“All right, that was a little dumb,” Cal admits with what dignity he can scrape together. It would be easier if he didn’t have a cartoon of a fuzzy blue puppet stuck to his face.
“A little? How the hell do you think I could’ve possibly missed you sweating and shaking and running to the bathroom every five minutes during that movie binge? A couple of times I thought I was gonna have to haul your ass to the ER. How the fuck could you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“In my defense, I was in withdrawal. I might not have noticed if aliens beamed into my living room.”
“You sitting there with those purple bruises under your eyes from breaking your nose in that car accident—you think I didn’t put together that you got behind the wheel of a car so fucking lit that you couldn’t see straight? You think that didn’t scare the shit out of me?”
“I didn’t—”
“It sounds like a fucked-up standard to say this, but Jesus, you got lucky. You got so lucky. You could’ve killed someone. You could’ve died. You handled everything about that wrong, you dick.”
“I know.” He still has nightmares about the accident sometimes, wakes up hot with shame and terror. He doesn’t know what prompted him to go see his sister at three in the morning on Christmas. He does know that he drove his car directly through her big bay window, lodging the Camry in her living room in a shower of glass and beams and drywall. Thank God it was the middle of the night and everyone was snug in their beds upstairs. Thank God the kids weren’t having a sleepover camped out in front of the television to watch Rudolph or something. Thank God the only person hurt by his stupidity was himself. Him and the Christmas tree, as well as the presents beneath it.
June went with him to the hospital while Cal’s parents and brother-in-law spent the rest of the night moving the kids to a hotel and trying to make the house stable until a contractor could come. The doctors set his nose and diagnosed him with a concussion and a hairline orbital fracture and let him sleep it off for half of Christmas morning on a gurney in the hallway, an unsympathetic nurse shaking him awake from time to time to check on him, June in a plastic chair nearby each time he blearily opened his eyes. He walked out with a half-dozen pamphlets about AA and support systems and the knowledge that if he didn’t quit drinking this time, he really was going to kill someone.
After, in the hospital parking lot, June told him she wanted two hundred thousand dollars to pay for the repairs to her home, and she stood there and watched as he used his phone to transfer the money. Then she called him a cab and said she never wanted to see him again.
He gave her a cool million, although he didn’t remember until he checked his bank account a few days later. He didn’t mind. It was—very literally—the least he could do.
“You don’t even remember me picking you up at the airport, do you?” Zac asks.
Cal shakes his head. The cab driver at the hospital asked him for a destination and Cal remembers thinking that he couldn’t bear to face his parents, remembers thinking that he had to get to LA, had to get home, had to have a safe space to detox or the whole thing would be a failure before it even started.
Well, if he’s honest, it was at least as much about getting to Zac. He was craving the presence of someone who didn’t think he was shit. He wasn’t sure he could get sober without at least one person who wouldn’t choke on the words I’ll help you.
Cal had a handful of shots in the airport bar before boarding so he wouldn’t go into withdrawal on the plane. Maybe more than he needed, though, because Zac’s right, he doesn’t remember landing or getting home. He always assumed that he took a cab, and he lacked the energy to second-guess it after the fact. He was too busy replaying the accident over and over in his head, reminding himself of all the reasons he had to beat it this time.
“That was a fun conversation I had with your mom,” Zac tells him. “Thanks for that. She woke me up at six in the morning screeching in my ear about how I had to find you because you were sick and needed help. Not sure how you forgot me pulling over on the 405 to let you puke on the side of the highway, but then, I’m pretty sure you were trashed when you got off the plane. Great idea, by the way, drinking with a concussion.” He shakes his head, disgusted. “You should’ve been in the hospital. It gives me chills, thinking about how stupid it was to try to detox you at home. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I kept looking shit up on the internet, and everything said you should have a doctor with you, but you kept saying you felt fine. You’re an awful liar, by the way.”
“I didn’t want the paparazzi to find out.” Cal eyes the stone wall at the edge of the property. He likes that wall a lot. He wishes he had a wall at his place instead of a fence. Maybe he’d feel less like there were so many eyes on him. “The last thing I needed was a lot of media attention.”
“Coming back to LA was a risky move if you wanted privacy. You would’ve been better off in Nebraska.”
“I kind of burned my bridges there.”
“Oh.” Zac seems momentarily at a loss. “Is that why you stopped going home for the holidays?”
Cal nods.
“Was that your decision or theirs?” Zac’s voice picks up an edge, a shrewd one that doesn’t exactly fit him.
“I didn’t wait for them to ask.” Cal rubs at a knot of wood on the railing with his thumb. “I could tell they—I called a few days after Christmas to explain that I was getting sober, but my mom didn’t—I don’t blame her for not believing me, it wasn’t the first time I’d said that, and when I called her again later to do the Ninth Step thing, it didn’t go real well. June wouldn’t accept my call, and I don’t blame her, I don’t blame either of them, it’s on me, that whole thing was on me, but... I don’t know. The idea of being there and knowing they all wished I wasn’t... I didn’t think that kind of stress was going to help me avoid crawling into a bottle, you know?”
“Sorry, pal,” Zac says quietly.
“I’m the one who should be sorry. My behavior was unforgivable.”
Zac groans, all of his agitation abruptly flooding back into him. “Here we go.”
“Hey, no, it was. I really put you through hell. I owe you an apology.”
“Oh my God.”
“And thank you. For taking care of me. For the support. I should’ve said it before, apparently.” He feels so embarrassed. “Zac, I’m so sorry. I really fucked up.”
“Cue the self-loathing and overthinking and angst.” Zac flings his hands up. “I’m not telling you all of this to make you feel like shit. I’m not your family. I’m a fuckup too, remember? One of the perks of being friends with another fuckup is that they’ve been there and they understand and they forgive you. I’m telling you so you’ll believe me when I say that I can be pissed off at you and still want you here. I knew you were an alcoholic when I signed up for serious, you ass. I don’t fucking like you right now, but that’s because you’re stupid and stubborn and you didn’t spend the night, not because you puked on me eight years ago. You still can’t talk about anything real for shit and you still make me do all the work—”