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He looks confused as he shakes his head. “What about her?”

I hesitate to tell him because something about it feels weird. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“Did she say something?”

“Just that you guys were hanging out again.”

“We aren’t,” he states bluntly. “I saw her at the docks a few weeks ago. She mentioned something about getting back together and then got pissed when I shot it down.” He turns and faces me straight on. “You’re all I have, you know that, right?”

I nod, because even though I still have my parents, he’s the one I feel the safest with.

“Tell me we can be done hiding.”

So many fears of how this is going to look tomorrow when we go back to school surface, but it isn’t fair to him. It isn’t fair to me either. He’s my best friend, and I shouldn’t have to hide that. If they’re going to talk about me one way or the other, he’s right, I’d rather them do it knowing he’s got my back.

“Okay,” I respond before asking, “Can we bide ourselves a little more time though?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can we ditch out for the rest of the week?”

“What do you want to do?”

When an idea pops into my head, I get a sly grin. “Maybe we can drive down to Seattle. I can show you the Fremont Troll.”

“Dude, your painting alone was enough.” He laughs, and it’s crazy to think about how so much has changed between us since that day in art class.

SEBASTIAN

Other’s burdens pile on top of mine every Thursday evening. When I leave AA meetings, I often feel worse than I did when I walked in. Sitting around and listening to people talk about how low they’ve sunk and the dark places alcohol has led them to is unsettling. Sure, some people share their triumphs, but tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

I hit a wall of cigarette smoke as I walk outside. Everyone is lit up as they always are after a meeting. Addicts exchange one addiction for another—alcohol swapped for coffee and cigarettes.

“Sebastian?”

I turn to see Marcus of all people.

“Hey, I thought it was you,” he says as he takes a drag and walks over to me, slowly blowing out a plume of smoke.

“What are you doing here?”

“I still come to meetings every once and a while,” he tells me before asking, “How have you been?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“It’s good to see you in a meeting.”

I shrug because I’m not exactly here by choice. “It’s part of my probation.”

“How often do they have you coming?”

“Every week for a year.”

“Are they helping?”

“Yeah,” I say, but he looks skeptical.

He should be, I’m a total fraud. The only time I make a conscious effort to stay sober is for the five days leading up to when I have to check in with my probation officer for my once-a-month urine alcohol test.