Page 40 of Blackout

“What’s the matter?” he questions hoarsely.

“I…I’m just lightheaded,” I stammer. Remembering my boss wants to speak with me, I comb my fingers through my hair and with my free hand I hastily start putting the contents of my purse back where they belong.

“You’re lightheaded,” he repeats. Fearing, I’m overreacting like I often do when I’m on the verge of losing my fucking mind, I don’t tell him I threw up, or that I had a panic attack. I leave out that my legs feel like Jell-O too.

“Yeah, I just need to get home and lay down.”

“Lace—” A knock sounds from the door, startling me.

“Blackie if it’s too much, I’ll call my father,” I snap, roughly grabbing my purse off the counter.

“It’s not too much, girl,” he says calmly. “I’ll be right there.”

My boss calls my name from the other side of the door and I don’t bother replying to my husband. Instead, I end the call and shove the phone into my purse. My wobbly legs carry me away from the sink and I pull open the door, fixing my mask to my face.

“Sorry,” I say, forcing a smile. “Nature calls.”

Or rather insanity.

I follow her down the hall and take a seat in front of her desk. If I wasn’t busy trying to hide the fact, I was falling to pieces in front of her, I might’ve been able to focus. I might’ve caught the glum expression on her face and would have been better prepared for when she solemnly laid me off. Instead, I sat there like a statue and pretended to listen as she listed all the reasons the state was cutting the funding for the drug counseling program.

“I’m sorry, Lacey,” she says.

My stomach rolls again, and I instantly bring my hand to it, hoping it will settle. Pushing past the nausea, I straighten my shoulders and stare at her.

“Save your apologies for the dozens of people who come here looking for help.”

“Lacey—”

“My husband is a recovering addict, Marjorie,” I interject, rising to my feet. “This isn’t just a job for me.”

“I’m sorry but this wasn’t my decision,” she defends. “I know the importance—”

“No, you don’t,” I spat.

Just last week, I overheard her talking about the program and the men and women who weekly pour their hearts out to me. She, like so many people, think they choose to be addicts when in all actuality the only thing they’re choosing is to help themselves by attending those meetings.

“You couldn't care less,” I add, hitching the strap of my purse over my shoulder. She doesn’t argue and I quickly leave her office, slamming the door behind me. I contemplate grabbing my files and cleaning out my desk, but another wave of dizziness hits me. It takes all the strength I have in me to make my way downstairs. Outside, I take a seat on the front steps and drop my head into my hands.

A wave of sadness washes over me as I think of all the hopeless faces I’ve encountered since I started working at the rec center and tears roll down my cheeks as I recall each of their stories. The last face I see is Blackie’s as I think back to the day he walked into one of my meetings. He stood in the circle and confessed to being an addict. He brought hope to those people by revealing he was clean and sober. Then he got down on one knee and shared his reasons before asking me to be his wife.

“Lacey,” Blackie calls, forcing me to lift my head from my hands. Staring at him, I think he’s a figment of my imagination, another cruel joke manufactured by my maker. Then I remember I called him.

“Jesus Christ, you’re as white as a ghost,” he says hoarsely. “What happened?”

Little girls dream of one day finding a prince to sweep them off their feet. He’s usually perfect in every way. I never wanted a prince and perfect is overrated. I only ever wanted the man kneeling in front of me. Concern pours from his eyes as he lifts his hand to my cheek.

“I just want to go home,” I whisper.

Keeping his brown eyes on me, he bites the inside of his cheek as he studies me intently. Sure he’s going to press me for more, he takes me by surprise my rising to his full height and silently offering me his hand. I lace my fingers with his and he helps me to my feet. Bypassing his bike, he leads me around the building, to the parking lot where my car is parked and asks for my keys. Once he helps me into the passenger seat, he rounds the front of the car and slides in behind the steering wheel.

He drives with one hand and holds mine with the other. When we finally make it home, he pulls into the driveway and turns the car off. Neither of us makes a move to get out and his hand tightens around mine.

It’s me who breaks the silence.

“I lost my job,” I reveal, staring mindlessly out the window. “The state cut the funding.”

“Jesus, Lace,” he sighs. “That’s what’s got you all worked up? Baby look at me,” he coaxes, lifting his hand to my cheek. I lean into his touch and turn my head.

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