Page 60 of Blue

Five minutes later, I stood in the driveway while Sully awed and oohed because of the new custom paint job on his bike.

“This gives me a chance to show it off.” He ran his hand over the fuel tank. “Look at the way the sun hitsit.” The paint glittered making the colors sparkle and pop. “Where’re we going?”

I showed Sully the address and Google map on my phone. Then I climbed on behind him. On his massive bike, I rested my hands on top of his shoulders. The pipes vibrated as we rumbled down the street.

By the time we arrived, I’d gone from being nervous about being around other addicts, to excited because I made this choice. But as I stared at the doors of the community center, fear set in.

“Do you want me to come in with you?”

I leaned into the solid wall of Sully’s warmth.

“Come on. Your shit days are behind you, peanut. These people want to help.” He wrapped an arm around me, gave me a squeeze, then ushered me toward the door.

We stepped inside. Folding chairs lined the perimeter of the reception area. A younger guy wore jeans and a cardigan. He sported a goatee and handlebar mustache waxed into tight points. He leaned against the reception desk but straightened as we approached.

His gaze remained on Sully. “Welcome,” he said. “You’re a little early for the morning meeting. There are coffee and cookies in the meeting room.”

I stepped forward. Did I still look like a junkie? Would he know that I still thought about getting high? At least, I remembered how good I felt. That moment of euphoria before guilt darkened my soul. And then I’d want another hit because why fucking bother pretending to be able to fight the dragon.

My throat tightened, tears welled in my eyes, and my lips trembled. Heroin always won, but I could fight my anxiety. I could conquer my insecurities. I could bebrave even when I was fucking terrified. Because I’d promised Blue. I had to decide if I wanted to live or die.

I lifted my gaze and swallowed around the lump in my throat. “I need to talk to someone.”

His gaze quelled my fears, and his voice lowered. “I’m glad you’re here. My name is Ansel.”

Sully kissed the top of my head. “I love you, peanut. If you need me, I’ll be right over there after I grab a cup of that coffee Ansel offered.”

I nodded.

Ansel pointed to a small table behind the reception desk, away from prying eyes, and isolated.

I took a seat and clasped my hands between my knees.

“I have some questions for you,” Ansel said, sitting across from me with two folders. The first, he slid across to me. The second, he opened and picked up a pen to take notes. “Do you consider yourself an addict? If you don’t know, there is a list of questions in your folder.”

I opened the folder and read down the list. Yes, I used alone. Yes, drugs affected my relationships with others. Yes, I’d lied about how much I used. And yes, I’d overdosed.

The question not on the sheet. Would I rather be dead than use again? I’d answer yes. Knots twisted in my gut, but as soon as Sully found a seat in the reception area, I let out a breath. He winked and took a bite out of a cookie.

I listened as Ansel talked about the twelve steps of recovery and the twelve traditions of NA. But at the end of the day, what he wanted me to acknowledge was that I hadn’t become an addict overnight. And recovery was going to take the rest of my life.

“The group therapy sessions are closed meetings. Only those in active recovery are allowed, but you can bring family and friends to open meetings. You’re welcome to share your story. And maybe you’ll find inspiration from others. One a month, we have a friends and family night.”

By the time he’d finished speaking, people had begun to linger in the reception area. An older woman had taken the seat next to Sully. I stood, thinking we both needed a bit of rescuing. I was feeling overwhelmed, and Sully looked ready to run.

“Do you want to stay for the meeting today?” Ansel asked.

I clutched the folder to my chest. “Not today, but I’ll be back, hopefully tomorrow.”

“My number is on the card stapled to the inside of the folder.” He shook my hand.

Sully jumped to his feet, excused himself from the woman, and met me halfway to the door.

“How did it go?” he asked as soon as we exited the building. He slid on his mirrored sunglasses and pulled his bike keys from his pocket.

“I’m an addict, Sully. I can’t be afraid to admit that living sober scares me.” I released a shaky exhale. “But I must be getting better because using again scares me more.”

“I’m hungry. How about we get some breakfast?”

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