Page 34 of Played
Jack’s staring up at me, blinking.
“I-I…” My eyes dart around the room. I’m in Jack’s apartment, but in my head I’m in Kyngston Worthington III’s study. All I can smell are cigars and cheap brandy. And him. Stale piss and dried cum.
I balk.
Jack jumps to his feet. “Mason. Are you okay?”
I slam my hand over my mouth and mumble against my palm. “Must be something I ate.”
He comes closer, trying to reassure me or maybe help me, but I wave him away and hurriedly do up my pants. I need to get out of here. Need to get home. Need to get safe.
I make a hasty apology and a hastier exit, and as soon as I make it out into the busy street, I suck in a lungful of New York air.
I’m still sweating. Still feel like I’m about to throw up. I decide to walk home, needing the fresh air.
Out of nowhere, like a gift from the heavens, I bump into my baby brother, and everything feels better. I wrap my arms around him like he’s a life raft in the storm that’s become my life. “Maddox! What are you doing here?”
He hugs me back, holding me tight, giving me exactly what I need. “I’ve just been to a meeting after my shift.”
I nod, my head still spinning. “Of course, yeah.” Maddox attends regular NA meetings, and one of his favorites takes placein a church near here. Still, it feels more than serendipitous to bump into him now.
“Everything okay, Mase?”
Shit. I must look a mess or at least not my usual self. I nod again though. “Yeah. Yeah. Just happy to see you. You headed home?”
He smirks. “Where else would I be headed on a Saturday night?”
“You want to stay at my place?” I could really use the company tonight—anything to distract me from the disastrous date I ran out on.
Maddox is a nomad, and although he has his own place in Queens, he often stays with me, our dad, or one of our brothers, so it’s not unusual for him to spend the night at my penthouse. Still, I’m glad when he immediately agrees with no questions asked.
We walk through the city, and he’s quiet, which I know from experience is a strategy he uses to get me to talk. After our brunch this morning, I know he suspects there’s something up with me. “How was your meeting?” I ask.
“Great.” He smiles, expertly dodging a mom with a double stroller who gives him a brazen once-over.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can always ask. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna answer.” He winks.
“You’ve been sober for over seven years, but you never miss a meeting. Why do you still go?”
“Maybe I’m still sober because I never miss a meeting.”
I shake my head. “I think you’d be able to do it on your own now, no?”
He laughs. “But I don’t have to, so why would I? And besides, apathy or overconfidence—whichever makes people stop thinking they need help—are addicts’ biggest downfalls.The moment you start thinking you don’t need a meeting, you’re in trouble.”
“You think you’ll go every week for the rest of your life though?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He shrugs. “For now, the meetings are a big part of my life. A meaningful part of it. I don’t only go for myself; I go to support my peers too. People get a lot from hearing others’ stories, and what if my story is the one to help someone else choose sobriety? Then isn’t it worth it?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“And as much as I love you and Dad and the guys, and as much as I value your support, nobody understands an addict’s journey better than another addict. The struggles or the triumphs. There’s something remarkably healing and awe-inspiring about being in a room full of people who’ve been where you are—or where you were.”
I never considered it like that, nor how difficult it must have been for my baby brother to admit he needed help. It takes guts. “That makes a whole lot of sense.”
“That’s probably how any support group works,” Maddox goes on. “The people who’ve been through it are often the easiest to talk to about it.”
