Page 28 of Mountain Man Bad Boy

“Disneyland,” I clarified.

“Cool.” She gave me a sideways glance as I eased out of the conversation, toward the door. “Get me a souvenir.”

“Sure!” I called out cheerfully as I followed Porter’s steps out through the visitors’ lobby. I would have to figure out how to get an authentic Disneyland souvenir while I was gone, but that was a problem for another day.

I nearly raced home to pack. A pair of jeans and a few T-shirts went into the suitcase, as well as my toiletries and accessories. On consideration, I threw in my clubbing outfit. It couldn’t hurt. This type of situation was exactly what that dress had been designed for.

I found a hotel in Singer’s Ridge and made a reservation. There was no way I’d risk staying at my dad’s. I called the vet and arranged for Evil to be boarded. Then I crawled around on my hands and knees, trying to coax the little queen out of hiding.

“This isn’t a doctor’s appointment,” I said cheerfully. “Mommy has to go somewhere, and you have to go to camp.” She fought tooth and nail, latching onto my shirt so I had to pry each one of her claws loose. “It’s only for a week,” I soothed, fastening the latch.

Before I had a chance to rethink the adventure, I grabbed my suitcase in one hand and the pet carrier in the other. I found my car, dropped Evil off at the vet, and was on the road. Throughout the drive, a scared part of my mind tried to convince me that my plan wouldn’t work. I had seen Porter’s face the last day when I refused to give him my number; he had been angry. Maybe he wouldn’t appreciate me tracking him down. Maybe this was a lost cause, and I should just curl up in bed and lick my wounds.

I fought back against the negativity. I could make it up to him, I thought. I would give him my number this time, plus a whole lot more if fate went my way. The thought of retreat sent bile surging through my stomach. I couldn’t forget him. I had tried. I wouldn’t be happy again until I had given our relationship the attention it deserved. My fantasy in the shower came back to me, the ghost of Porter’s ship in my harbor. I wanted that for real this time. I was tired of imagining a life with him; I wanted to live it. After twenty minutes on the highway, I pulled off into my hometown of Singer’s Ridge.

15

PORTER

It was amazing how quickly it all came back to me. Loading and unloading the machines, hauling the lumber, keeping up with the orders. There was so much involved in the job, I wondered how I had ever managed to do it while on drugs. I could easily have slipped while feeding a board into the cutter, chopped off my own hand, or worse. I wondered why Mr. Matthews had ever let me work. He had known I was under the influence. As I was learning, everyone had known.

Old Man Matthews wasn’t an idiot. He never had me serving customers. My job was on the back end, unloading shipments and cutting boards to order. If a customer ever saw me, I was like bigfoot in the lumberyard—you looked twice and I was gone. But he still had a lot of faith in me, more than I would have toward an employee who acted the same.

“Hey, Porter,” Derrick, one of the other laborers, clapped me on the back. “You wanna go out for a drink later?”

“Very funny.” I shrugged him off.

“We could get one of your favorites—what is it?” Derrick chuckled, “Weed, booze, and pills in a blender?” He slapped my shoulder again, doubling over at his own joke.

“I’ll save that kind of party for when your sister’s back in town,” I retorted, pleased to see the bully’s smile dry up.

“Leave him alone,” Mr. Matthews said, coming out of the office.

I shrugged off the ill-mannered exchange and went back to work. It was a long day, and by the time I clocked out, my chest, shoulders, and thighs were sore. Three weeks’ worth of playing video games had not prepared me for eight hours of hard labor. I was beginning to wish I had spent all of my time in the gym, instead of the paltry thirty minutes I had allotted myself daily.

I wasn’t going to complain, though. For someone like me, who was forced to take time out to address a serious medical condition, just having a job to come back to. This made all the difference. I tried to thank Mr. Matthews, but he waved me away.

“Just do your job,” he said.

So I was trying to do the best that I could. I remembered the old days of sneaking off between the rows of uncut logs to smoke a joint and bringing whiskey in a thermos and pretending it was water. How could I have been so stupid? When most people around me was loving and supportive, I had been busy trying to kill myself. It didn’t make any sense, and there was no way I could go back in time to change it.

After work the first day, I decided to go to the grocery store. Since I wasn’t using, that meant I would be eating more than I had in the past. I couldn’t afford to eat out for every meal, so it stood to reason that I should stock my pantry.

I felt like an Earthling on Mars stepping into the store. There were families with kids, young professionals, and old people. I was alone in a land full of functioning adults, joining them in this weekly ritual that they considered ordinary. I noticed that some people had handheld baskets, and some had pushcarts. I opted for a cart, not sure how much space I would need.

There was a fresh fruit and vegetable section. I grabbed a bag of apples and a bunch of bananas. I didn’t have a kitchen in my room, and while there was one I could use in the common area on the third floor, I didn’t relish the idea of spending any time there. I wanted good food that I didn’t have to cook. Chips and salsa were my next find, as well as some nuts and a six-pack of protein shakes.

Feeling pretty good about my selections, I waited in line to purchase them. A little girl seated in her mother’s cart waved at me. I waved back. The magnitude of the exchange struck me full force in the chest. It was like they had accepted me as one of them. I was a normal adult, shopping at a grocery store, doing normal adult things on a workday evening. The feeling was almost like euphoria.

There was only one thing missing, and that was Gina. I tried to let her go, to move on with my life, and for the most part, I was successful. But every now and then, at the most inopportune times, a memory would come back to me. Standing in the checkout line, reading headlines from the latest gossip magazines, I had a sudden desire to talk to her.

I looked around at all the husbands and wives grocery shopping together. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to share this triumph with? Gina would understand completely how much of a miracle this simple task presented for me. She could share in the wonder and the trepidation I felt at being included in the ranks of the sober. She was the only one who would see the world with new eyes, just like I was seeing it. I wished she was there with me, but then the sting of her rejection pricked me anew, and I frowned.

I bought the groceries and drove home to a clean room. Having to entertain myself without the assistance of drugs was a new thing. I didn’t have all the arts and crafts or video games of the treatment center at my disposal. My room was just a bed, a dresser, a dorm fridge, and two windows. I didn’t even own a TV. My phone didn’t work; I hadn’t had time to buy minutes, so I had nothing but an old copy of Catcher in the Rye to keep me occupied.

Luckily, I was tired as sin. As soon as my meal of fruit and nuts was finished, washed down by a protein shake, I hit the sack. As I had predicted, there was a momentary urge to go out to the trash bin to see if I could find my stash. But the moment passed, and my thoughts settled on a more painful absence.

16

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