Page 45 of Best Served Cold

I’d wanted to play for longer, but it’s hard to be upset with the guys. I’m feeling positive. Upbeat.

I feel good about myself. I write back:

Nah, man. I’ve got something else I need to do.

And I go home and work on a song.

It’s a song she could dance to.

The other shoedrops half a week later.

I had my home visit from the team weighing my application to be a foster parent, and it went great. Travis helped me clean up first, and the whole apartment smelled like potpourri.

But I get a call from my caseworker Nelly on Thursday evening, saying they’d received an anonymous tip that I have an alcohol problem and a sex addiction.

The first used to be true. The second? Total bullshit. Sure, I haven’t had many long-term relationships, but that doesn’t mean I’m bringing three women a night back to my apartment. I haven’t even hooked up with anyone for over a month, not since I started the process of becoming a foster parent.

“My half-brother must have been behind it,” I tell her, pacing up and down my apartment. “He’s got something against me.”

“So there’s family drama,” she says, her tone suggesting she’s writing something down. Shit, that’s probably not good.

“Not really, no. I don’t have much to do with him.” I lower onto the couch, feeling a headache coming on. “Emil would probably never even meet him. We’re not close.”

“Rob, it was a woman who called me.”

The headache worsens. Did Jonah get his mother to do his dirty work for him? I’m tempted to ask if she sounded like a fifty-year-old finishing school student with a stick permanently lodged up her ass, but I have a feeling it wouldn’t go down well.

“There’s no truth to the sex addiction thing,” I say firmly, embarrassed to have this conversation with Nelly, who’s a sweet middle-aged woman who knits sweaters for preemie wards. “I don’t…you know…any more than any other guy.”

“And the other?” she asks, her tone gentle.

“I haven’t had a drink in seven years, but yes, I was in AA. Is that a problem?”

“Not necessarily,” she says. “Seven years is a long time. I’m assuming you can put me in touch with your sponsor?”

I cradle my forehead. “He’s not sober anymore, and he moved years ago. But I have friends who can vouch for me. The guys in the band. They can tell you I don’t drink. My buddy Travis is basically my sponsor at this point.”

She hesitates. “Look, it’s great that you have a two-bedroom apartment. Not many single people can afford that in this city. Especially in such a great part of town. But I have to be honest with you. It would look better if you were married or in a serious relationship. Especially given this other accusation.”

I glance up at the brick wall in front of me, empty except for the mounted TV and a framed photograph of my mother and me. She’d given it to me, and I’d hung it up because I missed her. Because she’d always made me feel wanted, even when she was stuck in one of her downward spirals.

I want to provide Emil with that same security.

“Is it a no, then?” I ask thickly.

“I don’t have an answer for you yet, sweetheart. But I know you’re trying to do a good thing. Bless you for that. I’ll make a case for you.”

“Thanks, Nelly,” I say, and hang up.

I have to be honest with myself. For the first time in years, I really want a drink. Because the last thing I can imagine doing is telling that kid it’s a bust, and he’ll only be able to play in stolen moments, when I’m able to meet him on his walks.

The thought fills me with shame, and enough rage that I’d like to pound my fist into the wall a few times. I’d like to call Jonah and curse him out, or show up at his doorstep and punch him in the face, again, the moment he answers the door. But then he really would have me arrested, and I’d have no one to blame but myself.

It’s late, but I go to the gym and work out hard, until I’m tired, panting, and sweaty. When I sit in my car afterward, feeling alone, wrung out, and full of darkness, I find myself slipping a hand in my pocket to touch the stone Dottie gave me.

Then I slip it out and put it in the glove box. Because wishes and dreams don’t do anything, whatever Sophie and Dottie have to say about it.

Travis calls me later, to ask if I have any updates on the Emil front. I feel a prickle of self-consciousness as I lie fluently to him, the way any alcoholic can, telling him the home visit went well and I’m feeling good about my chances.

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