Page 1 of Last Love

Ryder

- “Life without you was barely worth getting out of bed in the morning.” -

“My name is Ryder Collins,” I begrudgingly announce from behind the too short podium. “And I’m a recovering drug addict.”

Fucking obviously.

It’s not like I walked into a shopper’s anonymous meeting.

The goddamn words written on the dry erase board right outside the door tell everyone and anyone walking by exactly why I’m here.

Why we’re all here.

Why we’re all sitting in this bland fucking environment watching each other ramble instead of binge watching something more entertaining on Netflix.

Why we sit in uncomfortable fucking fold out chairs like we’re in a middle school assembly just thinking about how long is left until the bell rings to dismiss us.

I highly doubt that any of us want to be here.

Just like I highly fucking doubt anyone of us want to be standing where I’m currently standing.

Giving this fucking speech I damn sure don’t wanna be giving.

I mean it’s so fucking over rehearsed.

Empty.

Hollow.

I’ve said these words so many times over the past couple of weeks that they’ve completely lost their meaning.

Recovering?

Fuck that, I’m recovered.

I haven’t touched the shit in months.

Shouldn’t that put my ass in the past tense version of that shit?

See, but that’s the thing about being an addict.

You’re always recovering unless you’re using.

You’re always an addict.

It’s a disease.

A fucking plague.

And no matter how hard you scrub your name, your personality, your actions, your goddamn soul, you will forever be permanently branded with the black stain of your mistakes.

Your shortcomings.

Your weakest moments that you wish you could forget.

You know since self-disdain isn’t enough atonement on its own, it only makes sense that you have to bear the bleakest branding possible for however many days you have left on this wasteland we have the balls to call paradise.

Alright.

So maybe I need to attend a crabby assholes anonymous meeting too.

Get some tips on how the fuck to lift my spirits.

Turns out just being “free” doesn’t automatically do that shit.

I grip the edges of the wooden stand a little harder as I begin my insipid retelling of how I found myself on this particular path.

While every gathering begins with the same trite start – the introduction of who you are and what you are – each one touches on a different topic.

Different moments.

Sometimes they have us looking backwards, reflecting on what once was – an exercise I’ve already fucking perfected – and at other times they have us looking forward – an activity I haven’t trained myself to do past the very next day.

“One day a time…” were Doc’s final words to me.

They fucking stuck.

I wake up repeating them.

I go to bed reciting them.

I even jog – fuck, I hate jogging – to them.

Noah says it’s perfectly normal to have a mantra.

That he even has one.

I think he wanted me to ask about it, but I didn’t.

Maybe someday I will.

As for now?

I think he’s just grateful I share mine.

And I’m grateful I don’t feel like he’s judging me for it.

The watered-down depiction of my descent holds the audience attention to the same degree it holds my own when it’s me sitting in the seats rather than standing. Unlike the elaborate version I went through with Doc, which highlighted more to me than I previously allowed it, I deliver one that gets enough of the point across.

I used drugs to numb the pain for years.

Forget who I was.

Forget the fuckups I had made.

In admitting this mistake to a room full of people with the same fault, it feels okay to accept I am no better than they are nor am I worse.

Fact of the shit is…we’re all on the same abstemious journey.

And we are all in need of the same substantial support.

Part of me likes that.

Fuck, part of me finds so much goddamn comfort in that.

At the end of my short story, I escort myself back to my seat to the sound of applause meant to congratulate me on my bravery for telling my tale.

I don’t feel brave.

I feel like a fucking loser.

Maybe there’s a fucking meeting I can go to for that shit as well?

Or a class?

Jan Holtby, our host, and a retired Chief Petty Officer of the Coast Guard, returns to the stand to close the meeting the same way she always does. There’s gratitude expressed my direction once more for speaking, key things to takeaway, and a tough love reminder framed in a military camaraderie sense that tends to leave us feeling ready to handle whatever will come our way this week.

Hate these meetings yet secretly enjoy the rush of fucking empowerment Jan has a way of always delivering.

After our dismissal, I uncomfortably wander over to the refreshment table, avoiding eye contact with most individuals. Tonight’s spread includes several juices that would all taste better with a shot or two of vodka as well as stale pastries I should probably put in my mouth instead of the mint flavored toothpick in my pocket.

The trick works.

Almost identically to the candy one.

I still hate fucking gum but having something on my tongue has a weird way of calming my senses.

Making shit clearer.

And after spilling my fucking emotional backpack to a room full of semi-strangers, I need something to ease my mood.

Shelly, Noah’s – admittedly – stunning wife, did make gluten free, vegan, oatmeal date cookies this afternoon, but they taste like sadness.

Like if sadness could be molded and shaped into a fucking cookie…that would be it.

Shelby, my niece, is gonna need me around simply to introduce her to a fucking Oreo.

Thoughts of her cute little pudgy fingers going for the hair bows I put in my hair to make her giggle while her mother does her hair cause me to softly smirk.

That little girl immediately accepted me.

There was no hesitation.

No fear.

Nothing but open arms and giggles and approval.

It was the most magical fucking feeling in the world.

It’s also the one I use when the days or nights get too fucking hard and slipping into old ways gets too fucking tempting.

I use looking at her, hearing her laugh, and holding her like a fucking Batman style beacon in the sky.

I use our relationship to nurse the one I’m trying to develop with Noah.

Dealing with him is definitely fucking harder than dealing with his baby.

Though they do have the exact same unhappy scowl.

Even if he believes otherwise.

“Hey friend,” a vaguely familiar voice says from beside me, diverting my stare to it. As soon as our eyes connect, her bright blue ones light up as if I hung the fucking moon. “What’s a hottie like you doin’ in a place this?”

The smile I get is small but natural. “Kara.”

“Collins,” she coos at the same time she twists her low-rise jean covered hips.

Back and forth they swivel for my attention.

Slowly.

Steadily.

I give the area a curious glance, unsurprised by the section of warm beige skin on display for whoever can’t resist the pivoting bait.

She wants more than just my eyes on her.

Too bad I’m not really interested.

That shit she’s trying to offer isn’t worth breaking the dry spell I put myself in.

However, on the other hand, it might be worth keeping in my spank bank reserves.

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