it, but this . . . moment . . . it freaked me out.” Like Ian was sending me a sign. Like he was pushing me toward something or maybe warning me against it. It was all very hocus-pocus, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. The universe was speaking, but what was it saying to me. Maybe it was just my thoughts of wanting something different in my life colliding with—and confusing the issue of—Jake’s sudden presence. A person cannot be a replacement for what I need. I learned that lesson the hard way, and it’s why I’m sitting in this chair.
Alcoholics Anonymous isn’t therapy, so I don’t expect anyone to offer any advice or words of wisdom, just encouragement. A pause allows me time to collect my thoughts and continue or signal that I’m finished.
“Anyway, I wanted to share how I know the struggle can be real, continuous, and strike at any time. Sometimes, it’s at the most unsuspected moments, but I didn’t take that drink. I didn’t need it.”
I look up at the chairperson. “Did you do something else?” Often alcoholics are encouraged to find another means of distraction—prayer or physical exercise—but nothing that could lead to a secondary addiction.
“I had coffee with a friend.” I slowly smile, recalling how thankful I am Scarlett has moved to Vermont. My eyes drift up to Jake for only a second as he knows where I drink that coffee. “I went to my happy place.”
The chairperson smiles back at me, and I nod to signify I’m done. Another person begins his tale, and I fall into the story, sympathizing with mental support and offering up a prayer for his continued recovery.
You can’t help those who won’t help themselves. It’s a basic principle in life, but also something my father used to say often. It’s also a major philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous. If Jake doesn’t think he has an issue, there’s nothing we can do for him other than hope honesty happens one day.
When the meeting closes, Jake stands for the chairperson, and I make quick good-byes. Mentioning Ian to the group has me shaken again, and I hastily take the stairs to exit the church when I hear a familiar voice call my name.
8
Jake
I call out to her the second I clear the exit door. Rita disappeared as soon as the meeting was finished, and I needed a second to get my card signed.
Calling her name one more time, she halts on the sidewalk and spins around. “What?”
“I . . .” Now that she faces me, I’m stumped. Why am I chasing her? Blurting out the next thought, I ask, “Who’s Ian?”
Rita crosses her arms and turns her head to the side, contemplating an answer. “Look, we don’t need to do this.”
“Do what?” I ask, scratching the back of my neck.
“Share our sob stories.”
Sob stories? Shit. Was he her fiancé? The one Sullivan said passed away?
“Okay, but—”
Rita has already turned her back on me and begins walking away.
“Wait.” I reach for her elbow, causing her to spin around once more.
“What happens in the meetings stays in the meetings, Jake.” Her eyes blink from behind her glasses.
“Okay, I—” I what? Want to know more about you? Want to understand you? What the hell am I doing? “How about that coffee I owe you for taking your spot at the Busy Bean?”
Rita sighs. “The Bean is closed this late at night.” It’s almost eight, and she’s right, but I still don’t want her to walk away for some reason.
“What about the diner?” I don’t live in Colebury, so I’m not familiar with all their haunts. The pubs and the coffeehouse are on the old gin mill property and the diner is in town. Those are the only spots I know that would have coffee.
Rita eyes me a second and then gives in. “Fine.” Giving me her back once more, I smile with a small sense of victory.
The church is near enough to walk to the diner, but Rita drove, so I follow her. In the short jaunt, I realize I have no idea where Rita lives.
The diner is nothing special—just your typical diner in a small Vermont town—but it’s cozy enough despite the bright fluorescent lights.
“Two coffees,” I state to the waitress behind the counter as we walk toward a booth in the corner. As we sit, I address Rita. “Want anything else?”
“Coffee’s good.” We could have enjoyed a cup outside the meeting, as a percolator pot offers the brew to those who