Still, the feeling I’d had on the beach, the certainty that I could belong in St. Nacho’s, that the very ground I walked on pulled at me like… like the Grimpen Mire, did not leave me entirely.
When I picked up Tug at five, the feeling had only grown stronger.
Chapter Nineteen
St. Nacho’s, Day 3
I live on borrowed time here. St. Nacho’s isn’t a big town where you can get lost in a sea of people. My new employer, Miss Independence Pies is adjacent to Café Bêtise downtown, not far from where Beck’s boyfriend has his veterinary clinic.
The people here, Dr. Davies, the violinist, Cooper, his boyfriend, Shawn, and Jim, the man who owns Nacho’s Bar, all took Beck under their protection.
I’m the guy who took his tips and eventually stole all his belongings.
Anyone I come into contact with might recognize me as the man who screwed Beck over and blow the whistle. Most of them will want justice, revenge, or both.
I came here to make that right whatever it takes, but it’s one thing to make monetary restitution. It’s another to face the person I’ve wronged, admit my mistakes, and ask for forgiveness.
That shit’s just fucking terrifying.
What if Beck hates me forever? What if he involves the police?
Beck would be well within his rights to have me arrested, and I’d be fucked. It would mean a felony conviction and maybe real prison time.
With all that hanging over my head, every time I step out the door things could end in disaster. I am so fucking scared I don’t want to get out of bed.
They say in meetings that the only way out is through.
I hate “meetings.”
Let it be known far and wide—I never intended to be part of the twelve-step community. When I talked to Echo about all that, it was a deal-breaker for me, and that’s how I ended up at Hope House. While they did use twelve-step principles there and I participated, they took a more life-skills and cognitive-behavioral-therapy-based approach to recovery. I’m grateful I had that opportunity when I was starting out, but here in St. Nacho’s, twelve-step meetings are mandatory at least once a week, and my roommates at sober living go almost every day.
Having gotten some perspective at Hope House, I don’t hate NA/AA as much as I thought I would. Sure, some of the people are weirdly zealous. They can be constitutionally incapable of talking without slogans.
Asking someone to be my sponsor was the worst thing ever. I got it out of the way at the first meeting I went to in St. Nacho’s because I hated the idea of putting it off even more. I asked a lady named Candace after she got up and talked because it sounded like we’d get along.
And we do. Candace is amazing.
Tall and blonde, model perfect. She’s in her thirties, and I look like a troll next to her, but when she smiles at me, it’s not phony. She’s snarky as hell and seriously takes no prisoners, but maybe that’s what I need right now.
She gives me homework. Lots and lots of homework, starting with more goddamn daily journaling. Gah.
Tomorrow I start my new job. I’m so excited I know I’ll have trouble sleeping because I don’t have a lot of control over that. It blows. I plan on going to bed at nine, taking two melatonin and a trazodone. If I can’t sleep, I’ll just have to go to work half-awake. Eventually, as Minerva pointed out, I’ll be too tired not to sleep. Changing your circadian rhythm takes time.
I only hope I can stay awake long enough to have dinner with Luke. I’m trying to be chill about it, but we won’t get to visit again for a long time, probably.
I can’t use Luke as a crutch anymore.
I’ll miss him though. So much. Without Luke, all the color’s been sucked out of my life for a while. Whatever. It is what it is.
It took me years to get to the place where I’m at. I’m not going to get normal overnight—or at all, probably—no matter how much I wish I could. I’ll have a new normal.
I can’t believe I’m going to write this, but “one day at a time.”
Tug
At five, I picked Tug up at his new place. Again, the charm of the house, with its yard spinners and rainbow flags, struck me. Having met Minerva, I could imagine the atmosphere inside was equally quirky and pleasant. Obviously, several people with substance abuse issues living together had to be a work in progress, but she seemed like the type to make a tough situation work—possibly by magic.
Tug came out just as I pulled up to the curb.
He still looked fragile to me, but suddenly he was preppy as hell, dressed in khakis, a pale-blue button-down, and deck shoes. His dark hair whipped around in the afternoon breeze. We drove to the shore, and because the holiday crowds had thinned out, we found a parking space next to the restaurant he’d suggested, Bistro. Inside, the place borrowed a Parisian aesthetic, marble and brass and cane-backed bentwood chairs. The waiters were dressed in black trousers and vests with white shirts and aprons. The overall vibe of the place was chic, and the aroma of garlic and herbs and freshly baked bread enticed us as the hostess seated us in a four-top booth.
I slid in and looked up to watch Tug sit across from me.
He blinked owlishly. “I should warn you in advance that I might fall asleep.”
“Didn’t get enough rest last night?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t sleep at all.”
“That’s one problem likely to resolve itself.”
He raked his hand through his dark hair. “I need to get used to going to bed early because my shift at the bakery starts at five tomorrow morning.”
“That early? Yikes.”
The waiter approached with water on a round tray, which he hugged to himself after he placed our glasses on the table. “Hi, guys. Welcome to Bistro. Is this your first time dining with us?”
I glanced at Tug before I nodded. “It’s mine.”
“Mine too.” Tug offered a grateful smile for his water.
“Super. I’m Guac”—he leaned over and stage whispered—“so nicknamed because some people seem to think I’m extra. I’ll be your server this evening. Can I get you anything to drink besides water?”
“Nothing for me, thanks.” Tug shook his head. I said no as well.
“All right then.” Guac’s smile nearly blinded me. “I’ll give you a minute to look over the menu. Our specials tonight are tangerine-glazed Chilean sea bass served with root vegetable puree or house-smoked salmon served on a baguette with capers, red onions, and dill crème fraîche partnered with garlic fries. Don’t hesitate to flag me down if you have questions, otherwise, I’ll check back in a couple minutes for your order.”
“Thanks… Guac.”
“It’s my very great pleasure to serve you tonight.” He wrinkled his admirably freckled nose and hustled off.
Tug snorted. “That’s why I could never be a waiter.”
“Why?”
“Cause I’d be like, ‘You’re welcome, but I’m only doing this for the cash, yo.’”
“Are you saying you lack social skills?”
“Is this news to you?”
“That’s just modesty. I’ve experienced your charm firsthand.”