Page 109 of Rookie Recovery

Fuck.

Fuck I was such a fucking idiot. And now I was drunk and on the brink of plunging headfirst into a low, deep hole I hadn’t seen the bottom of for a long time. Fuck me.

“Yeah, okay.” My voice faded away to a faint murmur. I wasn’t angry; I was sad. I wanted to forget, for a little bit. For once in my damned life. Not think.

“Here, have some water.”

As he slid the tall, sweating glass towards me, my phone buzzed against the sticky wood. Drawing both our gazes.

Katie: Sullivan, answer your damn phone. I’m worried.

Then, it started ringing. We both stared at it. At the name KATIE flashing across the screen, her grinning, self-imposed photo underneath.

“That your girl?” Bartender asked.

“No. I’m gay.” I sighed, swiped my finger down to decline the call.

Turned my attention back to the TV. To Bowie. It was a close-up now, of him nodding along with a microphone under his chin. That gorgeous grin split his face.

“Just, you know, go out, skate hard.” Fuck, that beautiful British voice of his. “Play the game we love.”

My chest ached enough to make me wonder if I’d somehow cracked a rib between the PR at the bench and drinking myself under the table. Could a broken heart break ribs? What was the physical therapy for that kind of injury?

“Jesus, Jamie,” a female voice said behind me, and both the bartender and I turned towards the door. Katie marched in like she’d come to save the day. Or ruin it. I wasn’t sure anymore.

“Fuck off, Katie.” I slumped back over the bar. The picture of middle-aged depression. “I’m drowning my sorrows.”

“Doing kind of a shit job.” She plopped down next to me. “And this is the worst thing you could be watching. Change the channel, Reg?”

I realized she was talking to the bartender when the TV flickered off Bowie’s face to a long stretch of Florida-green fairway. The guy down at the other end of the bar muttered something that the three of us pretended not to hear.

“How’d you find me,” I sighed, pulling myself away from the screen. What was the point looking, if Bowie wasn’t on it? Which meant, without that distraction, I now had to look at Katie. I didn’t want to look at Katie.

“Closest sports bar to your condo. And I know Reggie.” She nodded at him. “Thanks for calling me.”

“Sure thing. We just talked hockey.”

“Course you did.” Katie sighed, and then her fingers wrapped around my biceps. “C’mon, Sullivan. Let’s get you home.”

“I’m drowning my—”

“Sorrows, yeah, I know, Mr. Pathetic.” She slid off the stool, then tugged at my arm. I obeyed, because I was sloshy and mushy and complacent. Like I was about to be a whole lot of dead weight. Good thing Katie was strong. “You pay your tab?”

“Shit.” My fingers fumbled at my butt pocket for my wallet. The brown leather swam in my gaze as I scraped my card out, tossed it onto the tacky bartop. Reggie swept it away, then pressed it back into my hand a minute later.

Then, Katie and I were outside.

It was dark. Cool. Smelled like fall—city smog and cold air and damp leaves. Lights popped out of the darkness like eyes, setting the streets aglow along the sidewalk. Katie didn’t let go of my elbow as we headed towards my condo, and I was probably staggering. Definitely staggering.

Car headlights blurred white and red to my right. The yellow glow of bars smeared the buildings to my left. Music thumped out from somewhere indiscernible. Katie kept me moving forward, even as people swirled around us like shadows.

“You want to talk about it.” Her words weren’t a question.

“I fucked up.” Mine spilled out like I’d been waiting for her invitation. “I fucked up, and he hates me.”

“He’s mad at you, yeah.”

“He should be.”

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