“Thanks for driving us.” Alicia’s cold tone sparks concern in my gut.
Her mom blinks up at me, almost as if she’s seeing me for the first time. “Who are you again?”
“I’m—”
“He’s an old friend.” Alicia holds her mom’s hand and starts walking toward the door. “We should get you inside. Rest for a while.”
“Don’t be rude, Alicia.” Her mom glances over her shoulder, meeting my gaze. “This nice man drove us home; you should invite him in for a drink.”
Alicia heaves out a sigh. “I don’t drink. And neither does Chase.”
“You never used to be such a drag, Alicia.” Her mom shakes her head and pushes inside the house. She walks with purpose and Alicia follows. I trail behind them both.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Alicia asks.
Her mother pulls a bottle of wine from the refrigerated case under the sink, then reaches for the electric tool to uncork it. “She used to be the life of the party, you know?” She glances across the counter to meet my stare before turning to grab two empty glasses from a cabinet shelf.
The glug, glug, glug of the wine as it pours into each glass rattles my nerves. I’ve never been much of a wine drinker, but I am a recovering alcoholic. It shocks me that Alicia’s mom would fill these in front of her daughter, knowing the struggle she’s been through.
“Always the center of attention, this one.” Her mom nods to where Alicia stands frozen beside me. “Used to smile more too. She needs a drink more than I do.” Her sharp laughter lacks humor. It’s cruel, and though this woman just lost her husband, I instantly dislike her. “Or maybe your friend here will join me because you’re too good to have a glass of wine with your grieving mother.” She wields her insult like a challenge, sliding over a full glass and holding Alicia’s stare.
“I’m good,” Alicia bites out. “It’s been a long morning. Chase would probably like to go home.”
“I think Chase is old enough to make his own choices—”
“I don’t drink,” I interrupt in an attempt to cool the crackling tension. “Thank you, though.”
“Suit yourself.” Her mom slides the two stems between her fingers, and takes both glasses as she saunters out of the room.
Even after her retreat the air is tense.
I don’t know what to do here. All I know is that I’m not leaving Alicia’s side.
She swallows hard, her eyes on the bottle her mother left behind. “I need to find a meeting. Now.”
“Okay.” I sense the alarm in her tone. I’ve been there many times. Pulling my cell out of my pocket, I find the nearest one. “It starts in an hour.”
“Let me go tell Simon first.” Her chest rises and falls with measured breaths, almost as if she’s trying to control the air in the room. She doesn’t move to leave. “Matty’s napping.”
“Want me to come up with you?” I touch her arm.
“No.” She shakes her head, snapping out of her trance. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
We gather in one of the classrooms of a community college near downtown. I’ve caught a few meetings here before, but I don’t recognize any faces as we take our seats in a small circle of chairs.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alicia so quiet. It’s not until we’ve gone around the room and introduced ourselves that I understand why.
“I’m Alicia and I’m an alcoholic.” She pauses as the small crowd extends their greetings. “It’s been one thousand, five hundred and fifteen days since my last drink. But today I almost threw it all away. I wanted to. I still want to, and that’s why I’m here.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” The meeting leader nods. “Do you mind sharing what it is that triggered you or made you want to relapse?”
“My father, he died today.”
Murmurs of condolences fill the room.
I reach for her hand and squeeze.
She tugs it back into her lap. “But instead of being sad or upset, or thinking of how to console my mother, the only thought I had was how quickly I could sneak away and drink.” The pitch in her voice grows with the speed of her words. “I thought after four years I was past this. That maybe I made it to the next level. One where I still struggle, but not all I can think about or focus on is my next drink. I thought I was above my addiction.”
“But you came here.”
Her gaze drops to her lap. “I almost didn’t.”
“We all live on that line. We’re addicts.” The group leader makes eye contact with each person in our circle. “The disease is part of who we are. We can’t separate from it. You make a decision every day. Every hour. Sometimes every minute, to be sober. To choose freedom over shackles. It’s exhausting, but we keep fighting because we know our brain is lying when it promises relief if we take that one drink, that one hit.” He waits for Alicia to lift her gaze to his. “Keep fighting.”
His words hit straight to the core. By the nods of agreement in the room, I’m not the only one who agrees. I hope it’s what Alicia needed to hear. I couldn’t have said it any better myself. I pray she keeps fighting—for us, for her sobriety, for a life full of joy.
It's not until we are in the truck and driving back from the meeting that we finally get a chance to talk in private. There’s so much I want to say. I really hope she’ll hear me. “Hey, I’m really proud of you.” I reach for her hand, and take it as a good sign that she doesn’t pull away. “You never told me your mom’s an alcoholic.”
“Yeah, well,” She glances out the window. “It’s
