Page 65 of The Roommate Game

Someone stepped behind me in line, and the voice in my head receded.

Next thing I knew I was on the sidewalk, dodging a determined jogger who happened to be a former teammate—and wasn’t that a fucking weird thing to say? He was a younger guy…Tim, maybe? His face brightened when he saw me. I thought for sure he’d spotted the paper bag, my proximity to the liquor store, and done the math, stoked at the idea of a raucous party, Bears-style.

But no.

“Hey, I heard you’re coaching at the high school in the fall. Dude, that’s so cool. My little brother is on that team, and he can’t shut up about how great next year is going to be. Your legend precedes you.”

I thanked him…at least, I thought I did. Don’t quote me. My head was mush and my chest hurt.

I hopped into my truck and drove south, turning into the church lot in Lester. I’d come here often enough that I had a favorite parking spot now—strategically near the exit since I was sure I’d never stay for long. I had nothing in common with the people in the multi-purpose room. Comparatively speaking, my low was pretty high.

There was a grandmother with hair so white it was blue under the fluorescent light who’d had three DUIs and had been so wasted—or zazzled, as she’d put it—that she hadn’t remembered being arrested. She’d said the thought of losing her family to her addiction scared her straight.

A middle-aged father of four was another regular. He’d lost his job, blown up his marriage, and totaled a car before he’d realized he had a problem.

There were dozens of stories of blackouts, brushes with the law, hospital stays, countless interventions, and broken homes. I couldn’t relate. Nothing truly horrible had happened to me. In fact, booze made me feel powerful. I was the life of the party, the charming motherfucker who could Houdini himself out of any bind. I felt invincible when I was stoned.

It was the hangovers, the fogginess, and the utter lack of control I didn’t like. It was the uncertain spiral and the knowledge that this wasn’t a sustainable path.

I glanced at the paper bag on the passenger seat and took a deep breath, and another.

And then I called Rafe.

“Hi, I’m on my way home. I’ve had the craziest day…and I’m craving pasta. Does spaghetti sound good?”

“Yeah,” I choked out.

“Plain marinara orarrabiata? You like the spice, right?”

“Yeah.”

Rafe didn’t reply immediately. I almost asked if he was still there, but I knew he hadn’t gone anywhere.

“Are you okay?”

I swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

“You talked to your mom.” It was a statement, not a question. He hummed softly. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice. Can you just…tell me something…anything?”

“Um…okay. Jackson made flaxseed brownies and brought them to the rink. I didn’t think it was possible to destroy brownies, but he did it. I couldn’t take a second bite, and of course he asked if I liked it, and I had to fudge the truth and tell him I’d had a stomachache. So now he thinks I’m sick. Celine didn’t bother with diplomacy. She literally gagged.”

I smiled through a fresh sheen of tears. “Poor guy.”

“Hmm.”

We stayed on the phone, neither of us speaking for a couple of minutes.

“I bought some Johnnie Walker,” I said finally.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t drink it. The longer I’m sitting with it next to me, the less I want it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Dump it into the trash and go to the meeting. I’m here now…in the parking lot.”