Page 41 of Sapphire Spring

“MasonWorther, you’re either theluckiest son of abitchor the unluckiest. You have aretired sober woman living next door to you during your moment of clarity. Youwill not be able to escape recovery no matter how hard you try.”

“Seriously, though? The middle of the night.”

Shirley shrugged and studied the sunset. It bathed herfreckled face in dark pink light that made her squint and smile at the sametime.

“Oh, I get it.” Mason nodded and followed her gaze.

“What?”

“Youhavetodo this. It’slike a requirement for membership type thing.”

“Haven’t you heard? The only requirement for membership isa—”

“Desire to stop drinking. Yeah, I got that part. But theservice thing soundspretty importanttoo.”

“I give what I was given when I came in. That’s how itworks. And no offense, but it’s a reminder.”

“Of what?”

Shirley looked him dead in the eye. “What you’re going throughright now, yesterday morning, I don’t want to have to go through that againmyself. Ever again. I didn’t quit drinking to become a saint, Mason. I quitbecause I was miserable. If it didn’t look like you were in the same boat, I’mnot sure I would have gone to all this trouble.”

He appreciated the honesty, even if it did sting a littlebit. And he had her to thank for the fact that he didn’t feel as miserable ashe’d felt the day before. Instead, he felt a strange kind of elation. He’d heardanother word bantered around at the meetings, but with a positive tilt he’dnever given to it before—surrender. He’d stopped fighting the idea that hecould someday drink like a normal person, and the result was a combination ofrelief and hope. All those hours spent on hangovers and cover stories andgetting wasted could be spent on something else.

“Thank you,” he said, “for the trouble.”

“It wasn’t trouble. Not really.”

They fell silent, studying the sea for a while. “We reallydo live in paradise, don’t we?”

“When it’s not on fire, yeah.” He grinned.

She laughed, and they fell silent again.

Before he could think twice about what he wanted to saynext, he gave voice to it. For the past day and a half, thinking aloud hadproven essential to his newfound health. “I want to become a better man. Imean, that’s what it’s about, isn’t it? You stay sober by being a better man.”

“Or person.”

“Person, right. Sorry.”

“In some sense. But don’t try for sainthood on your secondday. Take things one day at a time. Do the things that will make you feelbetter about who you are. Be the person you want to have dinner with. Stand inline with. Work with. Visualize that person, and then do your best to be thatperson, bit by bit.”

“Sounds simple.”

“It isn’t. It’s gradual, though. One day at a time.Bite-sized pieces.”

“Bite-sized pieces,” he said, but in his head, he wasalready thinking about which piece he planned to bite off first.

14

Forty-eight hours without a drink ora pill had left MasonWortherflushed with the kindof energy he usually felt after a long run. But that was only one reason why hewas straightening up the break room at the office Monday morning.

“Youdoingspeed now, son?”

He turned from the counter where he’d been sorting thedifferent sweeteners into several ceramic bowls he’d brought from home. His dadblocked the doorway behind him, wearing pressed Ralph Lauren and a suspiciousscowl.

Shirley had told him to look for opportunities throughouthis day to be of service. To shift his focus outward through a series of smalland helpful acts and away from the potential anxieties of withdrawal.Contributionsto the stream of life,she’d called them. She’d also told him not to shouthis AA membership to the rafters until he got his footing and put a few weeksof sobriety together. And even then, he should only confide in the folks whoabsolutely needed to know and the people he might someday try to help the wayShirley was helping him.

“Just trying to contribute.”

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