Page 1

One

“I’mGary.I’vebeenwatching videos of dirty maids for three years.”

A murmured response ofhey Garysecho as Gary’s shoulders droop. Standing at the front of the room, his familiar face sighs as he shifts his weight between his feet.

In any other circumstance, hearing that sentence would make me laugh so hard I’d piss myself, but in the din of the stuffy Methodist church basement, I nod sympathetically from my back-row seat. We all know his story—Gary shares the details of his porn addiction nearly every month.

Someone clears their throat, a few metal chairs scrape across the linoleum floor, a phone dings with a text, and I take a sip of coffee that tastes like it was brewed at the dawn of time—same as it does every month. I wince the second it hits my tongue and spit it back into the Styrofoam cup in my hands.Disfuckinggusting.

“And, I don’t know,” Gary continues, “I was doing so good. Didn’t watch a single video for a month. But then—” His eyes widen. “I couldn’t stop myself.”

His nubby fingers scratch the beard covering his face like the fur of a mangy dog as the paunch of his belly is barely contained by the oil-stained Ledger Motors & Notary shirt. It begs the question: Does anyone ever need a notary while having their tires rotated?

“I caved,” he admits. “And it wasn’t just one video. I watched my favorite cleaner—Sally Scrubs—she’s so thorough with the rag. The way she uses a toothbrush . . .”

His voice trails off as his breathing becomes labored, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Gary’s desire to rub one out is as obvious as it is traumatizing. He shakes his head with a start, as if he just remembered he’s in front of a room full of people and not wherever he watches Sally scrub.

“But then there were more—hours. And—I couldn’t stop myself.”

Poor Gary looks like he wants to cry.

“And my wife, Deb, she found me watching and . . .” He clears his throat, eyes darting around the room. “And, well, that didn’t end too well.”

Mel, the meeting leader, stands at her usual position behind the podium next to him, her slender face filled with sympathy. “Gary, I’m so sorry. And how did that make you fe—”

“Have you always been into porn?” I ask, my voice loud enough it cuts Mel off from where I sit in the back. “When you were a kid, I mean? Or have dirty magazines? Maybe it’s just who you are.”

He and Mel look at me with different expressions. Gary shocked, Mel annoyed.As usual.

I ignore her; I’ve always wondered how long the signs of addiction are there and missed. How much time people could’ve spent doing something if they only knew where to look—if I would’ve known where to look, maybe Zeb . . .

“Or your mom?” I press. “Did she have a kink? I think porn addictions are less common with women, but”—I sweep the hand not holding the brewed feces around the room with a chuckle—“who are we to judge how someone gets their rocks off?”

The room takes a collective blink as Gary massages a temple.

“Uh.”

He looks at Mel.

“I’m not—”

“How’s your sex life with Deb?” I pivot; he’s clearly not interested in why his parents’ issues might have contributed to his current situation. Maybe it’s something happening now that’s triggering his obsession. Maybe Deb needs to spice things up—yes!“Is it the cleaning or the outfit that gets you excited?”

His eyes widen and Mel’s jaw drops.

“Maybe it’s Deb?” If she’s not helping, no wonder he’s dripping over Sally. I can’t believe I’ve never asked. He can’t do this on his own; he needs her. Maybe he doesn’t know to ask. She might have no clue. If she did more, maybe Gary wouldn’t even be in this room. “Have you ever asked her to dress up? Or take a toothbrushand—”

“Scotty!” Mel snaps from the podium, stopping my words dead with her could-freeze-a-fire glare. “Enough.”

I frown; she softens, looking at Gary with a sincere smile.

“Gary, is there anything else you’d like to share today?”

He shakes his head, seemingly resigned to his fate of watching nude women clean other people's houses, and drops like a bag of wet cement into his chair.

“As many of you know,” Mel says, sliding one hand along the edge of the podium before running it through her cropped blonde hair. “I became an alcoholic about five seconds after the phone call my daughter was killed in a car accident. A drunk driver ran her off the road on her way home from the library—she was in college down in Georgia—and her car wrapped around a tree. I had never drunk more than a glass of wine before that, but once I got the news . . .” Her voice trails off and she shakes her head. “I couldn’t stop. Bottles and bottles and bottles of the stuff trying to bring her back.” Somehow, she smiles. “But I’m happy to report that today makes six months since I started the Ledger’s Ledgers and six months without a drop of alcohol.” A wave of soft applause breaks out. “And, as you know, I have no qualifications to be up here talking about addiction other than the fact I have one. I don’t share my victory to brag, more to give hope. Inspire you in those dark moments where it feels like you have no choice—no purpose—you do. It took an unexpected friend of mine explaining that sometimes a change we make can impact seven others around us. And those can impact seven more and so on. Seven doesn’t seem like much when problems feel so big, but”—she shrugs—“at the end of the day, it’s a lot of sevens.”

The people around me smile earnestly; they have delusional hope.