Page 82 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
She shook her head back and forth, back and forth. “No,” she whispered.
“Jessica. I have not had a drink since.”
“You told me you were an addict, but I didn’t know what you meant. Then I figured you were an adrenaline junkie with your extreme sports.”
She started reaching for the door.
“Baby, what are you doing?”
“I can’t be here with you. I’ll call an Uber. I need space. I need to think about this.” She paused and said angrily, “You were the one who told me to be honest. You were the one who told me that I needed therapy. I went and got therapy. But I should have asked. You should have told me. Because you’ve become my whole world, but you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie to you.”
“Lie by omission.”
“Fuck, woman, I just didn’t have the right time to tell you. I was going to.”
“If I would have known, I never would have gotten involved with you.”
Fuck.
She kept going. “My dad had a DUI and killed someone. Himself.”
What?
No.
“Oh my God,” she started wailing. “Oh my God. I repeated the pattern. I found my father. This is what codependents do. We find the same unhealthy pattern over and over again.”
Oh my God. I knew I didn’t deserve her. I knew she was better than me. She would never feel for me the way I feel for her.
Because of my past.
She started crying. With a wail, she opened the door and stepped out. I jumped out my door and ran around to the passenger side. She backed away from me towards the railing of the road and the white cross marking the spot where I took a life, cars whipping past us on the freeway. I hated that she backed away from me. I hated that that fucking abuse she’d suffered had been at the hand of an alcoholic.
I hated that she was right. She needed to protect herself. She couldn’t fall for me because it would be repeating the pattern.
“Jessica. I regret that day every single day of my life. The victim was an alcoholic who cleaned up his act. His family gave me a chance. We worked out a plea deal where I got a suspended sentence as long as I stayed sober. I go to meetings and have a sponsor. I paid restitution, and I did my hours of community service. I don’t drink anymore. I will never drink again. I stopped cold turkey.”
“But you still need it. You need the escape. You just get it from another source.”
I looked at her. “Get back in the car, baby. I’ll take you home. It’s not safe here on the side of the road.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m calling a cab.”
“I’m not leaving you here. I’ll take you home. You don’t have to talk. Just please. Please get in the car, baby. Please don’t call Uber. I’ll take you home.”
Staring at me, she shook her head no, then looked around at the traffic on the freeway. “Okay.”
She got back in the car, and I ran around to my side and got in. After she had seatbelted herself in, I took off, driving as carefully as I could.
“Just don’t hate me,” I whispered. “I’m not that guy anymore.” I was pleading now. “You said you’d like me no matter what.”
Her gaze was unflinching. “That was before I knew you were an alcoholic. Once an alcoholic, always one. How long until you lose it? You’re so physical. How long until you yell at me, and it goes to something more?”
“Never. I would never do that,” I vowed. And I knew it was true.
But she didn’t believe me.
