Page 120 of Sweet Caroline
“Yep.” Gus shoves me over to the bikes.
The bikes. Fuck.
I stiffen, the memory of Caroline on the bike stabbing me in the sternum. “Not bikes.”
He gives me a funny look. “Then get your ass on the treadmill.”
“You’re a dick.” I schlep onto the belt and Gus takes the one to my left. Some sloppy, half-baked part of my brain ponders the possibility that I could run away from this feeling.
“A dick who cares about his best friend. Now move.”
My chest threatens to cave in, but before I can start crying about what a good friend he is, he cranks up the speed on my machine and forces me into motion. With legs that I’m sure areninety percent sand, I clomp along, holding the side rails at first until I find my rhythm and can trust myself not to bite it.
“I hate this,” I puff out between breaths that stab my ribs.
“I know, buddy. I know.”
It’sdark in the grocery store parking lot. Using every available mental resource, I’d mustered up the fucks to buy a few easy meal things, but the prospect of driving home with the food is soul-crushing. I’ve fallen into the sit pit and can’t make myself start the truck just yet.
It’s been two weeks since election night. Two weeks since I told Caroline I loved her—loveher, present tense—and forced myself to walk away. I’ve lost track of the number of texts I’ve almost sent, every one deleted when I rememberedI’mthe one who said I couldn’t do this. It would be cruel to string her along by staying in touch, but the temptation to call her is goddamn relentless.
I’ve sat like a zombie through every AA meeting, only catching disconnected snippets of the readings and stories people share. Jude forced me to set up a daily check-in with Barry for extra accountability. Good idea, probably, but I hate needing that much hand-holding from my sponsor.
And I do.
I could really use a session with my therapist, too, but that ain’t happening. Lydia picked the worst time to go out of town.
Parked beside me, an exasperated mom loads her kids into a minivan, shouting at them to stop fighting. Her voice is muffled through the window, but I catch something about the noise.
My tired eyes slip from her weary face to the neon sign flickering above the liquor store next to Lennox Foods.
Stop fighting.
The noise.
Temptation is an opportunistic motherfucker and I’ve taken so much emotional damage that, at this point, I’m an easy target.
I don’t remember getting out of my truck, but my pulse pounds in my ears as I pull open the door to Riverside Liquor & Wine, the surge of anxiety an almost welcome change from the depression boulder that’s been crushing me into the ground.
It’s both a wildly terrifying and completely ordinary thing to do, buying a bottle of vodka like a regular person.
You’re not a regular person!the voice in my head screams.
If the checkout guy notices I’m shitting myself, he doesn’t let on.
By the time I’m home with the groceries and the booze, the impulsive rush has eased to something more intentional, and a numb detachment settles over me. I set the bottle on the counter next to my phone and keys, then get out a glass, hands clenching as I stare at the curve of the bottle, watching the tilt of the liquid inside settle before I twist off the lid. Closing my eyes, I inhale the familiar smell, blurred and disconnected memories of my drinking days rushing past. The parties, the women, the hangovers. The drunk tanks. The hospitals. The shame.
My memories of Caroline, in contrast, are crystal fucking clear. Painfully clear. I wish I could blur them. Numb them out. Find relief.
I try for a deep breath, anguish squeezing my lungs.
I’ve suffered for so long. Worked so fucking hard. And for what?
Sure, my job is safe, but I’ve lost the best thing that ever happened to me—all because I’m an addict. Just look what I’m about to do, for fuck’s sake. I’m weak. Pete was right; I’m not on her level.
My fingers clench around the bottle.
Don’t do it.
