Over the garlic knots, I briefly explained the basics of the club—the hierarchy, and the structure, and the importance of the vouching system to the continued existence of the club.
“We’re a bunch of misfits,” I said. “Most of us have been booted out from regular society in some way. So, we have to create our own rules.”
Dawson nodded, looking a little wistful. “Honestly, it sounds nice.”
“I’ve been patched in for six years,” I said with a proud little smile. Couldn’t help it, when I thought about how far I’d come in those years.
“Six years?” Dawson echoed, gawping a little. “No offense, but you look a little young to have been in the club for six years. And as an enforcer? Not just a member?”
“I know,” I said. “Pretty crazy, right?”
“How’d you get started so young, then?” Dawson asked.
I hesitated, stalling in my answer by taking a bite of pizza. I chewed it over, literally and figuratively. Should I reveal the truth of my past to Dawson? I didn’t want him to think I was evangelizing or only meeting with him to try to push him toward sobriety. But on the other hand, one of the most important lessons I’d learned on my own journey was the value of self-responsibility and honesty. I wasn’t going to try to set myself up as an example, but I wasn’t going to hide the truth from him, either.
“Well, I was nineteen when I patched in,” I said. “And a real coke fiend. Mal gave me an ultimatum: rehab or no membership. I was real resistant at first, but I wanted to be a part of the club so badly that I was willing to give it a shot. I got clean in rehab, which changed my life entirely, and then the club gave me the stability and support I needed to move forward with my life. But I had some pretty bad club-only tunnel vision for the first couple years, so I was able to climb the ranks pretty fast.”
I laughed a little darkly. Tunnel vision was putting it lightly—focusing on the club helped me distract from the pain of losing Sienna without turning to the coke. If I hadn’t had my brothers to help me and to provide me with healthy outlets for my pain, I wouldn’t have survived it.
Part of me expected some sort of negative reaction from Dawson—a scoff, or an eyeroll, or something that would show he thought he and I were different on some fundamental, moral level. But instead, he just looked at me with a thoughtful, slightly wide-eyed expression somewhere between curiosity and awe.
Usually when I told people my past, I was met with pity or condescension. Whatever this expression was—I couldn’t deny that I liked it. It made me want to open up to him more. And that might be a dangerous feeling.
7
Dawson
“So you’re still sober?” I asked. I couldn’t believe the gentle, funny, kind guy sitting across the booth from me had just described himself as a cokehead. It just didn’t make sense.
“Yep,” Nix said with a little shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal at all. “Once an addict, always an addict, as they say. I’ll always be an addict, so I just stay away from all substances. Makes life simpler.”
“An addict?” I said incredulously. “You? You’re the most put-together guy I’ve ever met.”
The words were out before I could consider the implications, and I almost winced. I didn’t think addicts had to look or act a certain way, or at least—I thought I didn’t. Maybe I had some preconceived notions of my own, though.
But Nix just smiled, a big, pretty grin that made his nose wrinkle cutely. “Thanks. Nice to have my efforts appreciated every now and then.”
“Sorry for prying,” I said. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“I don’t mind talking about it,” Nix said with a little shrug. “If there’s anything else you want to know.”
“What do you mean Mal gave you an ultimatum?” I asked. It just didn’t make a ton of sense to me—what did Mal offer that made Nix decide to try rehab? And at such a young age? It seemed unfathomable.
“I was in a really bad place,” Nix admitted. “Really into drugs, partying way too much—I’d lost someone important to me, and I wasn’t coping at all. I was just digging myself deeper into a hole to deny the reality of that loss as long as I could.”
He said all this in an even, thoughtful tone—there was pain in his words, but it sounded like an old, healed pain. Like he’d told this story enough times that it didn’t hurt to tell.
“I was lingering outside the gas station in Elkin Lake late one night, trying to bribe people going in to buying me booze, since I was underage. I happened to ask Mal, and he told me he wouldn’t buy me anything, but he’d give me a job. I was hurting for money at the time, so impulsively I agreed. Started working in the garage in Junee. And from there I started getting more involved with the club, to the point I was interested in patching in—and Mal said that wasn’t an option until I tried rehab.”
He smiled, like the memory was somehow fond.
“He didn’t require that I got clean, just that I gave rehab a real try. I always thought that was a genius move on his part. If he’d asked me to get clean, I never would’ve agreed, because that felt genuinely impossible. But once I committed to rehab, it was just putting one foot in front of the other.”
“Smart fuckin’ move,” I agreed.
“I know,” Nix said. “So since then, I’ve been involved in the local AA, which helps me keep my nose clean. Plus, I like it—helps keep me connected to the community outside of the club.”
“And you’re only twenty-six,” I said. He’d been through so much, at such a young age—it made me feel like I was the younger one of the two, even though I had a full six years on him.
“Right? Glad I got it over with early. Makes the rest of my adulthood feel a lot easier.” Nix laughed a little. “Being sober is basically my superpower. Life on easy mode.”
I shook my head a little, then picked up another slice of pizza. “Wish my mom had given it a shot,” I muttered. “Easy mode sounds nice.”
The words hung in the air between us. Immediately I wished I could snatch them back, swallow them, un-say them. I couldn’t believe that little remark had slipped out. I never said anything about my mother or her drinking—not even to Brennan.
But something about Nix’s easy vulnerability made it too easy to open up in return. Talking to him felt like talking to an old friend—even though we hardly knew each other.
I wasn’t sure if I was ready to delve farther into my relationship with my mom, though. At least not over pizza at Pepper’s. But from Nix’s carefully curious expression, it was obvious he wasn’t going to pretend he hadn’t heard.
“Your mom?” he asked gently. Not any particular question, not assuming. Just… just giving me more space to talk. If I wanted to.
If I blew it off, he wouldn’t press—of that much I was oddly sure. And that gave me the courage to keep talking.
“Well, she’s been an alcoholic for pretty much two decades now,” I admitted, keeping my tone as light as I could. “She could hold down a job for about half of that, but the past ten years she’s been pretty much chained to the liquor bottle.”