of social situations and the reality of wronged friends not accepting you as a sober person, even if you make amends.
But I’m not sure anyone told me how crippling the feeling of addiction would be. That even years later, almost half a decade, I’d still wake up with a lump in my throat and my hands shaking to grip a bottle. When they say you’re an addict for life, even after getting sober, they mean it.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I lock the door before taking my morning piss. Living with your mother at the age of twenty-nine is not only embarrassing but having her walk in on you mid-drawer drop is something I’ll never quite scrub from my brain.
Note to all kids out there; stay in school, don’t do drugs and lay off the bottle. Otherwise, you’ll end up living with your mom, working a dead-end job, and trying to rebuild your life as a grown-ass man.
After I drain the snake, I wash my hands, brush my teeth, and head back to the spare bedroom in my mom’s condo that has been mine ever since I got back from rehab. As if being the baby of four brothers didn’t come with enough teasing, I’d now put myself in the position to be called pathetic.
I try not to berate myself, as I do each time I walk into a house that isn’t my own, as I dress for my daily run.
Six miles, every single morning. Endorphins help with the cravings and you don’t have much time to think with heavy metal blasting in your ears and your feet pounding the road.
“Do you want some coffee?” Mom asks as I enter the kitchen, sitting in her usual chair at the table in the breakfast nook.
I shake my head. “No, thanks. Just my usual goo before my run.”
All I eat before my workouts is one of those disgusting gel packets that make me shudder just thinking about it. The goop is gross sliding down your throat but it fills your stomach without making you want to vomit halfway through and gives you enough energy to not have me passing out after six miles in the hot July sun.
“Can you pick up milk on your way home? We’re almost out.” Her attention is back on the local paper splayed out in front of her.
“Sure. See you in a bit,” I tell her, kissing her on the cheek and heading for the front door.
The heat blasts me in the face as soon as I step outside. It’s summer days now, which means that even at seven thirty in the morning, it’s a balmy seventy-five. Not that I mind, the harder I sweat, the more the itch in the back of my throat lessens.
Before slipping my phone into the arm band strapped around my right bicep, I scroll through my music to the heavy metal playlist I compiled. Hitting shuffle, an Iron Maiden song blasts through my headphones, giving my heart a jolt akin to an electric shock. Blood begins pumping furiously into my loins, the excitement and fear of a long, hard run mixing in a heady combination.
My muscles scream as I run, trying to beat the pace I set yesterday. That’s how my life goes; I’m always trying to do a little better than I did yesterday. So far, I haven’t backslid much, which I’m thankful for.
I’m also so far behind every other person my age, there probably isn’t any deeper to sink.
I spot Presley’s new white open-top Jeep the minute I come up over the hill. My sister-in-law might be a free-spirit, rolling meadows kind of girl, but she’s still got some of that New York City extra-ness in her that our small town just can’t erase. The truck is flashy, with all the bells and whistles, and I honestly love it. Bowen grumbled about how obnoxious it was when she bought it, and of course, my twin brother’s wife, Penelope, sat on top of the roll bar the day Presley and Keaton pulled up to Mom’s in it.
There is someone in the passenger seat, I notice, as my sneakers push rhythmically off the hot blacktop. It’s strange that Presley would be out here at this time of day … nothing leads from this road but the airport.
The airport … which means the person in her passenger seat is …
Ryan Shea.
As the truck slows, and my sister-in-law begins wildly waving her hand at me, I study the woman sitting next to her.
She looks