Page 127 of Catcher's Lock
“Like what?” My dad never tried treatment, though he’d occasionally go to meetings to appease my mom when they weren’t fighting. I’ve done my own research and kept up with the occasional Al-Anon visit, but I wish I’d had more time to prepare to support him.
“The biggest thing they stress is that relapses are basically inevitable, but that the important part is to not let them feel so much like starting over that they completely derail your sobriety.” He darts his eyes to mine, chewing on his tongue ring in a way that broadcasts his nervousness.
I like it better when he does it flirtatiously, but I appreciate the honesty—and I have enough experience with alcoholics to recognize the truth in his words.
“I’m supposed to ask about your boundaries,” he continues. “Kind of like a hard-limits list.”
“Hard limits? Like no dick if you’re drinking? That sounds a lot like an ultimatum, Gem. My mom tried all of those. They don’t actually work.”
“Not ultimatums. Ultimatums are one-sided, generally a manipulation tactic, and only work if the person making them follows through—which is rare. I’m talking about a set of clear expectations with agreed-upon consequences for failing to meet them. And for the record,” he adds, lips quirking, “I’m not agreeing to anything that involves withholding access to your dick.”
Maybe we shouldn’t be joking about this, but some of my tension uncoils as we fall into the familiar banter.
“What about going back to treatment? Is that an acceptable consequence?”
“It’s a pretty common one.” He nods. “What are the conditions? One slipup? A full backslide? How would you define what qualifies as a rehab-worthy relapse?”
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, considering.
“Something bad enough to scare me,” I decide. “Not knowing where you are. Lying to me about using. Those are my hard limits. But Gem—” I reach across to snag his hand and hold his gaze as best I can without putting us in a ditch. “We can make your list, and I’ll stick to my end, but I’m never giving up on you. As long as you stay alive, I’ll keep giving us another chance. Nothing you could do will ever convince me you’re not worth it.”
His chest hitches, and he exhales a shuddering breath. “I don’t want to promise I’ll never fall, but I do promise that as long as you’re standing next to me, I’ll get back up. I’ll stay alive because the thought of you living without me is a thousand times more terrifying than the thought of staying sober. We’regonna be good together, Rocket, and I’m ready to carry my own weight.” Fishing in the pocket of his sweats, he pulls his three-month chip free and places it on the dash. “I know I can do it now. No more excuses.”
The bronze token winks in the glinting sun like the badge of a superhero. I tug his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles.
“I’m hopelessly in love with you, you know.”
“Nothopelessly.” He pulls our hands back and places them over his heart. “We’re madly, irrevocably, eternally in love. With each other. You don’t get to claim all the romantic declarations for yourself.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I murmur, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“So,” he says, relinquishing my fingers to pop a few Tic Tacs into his mouth. “I’ve been thinking about what I’m gonna do in Colorado. I’m sure I’d make a fucking fabulous kept boy, but we might get tired of omelets if I had to do all the cooking.”
“I’ll never get tired of anything you do for me. I’d eat eggs and hot dogs for every meal if it meant coming home to you in a pair of my jeans and nothing else every day. But I want you to do whatever makes you happy and keeps you healthy, so let’s hear what you’ve been thinking.”
“One of my psychologists told me that once you’re six months sober, a lot of programs will hire you as a floor counselor and pay for you to go to school. Get your therapist’s license. That kind of thing.”
“You want to be a therapist?” The image of Gem in a crisp button-down and a pair of slutty little glasses flashes in my head, and I shift on the seat as my cock twitches with interest.
“Fuck no.” He laughs. “I’d go stir-crazy in an office, listening to other people complain about their shit all day. But it got me thinking about going back to school for other things.”
“Like what?”
“I took a few choreography and management classes during my third year at ENC, before I imploded. Now that I’m not spending all my energy fighting who I am, I think it might be fun to try again. CSU has a whole performing arts program with classes I could audit to broaden my range. And then—I don’t know—someday if we decide to get back into a traveling circus, I’d have the credentials to pull it off. Do what my mom does. Did.” A blush creeps up from his collar. “Or whatever. I could also coach summer camps or something less involved.” He sneaks a peek at my face to gauge my reaction, and I reach over to give his nape a reassuring squeeze. “But I think I’d be good at it—building a show.”
“I know you would. Shilo thinks so too. She just sucks at letting go and letting people help her.”
“Yeah. We talked about that in one of the family Zoom sessions. I wish I’d gotten my head out of my ass before they sold the tent.”
“You weren’t the only reason they wanted to retire.”
“Maybe not. But maybe they would have sold it to us instead.”
“Would you have wanted to stay in Mendo? We both have a lot of baggage there. It might be healthier to start over.”
“I thought we weren’t erasing our past?”
“We don’t have to erase it to move forward.”