[ - ]
Table of Contents [Report This]
Printer Chapter or Story Microsoft Word Chapter or Story
- Text Size +
I tugged my pack of cigarettes out of my hoodie pouch as I made my way down the hall towards the back door. I felt better now that the meeting was over, having spilled my experience for everyone to hear. As much as I complained about it, I was always relieved after the meetings. I wasn’t too fond of sharing my whole story with everyone, there were certain details I omitted, but knowing that other people out there had the same struggle with addiction helped me. I could’ve settled for calling my sponsor, but today it seemed as I needed more than that.

I smiled as I got closer to the door, I could see the sunlight outside. Funny how weather can affect your mood. I pulled the back door open, walked down the steps and into the courtyard with a cigarette in my mouth. The courtyard was another reason I parked in the back, aside from skirting having to make small talk with the other members. It was beautifully landscaped; someone had spent a great deal of time out here. The trees surrounded a semi circle of old stone benches, little clusters of daisies on each side. In the middle of it all there was a beautiful fountain; the bronze in the middle of it sculpted with flowers and butterflies. I’ve taken refuge here many times since I started my sobriety, feeling at peace when I’m here, like a little escape. I took comfort in the fact that it was so close to my allies, so close to the reality of my life, my struggles and my accomplishments. Months ago I did research on the trees, fascinated by their tiny pink buds, and the shape of them. The branches hanging over the benches and if protecting the secrets of the people who sat on them. Weeping Higan Cherry trees, they turned out to be. I am still determined to find some to plant near the house.

I guess it was my house now, wasn’t it? And just like that, my thoughts were rattled.

“DUDE I already told you, I’m here! I just fucking got here!” The sound of his voice startled me, jarring me from my mini daydream. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out here. But there he was, glaring at me while I looked back at him, giving me some variation of the look of death. He lowered his voice. Barely.

I lit my cigarette.

“I can’t believe you called to check on me. Last I knew, I didn’t have to answer to you.” Emphasis on the ‘you’. I tried really hard not to eavesdrop on his conversation, but given the fact that he was practically screaming, it was difficult. Plus, I was distracted by trying to figure out who he was. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

He stood leaning against a black Mercedes convertible, legs crossed at the ankles. He obviously had money, as it wasn’t a car that everybody here was driving. He was wearing baggy dark blue jeans, no doubt designer something, and a dark blue windbreaker, although I couldn’t tell what brand it was. His shoes were so white; they were either brand new, or never worn. He had silver hoops in his ears, and a hat shaded his eyes from me. He also had a pair of sunglasses sitting on top of the brim of the hat. I couldn’t help but notice how thin he was; he didn’t look very healthy to me at all.

“Well, I don’t give a shit who you think you are! You aren’t really my brother, and you sure as hell ain’t my father! Quit fucking checking up on me!” He slid his phone shut, and put it in his front pocket. With his other hand, he grabbed a pack of smokes out of his jacket, shaking them. The sun reflected off of a silver watch, no doubt expensive as well.

“FUCK!” he yelled, throwing the empty pack into the parking lot. He was obviously not very happy. I pulled out my pack, walking towards him, offering.

“They’re menthols.” I said, as he reached out.

“No problem. And…thanks.” He gave me the pack back.

“It’s cool. I'm having one of those days as well.” I said, zipping up my hoodie.

He laughed, and it threw me off. “You have no idea what kind of day this has been.” he looked at me, and I had a feeling he was right. I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know. “AA in there?” He asked, pointing towards the doors I had just exited.

“Uh, yeah, it is. But it just got out. Not another meeting until tonight.”

“Shit.” Was all he said, leaning back against his car again. He took off his hat, and ran his fingers through bleached blond hair, then replaced it on his head. “Today is turning out to be pretty worthless already. And then I got assholes thinking they gotta call and check up on me, like my fucking word ain’t good enough since they found out ‘my secret’.” the air quotes caught me off guard.

I stood there and didn’t know what to do. I felt like he wanted to talk more, but I wasn’t really into making conversation with this complete stranger who obviously had a lot of stuff going on. He cut off my thoughts.

“By the way,” he walked towards me, hand outreached, cigarette between his lips. “I’m AJ.” I shook his hand, and his eyes locked on mine.

“Harley.” I said, and the feeling that I knew him from somewhere grew, but I still couldn’t place him.

“Harley, huh?” He smiled. “That’s an interesting name.” He let go of my hand.

I hesitated. He kept his eyes on me, and smiled again. The smile comforted me, although déjà vu was kicking into overdrive. It was then that he grabbed a McDonald’s cup off the roof of his car, and it was also then that my stomach growled. For the first time today, I felt hungry.

“Thanks.” I started. “Anyway, I gotta go. It was nice meeting you.” I said, making my way towards my car.

“For sure. Hope your day gets better.” He replied, opening his car door as well. I unlocked my door, got in, and relocked it. I looked over at him, and he was backing out, not paying any attention to me.

What the hell, Harley? I thought. I watched him put his car in gear and drive away. I racked my brain for a few minutes, and determined that I might have been going crazy. I obviously had never met this man before.

Interrupting my thoughts, my stomach growled again. I turned my car on, and pulled out of the lot. I checked my phone, and realized I had two voicemails from Gage. Sometimes he didn’t know when to let up. That’s not fair, Harley. You know he’s just worried. I decided to call him when I got home, but first I had to go get food. And McDonald’s seemed to be a pretty damn good idea.

As I pulled into the driveway, I hit the garage door opener. I made sure to park on the right side of the oversized garage. My dad always parked his bike on the left, and the habit had stuck with me, even though I knew he was never coming home. I guess it was an old habit I couldn’t break. Of course, it was also possible that I didn’t want to break it.

Gage called me crazy when I told him I didn’t want to sell the house. “It’s not healthy, Harley.” He said. “It’ll make things worse.” I was determined to prove him wrong. I admit, sometimes it was very hard on me, difficult to the point I felt like I was suffocating. But most days I took joy in it, happy that the little things reminded me of a time when I felt pleased in my life.

I climbed the three concrete steps and closed the garage door, hitting the switch on the wall. I unlocked the door that led into the house. As soon as I was inside, I set my purse and my food on the dining table, and went left to wash my hands in the sink. I glanced at the backsplash as I rinsed my hands. It was tile, the color of sand. I reached out and touched it, wondering what real sand felt like.

Dad told me that the ocean was my mother’s favorite place. He told me the story about how the two of them met – it was the summer my dad had turned 16, and he had taken my grandpa’s bike down to the beach. He saw a cute red head walking with her friends, and he told me he knew then that he wanted to be with her, a love-at-first-site thing. He walked right up to her and asked her out. They had been inseparable ever since.

My father had this house built when they both found out they were pregnant with me. And since my mother loved the ocean so much, he brought it to her, in the kitchen. It looked a little out of date, with the deep blue linoleum, the sea foam green walls, and the seagulls painted around the trim, but my father said it was my mother’s favorite place to be. The cabinets almost matched the backsplash, just a little bit darker, a little grittier look to them. He had also gone to that same beach and collected tons of shells from it, putting them in various glass vases, placing them on the counter. Dad told me once, that if he stood in the kitchen long enough, he could feel her presence. I had stood in the kitchen for hours probably, and had never felt a thing.

I grabbed my purse and my food and headed towards my room. Just as I got inside the door, and set my food on my bed, my phone rang. It was Gage, I could tell by the ring tone. I definitely wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. I put my phone on silent and set it down on my night stand.
While I was eating, I looked around my room. I didn’t spend too much time in here. If I was home I was most likely in the living room, or the basement. The living room is more formal, the basement was what dad always referred to as the family room. And if I wasn’t at home I was in one of two places: the family garage, or Gage’s shop.

I loved my room though. I had redecorated it after I decided to keep the house. All my furniture was black. My curtains and my bed spread both had black and white patters. The walls were painted a dark gray. The room didn’t really have a bad vibe though – color was splashed throughout the room in picture frames, knickknacks, a patchwork quilt I had made years ago on the floor. I also had tons are art adorning my walls, from pictures Zane had drawn, to pieces I had found in antique shops, flea markets, yard sales.

After I was done, I pulled out my journal from under my bed. My therapist had told me that it would probably help me to write things down every once in a while. Since I started, I’d written in it at least once a day. My journal was different than my therapist, or even Gage. It listened to me; let me use it without asking for anything in return. It didn’t ask me to sort out my feelings, or figure out my problems, it didn’t judge me or tell me what to do. It was especially useful in a time like this – when I didn’t want to talk to Gage. I cranked up my radio and leaned against the wall with a pillow behind me, grabbed my pen, and started.