Page 59 of The Secrets We Built Together

"What's that?"

"Rule number five: remember what's real and what isn't."

I swallowed, nodding slowly. "That's probably smart."

We sat in silence, the porch swing creaking gently beneath us. In the distance, an owl called, answered by another. The night air carried the scent of early summer, sweet and promising.

"Blake?" Xander's voice was quiet in the darkness.

"Hmm?"

"Today, when I reached for your hand in the parking lot..." He paused. "I forgot we weren't being watched."

My heart stuttered in my chest. "It's fine. We were just practicing."

"Right," he agreed. "Practicing."

But as we sat there, separated by barely two feet of weathered wood, I couldn't help wondering which was the real performance—the hand-holding and affectionate touches in public, or this careful distance we maintained when alone. And I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to know the answer.

Chapter 23

Xander

The folding chair creaked beneath me as I shifted my weight. The community center's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everyone in the circle in a harsh glow that left nowhere to hide. I ran my thumb over my sobriety chip—the bronze one marking one full year—feeling the weight of its significance. Today was the day I'd been working toward since that first shaky meeting twelve months ago. I’d asked my sponsor to not make a fuss. To let me just soak in the fact that I’d earned this chip, but now that I had it in my hand, something about speaking to them all just felt right. Needed.

"My name is Xander, and I'm an alcoholic."

The chorus of "Hi, Xander" washed over me, familiar after all this time, yet somehow different tonight. More celebratory.

I cleared my throat. "Today marks one year of sobriety for me."

The circle erupted in quiet applause, a few people nodding with knowing smiles. The recognition felt both overwhelming and earned.

"I haven't shared in a while. Things have been... complicated lately, but in ways I never expected when I first walked through those doors."

Twenty pairs of eyes watched me without judgment. That was the beauty of these meetings—everyone here had their own demons. No one was interested in measuring the size of mine.

"Some of you know I've been working on opening a rehabilitation center at my brother's ranch," I continued. "It's going well. Actually, better than expected. We're already fully booked for the first year." I paused, realizing I was stalling. "But that's not why I need to share tonight."

My fingers tightened around the chip. "A few weeks ago, my life changed completely. A woman I barely knew ended up with temporary custody of her infant niece. DCFS got involved, and somehow I found myself in a fake engagement with her to help keep the baby safe."

A few eyebrows raised, but no one interrupted.

Jeremy, my sponsor, nodded slightly from across the circle, encouraging me to continue.

"We're living together. Playing house. Pretending to be something we're not." I swallowed hard, the words sticking in my throat. "Except somewhere along the way, I stopped being able to tell what's pretending and what's real. And I think... I think I don't want it to be pretending anymore."

The admission felt both shameful and liberating, like lancing a wound.

"Last week, I saw her talking to another man at the bookstore. An artist, like her. He was looking at her work, complimenting her talent, and I felt this surge of... jealousy. Possessiveness. Like she was mine to protect." I ran a hand through my hair. "Butshe's not mine. We have an arrangement. A fake engagement. And I'm getting confused about where the lines are."

Jeremy's expression remained neutral, encouraging.

"I want this so much," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "A real relationship. A family. But I'm terrified that wanting it will somehow jeopardize everything I've worked for this past year. I'm afraid that if I let myself feel too much, need too much, I'll slip back into old patterns."

The meeting continued, others sharing their stories, offering perspectives that ranged from cautious to encouraging. When it ended, Jeremy approached me, clapping a hand on my shoulder.

"You did good sharing that," he said. "And congratulations on one year. Most people in recovery don't get a manual for navigating fake engagements that develop real feelings, especially not in their first year."

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