Page 72 of Chaos

Complete and utter shock are what slow his movements as he returns the gesture. An almost violent exhale leaving him, he squeezes me tightly, the heavy weight of his chin digging into the top of my head. “You’re welcome, kid.”

18

He has very vivid dreams about very red hair.

I’m not goingto lie; I purposely wear my clunkiest boots to my second stint at the Ponderosa Falls Community Center.

I specifically choose a pair of tights I know are laddered too. A mini skirt to show them off. And a sheer black shirt that provides a perfect view of a lacy bra.

Jackson gave me some almighty stink eye when he picked me up, and I’m not exactly steady on my feet, but the look on the face of Alcoholics Anonymous' very own fashion snob makes it worth it.

Silas pinches the bridge of his nose when I stroll inside. I park myself in the seat beside him, and he screws up his face like I’ve just taken a dump at his feet. The meeting starts and he keeps on glowering, shaking his head, huffing pissy little noises that make me grin like a fucking Cheshire cat.

When everyone but me finishes recounting their daily strifes, I don’t bolt for the door like I did last week. I linger. I evensubject myself to an offensively terrible cup of coffee, if only so I can relish in the nostalgic joy of disappointing my elders.

“What if you need to run away from something?”

The same way Silas eyes my boots critically, I crook a brow at the way his frail, old man hand shakes as he lifts a cardboard cup to his lips. “What ifyouneed to run away from something?”

Eyes that remind me of a color in my artist brother’s vast range of paints namedGunmetalnarrow. “That’s ageist.”

“Whatever you say, Grandpa.”

Silas harrumphs. “Your parents should lock you in a basement.”

“My parents are dead.”

Technically, mymomis dead. My dad, just in my nicest, wildest dreams.

Nothing in Silas’ expression changes, but his trembling hand abruptly stills. And, after a long moment and an exaggerated sigh, he extends the one that clutches a cookie—thelastcookie, which he very pointedly snatched up right as I was reaching for it only minutes ago. “You can have it.”

I stare at the offered treat, unsure how to react. Which I don’t really have to, I guess, considering the leader of our motley crew decides to suddenly elbow her way into the conversation. “Si, can we have a minute?”

If I hadn’t just dropped the orphan card, I think the old man would crack a joke about me being in trouble. As it is, he just nods and hobbles off, leaving me and Erica alone. “You know,” she starts, and I already don’t like wherever this is going. “You’ll get more out of this if you participate.”

“I’m getting coffee.” I hold my half-empty cardboard cup aloft. “What more do I need?”

Her sigh reminds me of Lux. Her expression too. There’s even something distinctly big-sister about her tone, her cocked head, her question. “What’re you doing here, Lottie?”

“Waiting for Sunday night bingo to start.”

Erica’s lips thin. “You wanna know what I think?”

God, what is it with people and thinking so much about me? “Not particularly, but I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

“I think you wanna stay sober, but you’re not gonna actively try because that means admitting you’re an alcoholic.”

I start to shake my head—disagreeing or dismissing or just plain disliking, I’m not sure—but I abruptly stop when something catches my eye. Asomeonepushing through the double doors. I blink once, twice, three disbelieving times, but no, my eyes aren’t deceiving me. It really is who I think it is.

Nofuckingway.

As Erica follows my line of sight, she fixes a thoroughly undeserved polite smile into place. “Hi. Can I help you?”

A voice I suddenly realize I’ve never heard before rumbles, “This AA?”

Erica nods. “It is. Afraid you missed today’s meeting, though.”

The man I’ve only ever seen a handful of times from a distance or in a handful of particularly graphic nightmares kisses his teeth. “Oh.”

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