Page 106 of Sapphire Spring

Then Mason was standing at the liquor case, hearing the buzzof the fluorescent lights for the first time, fingers resting against thechilled glass. His stomach contorted into what he figured was his body’s bestattempt at rebellion, best attempt to tell him to stop.

Then he heard a gentle, familiar sound. Designer clogs clappinglinoleum floor, the swish of a long sundress.

Then he smelled the sweet floral perfume that had come tomean hard truths would be told. Shirley was standing next to him at the case.

“Thought you were an ice cream guy,” she said. “Freezer’son that wall.”

If he looked her in the eye, that dam inside would finallygive. And sure enough, it did. When he met her gaze, his vision blurred, and hewas blinking back tears.

“That’s going to be ahelluvashiner,” Shirley said.

“Did you follow me here?” Mason croaked.

Shirley nodded.

“How much did you hear?”

She rested her back against the liquor case. Her pose lookedcasual, but she was blocking the vodka, he realized. “I heard the Godzillaversus Douchebag part. Then, once Naser left, I figured you might be headedsomeplace like this.” When he didn’t say anything further, she added, “You’reGodzilla, by the way.”

“I screwed up, Shirley.”

“Have you had a drink?”

He shook his head.

“Then it’s fixable. Take a drink and it won’t be.”

He told her the whole story, starting with his fight withhis dad that day, trying to keep his voice low, hating how it made him soundlike a pouting little boy.

“I was working so hard to be different and then one wordcomes out of my mouth. And it was like I ruined everything.”

“Why’d you say it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you should do the work to figure that out.”

“All I’ve been doing is working on myself.”

“Oh, sweetie. Please.”

“How manydamnmeetings have I beento? How many apologies have I made? I mean,all ofthat means nothing now because I said one word?”

Shirley stood up straight. “You almost killed someonetonight. And you lashed out at the man you claim to care about with the mosthurtful word you can think of. And no offense, Mason, but youhaven’tbeendoing all the work. You’ve been popping into meetings for two weeks and gettingto know people, but you haven’t cracked the spine on the copy of theTwelveStepsand Twelve TraditionsI gave you, and youhaven’t put a pen to paper to do a single writing exercise I’ve suggested. Andall of them are about getting down to the root of this rage that made you throwsomething at your father and almost beat your best friend half to death.

“From day one, you fast-forwarded to the first step out ofthe twelve that you thought would put Naser in your bed fastest. And it worked.For this long. And in that time, you made him your higher power, and now thatyou think you’ve lost his approval, you’re six inches from a vodka bottle.That’s not love. Not for him, not for you. What I heard in your house tonightsounded louder and worse than any of your drunken parties. Look, Mason, there’schemical sobriety and then there’s emotional sobriety. You’ve had one and notthe other. Now you’re about to lose both.”

He was too shamed to fight, too tired to argue.

Too exhausted to admit she was anything other than right.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked.

She sucked in a long, deep breath, as dramatic as any she’dperformed on television over the years. “Are you sure you want to ask me thatquestion?”

He nodded.

“All right, then. Strap yourself in.”

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