“I think I’m in the wrong place,” I say, trying to move back the way I came.
I freeze when I spot the woman in the short skirt and revealing blouse talking to Dean at a table with coffee and sandwiches placed in the middle. His lips are straight as she carries on about something.
I glance around the room. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble.
The circle of chairs.
A man at the front says hello to a few people and heads lift in his direction because he’s the man in charge.
No. This cannot be happening.
I back step quietly as everyone moves to their seats. I’m thankful Dean hasn’t seen me yet.
“Please, come in. You don’t have to speak,” the counselor waves me in and all eyes, including Dean’s, land on me.
He tilts his head, one eyebrow raised.
“I, um…”
Speak Chelsea. Speak!
“I was you once, I understand. Come and sit by me.” The woman who was talking with Dean stands and loops her arm through mine, guiding me to a chair right across from Dean.
Our eyes meet and the smirk on his lips says he’s never going to let me live this down.
Chapter Eighteen
“If she doesn’t want to join, I don’t think we should force her,” Dean says. The entire room stares at him like he’s an asshole.
“Don’t be silly.” The woman seated beside me shoots him a mean look and then directs her attention back to me. “I’m Pam and just stay and listen.”
“I can’t.” I rush to my feet. “I’m very sorry. It was by accident that I ended up here and I shouldn’t hear the things that are talked about here.”
Pam’s head rears back.
“What do you think this is?” Dean asks, the smile unable to stop playing on his lips. “We could be a swinging group looking for new members.”
I narrow my eyes at him and then look at the instructor.
“This is Alcohol Anonymous?” He nods.
“I’m not an alcoholic.”
The instructor stands. “Can I ask why you’re here then?”
My eyes flick to Dean, the instructor follows my gaze.
“You know Dean?”
“She’s my ex-wife.” For some reason, hearing Dean call me his ex out loud hurts. We’ve come so far from that word, but how can I be mad? It’s the truth.
All their shoulders fall and their eyes swim with apology.
No. Nope. Not doing this.
How much has he told them about me? About us?
“I’m very sorry for intruding,” I say and rush out before anyone can put their arm around me or try to comfort me.
Dean follows me, which I expected I suppose.
“Chels,” he calls out to the empty hall.
“I’m so sorry, I went to your building to surprise you for lunch and then I was trying to catch up to you and followed you here.”
“Why did you follow me? Because you didn’t trust me?” He pushes his hands into his pockets.
“I yelled to get your attention but there was so much noise on the street and then I texted you and you never answered.”
He pulls out his phone and nods. “I silence it when I come here.”
“Oh.”
There’s an awkward silence between us for a few seconds before he speaks. “I’ve been sober three years now.”
“That’s great.” I hope he can hear the sincerity, and if I’m honest—relief, in my voice.
He nods slowly, his head moving up and down, his eyes on me the entire time. “Do you want to stay?” The cocky twinkle that’s always in his eye is replaced with a timidness I’ve rarely seen.
“No, I shouldn’t hear their stories and private thoughts.”
“They don’t care and plus, I’m talking today, and I want you to hear it. I think it will help us move forward.”
“I can’t, Dean.” Panic wells up inside my chest until I feel like I can’t breathe.
He’s already shaking his head. “Don’t worry, I promise it will be fine.”
Both his hands slide down my arms and he links our fingers, pulling me away from the wall. “I want you to see this part of me.”
He leads me down the hall, both of our dress shoes clicking on the linoleum floor. When we enter, the instructor eyes the two empty chairs.
We sit in them and I feel all the eyes on me. I’m not one of them…in fact, I left one of them while he was in the deep throws of addiction. They can’t see me as a good person.
“This is Chelsea,” Dean says.
Everyone says hello.
“It’s been almost three years sober for me.”
Everyone claps, including me.
“It took me forever to seek the help I needed. Chelsea and I divorced five years ago and as much as I hate to admit it, our marriage was probably my idea when I was half blasted. We were in Vegas on a trip with some teammates of mine and we tied the knot on impulse. Chelsea was only eighteen and I was twenty-one.”
I knot my fingers together in my lap. It all sounds so stupid when you tell other people. At the time I’d thought it was romantic. No wonder my family looks at me like I’m a complete moron.
“I used to play baseball…slated for the big leagues. But I was also drinking too much, and I had a temper. After some guy hit on my wife, I got into a bar fight and messed up my shoulder.” He glances my way. This was the start of our demise. “If I hadn’t been drinking that night the fight might not have even happened. Who knows. After baseball was ripped away from me, the drinking only grew worse. I’d be out half the night, roll in long after Chelsea was in bed. I never called to let her know where I was or who I was with. At first, Chelsea tried to keep up, but when she wouldn’t join me, I’d tell her she wasn’t any fun to be around. I’d say she was wasting all her good years.”
I’m staring at my hands in my lap and I don’t have the heart to look up, to see all the faces looking at me with what’s probably pity. I’m sure our story isn’t foreign to them but rehashing our sordid love affair reminds me how stupid I was.
“I stopped communicating with her. If she ever called me out on my bullshit I’d resort to fighting with her as a way to keep from discussing what was really the problem—me. I treated her badly over and over again. In the end it probably felt like she was married to a stranger.” He heaves out a deep sigh. “Just so we’re not here all night, I’ll condense it.”
Thank God. There’s only so much I can handle.
“She did the right thing and stopped enabling me, eventually leaving me one night.” I look up to find him looking at me. “Morning probably.”
I nod more to myself than him.
“It took me two years of just barely getting by to seek help and three years clean before I could actually face her.” His hand seeks mine out, entwining our fingers, gripping tight. “We’re trying to move forward, start something new, something better.”
Tears prick the corners of my eyes and I attempt to slow my beating heart. There he is, my Dean Bennett, the side of him no one else saw in college. The side of him I denied existed after we parted—as if the kind, honest side of him was a mirage and had never really been there.