There was a spider on my towel.” He hissed the word spider. “I nearly wiped my face with a spider, Luke.”
“Oh my God. Did you burn it? I’d have had to burn it. Just the thought—”
“You totally suck.” A pause. “Aren’t you going to tell me what I should do? Are you even paying attention? Are you reading right now?”
“I’m not reading. I’m sitting on a bench at the embarcadero in Morro Bay, watching the boats rise and fall.” Maybe Tug just needed something else to focus on. “Some are fishing boats, but there are sailboats too. Some kind of hardware is pinging off their masts, and it makes this really recognizable chiming sound. Their hulls smack up against the bumpers on the docks and the boats bounce off. It’s cold here. You can see Morro Rock from where I’m sitting. Clouds are coming in from the ocean, not rainclouds, but those drifty, fluffy ones that bunch up and curdle like cottage cheese around the moon.”
It took him a few seconds to respond. “Yeah?”
“Mmhmm. You want me to read to you? I have Bram Stoker’s Dracula on my phone. It’s good. Have you read it?”
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think I’ll read to you for a few minutes, and the drone of my very boring voice will put you to sleep better than anything you’ve ever tried.”
“I doubt that.”
“I said, ‘put you to sleep.’ That’s the only guarantee I make.”
“All right.”
I read Dracula to Tug for what seemed like a long time, and honestly, I don’t know if it helped. He didn’t fall asleep, that much was obvious when I stopped.
“Time’s up already?” I heard the yawn in his voice. “I want to read the rest now.”
“I’m sure there’s a library in town.”
“Aaaaand another thing goes on the fucking list.”
“Spoiler alert. That will never, ever end.”
“Shit.”
“Even on vacations, you’ll have a never-ending list.”
“Fuck.”
“Even on your deathbed, your lists will dangle in your head with all the unfinished things you know you should have done, wish you could do, wanted to have completed.”
“I have some experience with that, you know.” He yawned again. “What you say is painfully true.”
“You got a do-over, Tug. Don’t keep life waiting.”
“Thank you.” Tug’s voice softened. “God, Luke. What would I do without you?”
I hesitated, suddenly feeling very much on the precipice I’d been warned about. “You’d think of something.”
“Luke, I—”
“Night, Tug.” Something made me stop his next words.
Whatever he had to say, my gut told me to pull back hard before he could get it out.
“It’s getting pretty chilly out here,” I told him. “I should head back.”
“Oh. Okay. Night, Luke.”
I disconnected the call.
Chapter Eighteen
St. Nacho’s, Day 2
After a piss-poor night’s sleep, it’s almost as if the conversation I had with Luke was one of my nicer dreams. But Luke’s voice, soft and warm with affection as he read me the first few pages of Dracula over the phone had been solid and real.
I shouldn’t have bothered him like that.
I need to take care of my own shit.
I’m supposed to live in my skin without calling for backup every time I hit a little roadblock.
God help me if I ever spill my hopeless jones for him. No way.
Falling for someone in the recovery community is so common there’s even a name for it: thirteenth stepping. According to every single person I’ve met since I started this gig, thirteenth stepping is to be avoided at all costs.
Addicts like me—new to recovery—are prone to look for other kinds of escape. We’re impulsive. We’re emotionally and socially unskilled. Lots of us have never been in a serious relationship except with our drug of choice. A lot of us have never had sex sober. When all those feel-good hormones come into play, it messes with your mind in a way that can derail or even turn back the clock on your progress.
I get that.
I clearly understand why I shouldn’t acknowledge my feelings for Luke.
And I never planned to, but last night I was in that space between awake and dreaming, and the words almost came out. Thank God Luke stopped me.
Did he somehow know what I was going to say?
How embarrassing. How necessary, and kind, but still mortifying if he did. Especially if he realized I was going to go there, and he stopped me because he didn’t want to have to let me down with a rejection.
Would he have rejected me though? Sometimes I get the feeling he wouldn’t—from the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking. The way he takes care of me. The way he’s always there for me—even leaving a bar, I guess, to listen to me whine.
Fuck. Am I going to start picking the petals off goddamn daisies now?
He loves me. He loves me not.
Am I going to write our names together in my journal?
Tug + Luke.
Oh my God.
I should stick my head in the toilet and flush to remind myself why this is such a bad idea.
And I should leave this house.
At Hope House, I wasn’t allowed to leave other than to go on an occasional trip to the store with Roberta or on planned group outings. Here, I have the freedom to walk out the door and spend the entire day doing whatever I want, which sounds like a great thing, but honestly makes me feel sick inside.
It goes without saying that I’m in a sober living space because I can’t trust myself to make good decisions. Sober living is like riding a bike with training wheels. It isn’t forever. Just until I get the hang of having all this free time where I don’t have to nurture a crippling drug habit.
Because whatever anyone says about drugs zoning you out, there’s an awful lot that goes into maintaining that high. All of it is time consuming. It’s miserable with anxiety and frustration. Days, weeks, months pass, and you hardly know it. When you stop using, it’s as if the ticking clock slows down audibly, and the frantic pace you set for yourself to stay well turns into long leisurely hours where there’s nothing to do but sit and think.