Page 32 of Outspoken

“That’s ridiculous. Any stories about me are that I spiral out of control, screw every guy around, and try to kill myself.” She spins to face me. “Thosestories?”

Her words stab my ears, and I close my eyes for a moment. Two years ago, Brody called to ask if I’d cover his shift because his sister had intentionally overdosed and he needed to stay with her. I barely held it together until the call was over. I asked to visit her in the hospital, which made him suspicious. He said it wasn’t a good idea since she was fragile and couldn’t handle visitors. Then I tried inviting myself over for dinner after she had moved in with him. He was firm in saying no. She was too withdrawn and still couldn’t be around people, so I backed off.

It tormented me. I wanted to be there for her—to comfort her and let her know she could always come to me when she was struggling. But I understood she’d see me as a stranger, and I also didn’t want to risk upsetting her when she was vulnerable and trying to heal. All I could do was pray and try to offer support from a distance, like slipping Brody some cash to help with her rehab. I knew it was pricey.

I wish I could've done so much more.

I open my eyes, her tears and the pain on her face hitting me like a ton of bricks. Something dark and aching snakes through me—the thought of Amber no longer being in this world. All I want is to hold her tight and tell her that I’m always here. If she’s sad or going through something, I’m here.

Biting my tongue, I don’t say what’s in my heart. I have a feeling I’d only come across as intense when I simply don’t want her to feel alone.

When I don’t respond, she says quietly, “It feels like you’re glossing over what I'm really like since you don’t know me beyond the stories. I haven’t done anything to earn any deep feelings.”

I step forward and she doesn’t brush my hand away when I touch her shoulder. “I heard stories about you fighting for Paige—how you got her out of that bad situation and racked up debt paying for a lawyer so she could get back to Brody. I also heard how you took care of Brody while he was recovering at home. He said you even fed him and did his laundry without complaining once.” I was hoping to get a smile, but she only averts her eyes. “I like how you speak your mind. I like how you keep fighting for a better life. You’re strong. You also care a lot about others. I know enough about you to have feelings.”

Her gaze is icy. “Sounds like you put me on a rosy pedestal, just like all of those women in the past. You’re infatuated and it's blinding you. You haven’t experienced me at my worst yet. And you’ve done all of these amazing things for me, but what have I done for you? Nothing.” She steps away from my touch. “Let me ask you something: Those women you proposed to, what did they do to make you fall in love? To actually earn your love? Anything? Or were you just in love with the idea of them?”

I can't speak. What did I love about those women? At the time, everything felt right. Perfect. They all had good qualities, so there must’ve been something I loved. That love was real. I’m sure of it. Otherwise, what was I feeling?

When I keep quiet, Amber rolls her eyes and then walks away. I don’t stop her. What can I say? Her words hit too deep.

“Miguel,” Larry calls across the parking lot. He’s standing at the gym’s entrance. “Your client is waiting.”

“Sorry,” I call back. “Coming.”

I deserve this gnawing despair in my stomach for having pushed Amber. I always push and it causes the same problems. Why do I keep doing it?

Chapter Nine

Amber

I GLANCE AROUND THE CIRCLE at the ten strangers sitting on chairs, regretting my decision to come to this Narcotics Anonymous meeting. All of us sit with our backs straight and eyes fixed on an invisible point in the center of the space. No one speaks—no one wants to be the first to break the silence or make this any more annoyingly uncomfortable than it already is. The air is like a suffocating, hot blanket, so I shift in my padded folding chair, letting my eyes roam for some distraction.

The walls of this small room are off-white and dotted with tattered posters that have seen better days—some encouraging sobriety, others promoting the twelve steps. A large black and white banner over the only exit reads 'Welcome to Recovery!' in bold letters.

I stifle my laugh. Recovery isn't something that welcomes you. It beats you down.

I stare at the door that leads to freedom.Maybe I should make a run for it.

The NA group leader clears his throat and offers a warm smile, looking everyone in the eye before saying, “Welcome. I see a lot of familiar faces and a few new ones.” He glances at me, his expression matching the cheerful yellows and blues of his tropical shirt. “For those I haven’t met, I’m Eric. Just a reminder for everyone: Tonight, sharing is open to any of your own writings or excerpts from published works. If you don’t feel like participating in that, we should have time at the end if you’d like to share anything about your week.”

He pauses to look everyone in the eye again, his bleach-white veneers blinding. I stare at my flats to avoid his sickeningly sweet gaze.Did he lose his real teeth to meth?

“Also remember,” he continues, “our purpose isn't to critique or provide feedback—we're just here to listen. Sharing might get intense, so if you feel triggered at any point, please feel free to take a break outside. I'll be here after the meeting if there's anything you want to discuss in more detail.”

I try not to scan the group again but fail, too tempted to play the gameSo What Drug Ruined YOUR Life?A woman across from me catches my eye. Her knee won't stop bouncing, her messy black hair getting in her eyes. She keeps picking at a thread on her jacket. Since the small, bland conference room we’re in is toasty, everyone except her has taken off their jackets.Is she hiding track marks?

The guy next to her looks like a zombie, staring at nothing on the ceiling. His skin is pale and dry, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. His lips are so chapped that I can see the white flaky bits around his mouth. He's also wearing mismatched socks with sandals. I’m guessing he was into coke and is now struggling to find motivation.

I return to looking at my plain black flats. It’s been months since I’ve worn heels and I’m dressed completely boring today, wearing crappy tattered jeans and a plain shirt. I used to put more effort and pride into my appearance. Guess me and socks-and-sandals guy have the same lack of motivation.

His zombie-eyes dart to the exit.

And we both clearly want to leave.

This is the fourth group I’ve tried, and I still feel out of place. I didn’t fit in with Alcoholics Anonymous. I didn’t fit in the PTSD support group or Pills Anonymous. I doubt I’ll fit here. This group might be the most depressing one yet. Everyone looks on edge, weathered, and drained. Maybe I look the same.

“Who would like to share first?” Eric asks.

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