Jonathan turned to alcohol and cocaine pretty hard-core once he came of age.
But now he’s sober.
Hell, he’s crafted himself as the goddamn poster boy for this rehab.
And, for some reason, he seems to have adopted me as his little pet project—convinced he can save me, whatever that means.
But, anyway, Jonathan is there, in the smoke pit, sitting cross-legged on one of the stained, dirty, what once must’ve been white plastic chairs.
He smiles real big up at me—his wraparound dark glasses reflecting the faraway sun like spilled ink bleeding out in every direction.
“Hey, little brother,” he says, his West Texas accent sounding almost like an imitation of itself. “Yer goin’ to group, ain’t ya?”
I nod. “For sure.”
He hands me a cigarette before I can even ask for one—which I was about to.
My broke-ass status is known to pretty much everyone.
“Thanks, man,” I say, lighting the unfiltered Camel that’s strong as hell.
I take a couple of drags, looking up at the clear, cold sky.
“Jonathan.” I clear some shit outta my throat. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been thinking a whole lot about what you’ve been saying. I mean, about the whole girlfriend situation and all.”
He cuts me off before I can finish, holding up a hand like I’m some dog he’s commanding to “stay.”
“Hey, come on, now,” he says, each word painfully drawn out. “That’s yer decision to make, and yers alone. I ain’t gonna think any less of you either way. That’s a promise.”
I dig my beat-up old Jack Purcell sneaker into the dry, red earth—kicking up a thick smudge of dust—watching it drift slowly upward—suspended for a moment while the wind lies idle.
My free hand reaches up to scratch at my ear needlessly.
“Well,” I say, stuttering some, “I’ve decided. I mean, I’m going to end it. There’s no way we’ll ever be able to stay sober together—I see that now. And, besides, I really think I’m starting to understand what our relationship is all about. I mean, you’re right, we were totally just using each other. I honestly don’t think she’s even capable of love. I feel like… you know… I feel like loving Zelda is like trying to love a black hole. I can’t do it anymore. I have to end it.”
I breathe out deep and long and slow.
Fuck.
Fucking, fuck.
Jonathan pushes himself up from the chair.
He takes off his sunglasses.
I watch his pupils suck in all at once, retreating from the dull midmorning light.
His head nods up and down—up and down.
“Ain’t that somethin’? Well, little brother, I gotta admit, I sure am proud of you.”
His blue, bright, almost transparent eyes are fixed on me, so I can’t help but turn away.
“Man,” he says, “I know how hard it can be to break out of a messed-up relationship like that. Hell, my ex-wife and I are still playin’ the same fucked-up games we’ve been playin’ for the last ten years. Yer damn lucky, my friend, to be twenty-three and already starting to face this shit.”
Before I even know what’s happening, he gives me a hug—ignoring that whole “no touch” policy thing.
I hug him back—overwhelmed by the smell of pomade and whatever else he uses to keep his hair pressed down so goddamn flat.
“This is yer chance, Nic, I hope you know that. I see the way you’ve been fightin’ this place. You’ve been fightin’ everything and everyone. And, hell, I don’t blame you at all. I mean, you remind me exactly of myself when I was yer age. I don’t know, maybe that’s why I wanna look out for you. I’m nearin’ on fifty years old. I’ve spent my whole life running from myself. I’ve wasted so much time. But I’m tellin’ you—right here—in this godforsaken place—where yer standing at twenty-three and I’m standing at forty-nine—this is where the answer is. You start opening up and doing all the shit they tell you, I guarantee, not only are you gonna stay sober, yer gonna come out of here lovin’ and respectin’ yourself like you never have in yer whole life.”
He takes drags at the butt of his cigarette, exhaling loudly and saying, “Goddamn, do I wish I’d had this opportunity at your age.” And then, stamping out the cherry and putting his sunglasses back on, “You better not fuckin’ blow it, ya hear. I swear I’ll hunt your ass down.”
He laughs and laughs at that, and I laugh, too, just ’cause it seems polite.
“You can relax, little brother, the sermon’s over. Let’s get on to group, huh?”
He starts off down the hill, but before he can get too far, I stop him, saying, “Hey, Jonathan.”
He turns back, taking off his sunglasses again, I guess to show that he’s really listening.
“I, uh… you know… thank you. I wanna change. I really do. And… well, I believe you that this is the place where that can happen.”
He nods his head, smiling with his mouth closed.
“It is, little brother. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
He turns away from me again.
“Come on,” he calls back. “I’ll even bring out the guitars after dinner if you want. This is a day to celebrate.”
I follow on down after him, feeling safe suddenly—like being curled up small—following him down to the group room in one of the converted trailers, and he opens the door and holds it for me to go past.
We’re late, of course, but not by that much.
Still, I’m sure I’ll get some shit for it from someone, so I don’t look around at all till I’ve already grabbed an open seat near the back.
This guy Richard’s on one side of me—a fat creep who always wears one of those ridiculous Greek fisherman’s hats.
He leans over and whispers, “You’re late,” in my ear.
He laughs moronically, putting his elbow into my side.
“Check out the new girl,” he says, gesturing with his bulbous
