Page 9 of A Man To Remember
"You okay?" Austin's voice comes from somewhere behind me, and I jump like I've been caught doing something wrong.
"Yeah! Yeah, totally fine." I'm already backing toward the door, fumbling to zip up my hoodie with hands that don't want to cooperate. "Just remembered I have to... um... I should probably head home. Early morning tomorrow and all that."
"I can send you the photos later tonight if you give me your email," Austin calls after me, but I barely register his words.
My mind is too busy spinning, trying to make sense of what just happened. Of why I kept playing dumb just to feel his hands on me again. Of why my skin still tingles where he touched me.
Of why I'm half-hard in my jeans.
This isn't... I mean, I'm not...
But maybe I am?
No. No, no, no. I can't deal with this right now. I need to get out of here, need to clear my head, need to figure out what the hell is happening to me.
"Thanks for... yeah. Thanks," I mutter, probably not even loud enough for him to hear, and then I'm out the door and speed-walking down the hallway, trying to remember the way out through this maze of corridors.
I am so monumentally fucked.
CHAPTER 6
JESSE
THERE ARE TEN faces inside by the time I enter at eight fifty-five the next morning. Seven familiar ones, and three I've never seen before.
There's a man standing alone in a shadowy corner, his eyes darting from person to person, as if one part of him wants to connect, while another part keeps pouring buckets of shame on his head, reminding him of who he is. Another man, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here. And then there's the lady. Early fifties, if I were to guess, although guesses like that tend to be off in this place. She's seated in one of the chairs set up in the middle of the room in a spacious circle, head hung low, fiddling with the hem of her oversized, gray sweater. I look at her for a few seconds, hoping to catch her gaze, to offer her a reassuring smile. But she never looks up.
Am I happy to see them here? Frankly, I don't know. It's always bittersweet.
A familiar face waves at me from the other side of the room. I roll my eyes but my soul grins as I saunter over to where Mark is standing by a long table with a couple of pots of coffee and a large platter of cookies I'm sure are homemade, because it was Maria's turn.
"No," I say as soon as I get within Mark's earshot before he can speak, because the eager glint in his eyes lets me know he's about to challenge my request yet again.
His shoulders slump, which means I'm winning. "Are yousure?"
I chuckle as I grab a foam cup and pour myself some steaming black life force from one of the pots. Not because I need it, but because that's what I always do. Routine is important. "Positive. Ihatehooplas. You should know that by now." He really should, but it doesn't stop him from nagging me every single July.
"Alright, alright." The genuine resignation in his voice is genuinely amusing. As he reaches into his pocket and fishes out a small, inconspicuous-looking box, a lock of thick black hair falls onto his forehead. It's way shinier than it was the first time I met him. So is mine for that matter. He removes a round object from the box before dropping the last seven years of my life onto my waiting palm.
Again, bittersweet. "It's heavier than the last one," are the only words my brain comes up with. Maybe I should have more to say. Maybe I should have gone for the hoopla.
"I'm proud of you, kid."
Before I can send him another eye roll to break the dad energy he's slipped into, an old-fashioned, wall-mounted clock chimes, letting us know another hour of our lives has come to pass. I send him a friendly wink instead and walk over to thechair circle, foam cup in hand, and give a few silent up-nods to people I know, before I take a seat between Maria and one of the new guys.
Mark plops down a few seats to my left, the chair's legs squeaking against the linoleum floor as he does. "Good morning," he says in his loud, but exceptionally soothing voice. "So," he claps his hands together, "who'd like to start?"
I sweep my gaze across people's faces until I stop at the gray sweater woman who's seated almost straight across from me. She's fiddling with the hem with fresh ferocity now, her eyes still on her lap, somehow more intense now, as if Mark is a teacher asking who'd like to share their homework and she came unprepared.
With my eyes fixed on her, I raise my hand.
Mark nods in my peripheral. "Go on."
She flinches at the sound of his words and looks up for the first time. Her eyes dart to people to her left, then right, all of whom are watching me. Finally, they land on mine. Only then do I start. "Hi," I say, seemingly to everyone, but really, just to her. I even go for a small smile. She needs it. "My name is Jesse, and I'm an addict."
CHAPTER 7
AUSTIN
