Page 89 of Pieces Of You

“Okay,” I say, nodding as I clear my throat. We don’t join the circle. Instead, we sit, all three of us, on a row of chairs against the wall, Holden on one side, Esme on the other, and I do as Esme asks.

I listen.

“My name is Tony, and I’m an alcoholic.” An older man, likely in his sixties, looks around at all the faces in the circle as they respond, “Hi Tony.”

“Most of you know me,” Tony says. “I’ve been coming here for a while now, and the good news is, I haven’t relapsed since the last time I was here. The bad news is… I’ve thought about it.” His gaze drops, his legs kicking out in front of him. “As soon as the thought came to me, I called my daughter, and she was able to talk me out of it…” He continues to talk, and I continue to listen.

I listen to his entire story, and then the next man’s—a man who got fired from his job and the stress of supporting his wife and kids had him looking for solutions at the bottom of a bottle. A man who’s determined to fight this addictionfor his kids.

I sit and I listen to everyone in that room list their fears and their accomplishments, their highs and their lows, and with each second that passes, I get more and more lost in every word they say. At some point, Esme takes my hand in hers, and I lower my head, hide my tears, my emotions. And when it’s done, when they’re all finished talking about their journeys, the woman running the meeting asks if anyone else has anything to say. I let go of Esme’s hand and stand up. “Me,” I declare, my voice coming out louder than I wanted. “I have something to say.”

The woman, Layla, smiles up at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Why don’t you join us?” she asks, while Tony moves to the side to make room for me beside him.

Holden carries my chair over, and I sit, wait until he’s back in his seat next to Esme before swallowing my nerves. Heart pounding, I look around the room, my nostrils flaring with my forced breaths.

“You can start with your name,” Layla suggests, her tone gentle.

I nod, wishing more than anything that I had a marker in my hand, just so I can hold it. “My name is Jamie…” I sniff back my fears and look down at my hands. “And I’mnotan alcoholic.” A quiet, united gasp fills the room, and I add quickly, “But my mother was.”

“We don’t use past terms for addiction,” Layla corrects. “Once an addict, always an addict.”

I glance up. Not at her. But at Holden. And I see his eyes, eyes right on mine, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. He nods, just once, and then he smiles—a smile filled with pride and determination.

I clear my throat, square my shoulders. “My mom died… just over a year ago, so…”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Layla’s quick to say.

“It’s okay,’ I assure. “She died of organ failure due to her addiction.” I keep my gaze lowered. “And I understand that that’s what it is: an addiction. Adisease. And I think that’s what scares me the most about this whole thing.” I attempt a calming breath. But fail. “The truth is… I keep a bottle of her favorite whiskey in the house and sometimes I pour myself a glass, just to see… I don’t really know why I do it, or what I’m hoping to feel or…conquer… because when I’d pour it down the sink, I’d feel nothing. No happiness or gratification, I’d just feel… empty.” Nerves swarm though my veins, prick at my flesh, but I keep going. “The problem is I’ve been doing it more and more lately… testing myself… andthinking…” I look up, see a dozen sets of eyes all watching me, waiting. “I’ve been sitting here for the last hour listening to your stories, trying to somehow connect them with hers, but I guess you’re all different. I grew up in an abusive household. My mom’s boyfriend used to beat the shit of her, and drinking was her coping mechanism.” I clear my throat, steady my voice. “There is something you do have in common, though. Most of you have kids, and I’ve sat here and listened to you all talk about them, saying thattheyare your reason for being here. For wanting to fight this disease. And you—” I turn to my side, face Tony. “Youcallyour daughter when you feel as though you’re about to relapse?”

Tony shrinks under my stare.

“Don’t do that anymore,” I grind out, my jaw tense, my chest tight as I fight back tears. “Don’t you have a sponsor? Isn’t that what this is? It’s not up to your daughter tofixyou. We’re your goddamnkids. And the rest of you…” I spit, looking around the room, barely able to contain my resentment. “You’re all doing this for them, right? But please, for the love of God, don’t tell them that, because if you relapse—” I break off on a sob, and fight to keep my composure. “If you relapse…” I repeat. “Your kids are going to think it’s their fault. That they weren’tenough. And they’re going to question their worth every day for the rest of their life, and I know that because Ilivethat. Every time I pour that glass of whiskey, I ask myself why… why did she have to continue down that path? Why didn’t she leave? Why did she make me live through that hell?” I wipe at the fat and futile tears—tears full of anger and hatred. “Why did she love him enough to die for him, but she didn’t love me enough tolive!” I drop my head in my hands, my shoulders shaking with each sob that wretches through me.

“I’m so sorry,” Layla soothes, her hand rubbing slow circles on my back.

I take my time, try to settle my breathing, but I can’t seem to stop. Years and years of these pent-up emotions, these fuckingfeelings, all come out. Right here. Right now. I break down, and it’s ugly and it’s raw and it’s in a room full of strangers, but I don’t care. “It’s not fair!” I cry. “It’s not fair to me and it’s not fair to everyone around me, because that’s all I want in my life. It’s all I’m searching for. Someone to love me enough tostay.”

42

Holden

Holden:This isn’t easy for me, Jamie, and I want you to know that…

Holden:Walking away from you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I’d sentthe text a week ago, the night after Esme had brought Jamie and me to an AA meeting without us knowing. It was the last text I’d sent her, and she never responded. The only reason I’m punishing myself with seeing it again is because Jamie’s not waiting for me at our lockers like most Wednesday afternoons. Instead, Billy Butler is here—standing as wide as he is tall. He grins from ear-to-ear as I approach, gripping onto his backpack straps like a pre-schooler. “What are we doing this afternoon,boss?”

My eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I have that Outreach Club thing to go to.” I look around us, searching for Jamie. She may not want to talk about what happened last week, and that’s fine. I’ll let it go.

“That’s why I’m here,” Billy says. “I’m the floater.”

“Isn’t that the girl who gives blowies to porn stars before shoots?”

Billy's face scrunches with disgust. “That’s afluffer.”

“Oh.”

Billy shakes his head. “Your partner had a make-up test, so you’re stuck with me.”

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