Page 72 of The Love of My Next Life
But I’m trying. Fuck, I’m trying. With an addict, it’s notifthey’ll relapse. It’swhen.
“I love you too, Mom.”
“Go ahead and get changed,” she says as she releases me from the hug. “We’ve got to meet Claire and Lennon for lunch.”
“Oh,” I say casually, “I forgot to tell you, I picked up a shift, so I have to bail on lunch.”
It’s a lie, but it’s one she happily buys.
Picking up shifts at work is something a responsible person does. She wants to believe I’m responsible. In truth, I don’t trust myself around Lennon, especially not in front of my mom.
I was able to hide it so fucking well in the past, but I’ve fucked that up, too.
I’ve touched her now. Tasted her. And like usual, I can’t control the cravings.
“Well, don’t work too hard,” Mom says with a smile. “I’ll wait and walk out with you.”
“Okay.” I nod to the dressing room. “I’ll be right back.”
After changing, paying for the alterations, and setting up a pickup date for the tux, I wave goodbye to my mom from the parking lot. When she turns the corner out of sight, I pop the glove compartment and pull out my pack of cigarettes.
Only cigarettes in it now, unfortunately.
I slide one out and slip it between my teeth, then flick my lighter and bring it to the end of the cigarette. The cherry glows bright red as I take a long drag. I hold it in, savoring the burn until I can’t anymore, then blow the toxin through my nose.
The nicotine relieves the smallest hint of tension. I flex my fingers in and out of a fist and try to think of anything other than the pills sitting in Sam’s dad’s safe.
I fail.
I finish the cigarette and drop the butt out the window, then light another.
I actually hate cigarettes.
I run through my list of options. I could go to the rec center. Pound the bag for an hour or throw some clay. I’ve been getting pretty decent at the wheel. I’ve been wanting to try and make a vase for my mom as a wedding present. Maybe get Lennon to paint it.
I think Mom’d like that.
I flick the cigarette out the window and pull out of the lot. I park behind the supermarket, just in case, then jog down the street to the center. I pop into the office and say hey to James when I get there. Tell him I’ll be with the bag for a bit and to come get me if he needs help with anything. Then I head to the gym.
The center is a hive of activity at all times, but especially on weekends. Sometimes I’ll help out when James needs me, but he usually keeps me scheduled weeknights. Those are harder to fill with the regular volunteers. I’m a willing pawn.
I’m not surprised to find that my favorite bag is free. It’s the one that’s beat to hell and duct-taped in more places than not. Everyone wants the new ones, the ones without rips or tears. Not me. If I’m going to spend time beating the shit out of something, I want it to resemble me in every possible way. Flawed. Broken. Anything but perfect.
I didn’t think to pack any gym clothes, so I’m gonna have to do this in jeans and a t-shirt, but it’s fine. I pull on some gloves, and after the first jab, I start to relax. I do three-minute rounds, starting with a basic jab-jab-cross sequence. I switch up each round on the fly, adding ducks and pivots, hooks and counters, pulling from drills I use when I teach and building on them. Each round gets more challenging, physically and mentally.
I’m sweating and panting after ten minutes and deliciously sore by the end of the hour, but I’m still keyed up.
I head to the room where I teach pottery and try to throw a vase, but everything about it makes me think of Lennon, and thinking of Lennon makes me fucking crazy. I can’t sit behind the pottery wheel these days without needing to feel her next to me, and needing to feel her fills me with guilt and self-loathing.
I’m such a selfish prick.
I try to ignore it. I try to throw and think of nothing but the clay, but I can’t get my vase to hold shape. It keeps collapsing in on itself.
I feel like I’m collapsing in on myself.
It’s basically a shitty metaphor for what a terrible son and brother I am.
I clean up and storm out, not bothering to say goodbye to James. The dude is too intuitive. If he sees me all twitchy like this, he’ll find something for me to mop.
