Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
ALLEY
THEN
There’s a fluttering in my chest as I look around the room.
It’s not set up like I remember from when I used to attend AA with my dad.
There’s no folding chairs in a circle. Instead, the space is small with stadium-style seating, a single podium front and center.
I chose an open meeting, one that allowed family and friends, so I could be here with Jensen.
A man with gray hair, maybe in his fifties, stands.
“Hello everyone. My name is Grant, and I’m an alcoholic and an addict.
I’ve been clean for ten years and sober for two.
Welcome to this Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
We’re glad you’re here. We welcome anyone recovering from alcohol, drug addiction, or any other substance use disorder.
Let’s take a moment of silence for those still struggling. ”
During the silence, I glance around the room, taking in the people seated near us. They all seem… normal. Sure, a few look like they’ve had a rough past, like life’s beaten them up a bit, but most? They look like fathers, sisters, husbands, daughters, and friends.
They look like Jensen. Good people caught in a bad cycle. One bad choice. One accident. One surgery. One moment, and it swallowed them whole. Gave them a problem. A problem so many others can avoid, even with the same choices made.
Grant continues, “If you will all stand for the Serenity Prayer.”
Fortunately, and unfortunately, I know it by heart. I’ve said it hundreds of times with my dad, my mom, Michael.
My eyes flick to Jensen, unsure of what’s going through his mind. I don’t know if he even knows the Serenity Prayer.
Everyone rises, and the room fills with steady, unified voices:
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.”
Jensen knew every word.
We sit, and Grant looks around. “Is there anyone new to recovery or returning?”
His eyes land on Jensen, holding for a second, but when Jensen doesn’t move, he shifts his attention to the rest of the room, scanning for raised hands.
A man behind us lifts his arm, and Grant offers a warm welcome.
Jensen stays quiet, his hand sweating in mine. I give it a squeeze. It’s okay if he’s not ready. He’s here. That’s the first step, isn’t it? Admitting you have a problem.
Grant continues, explaining the twelve steps before moving on to the sobriety chips.
I listen quietly as people walk to the front of the room, celebrating their milestones—thirty days, sixty, ninety.
Some get chips for staying sober just twenty-four hours.
Each one earns quiet applause, and every hand that clutches a chip feels like a small miracle.
I drift into my thoughts when Grant invites people up to share.
I know addiction can happen to anyone. It isn’t picky. But Jensen? He doesn’t belong here. He’s too good. Too kind. Too fun. A year ago he was almost too good to be true. We were almost too perfect.
But I guess no one gets through life unscathed. Eventually, something gets you. I guess this was our turn.
It’s not fair. I did my time growing up with an alcoholic father, and losing my mom to cancer. I thought I finally caught a break.
I did all the right things. I went to college. I got good grades. Became a nurse. Built a career.
I didn’t sleep around, or get drunk on the weekends. I never touched drugs. I even fucking prayed.
I stopped praying when Jensen stopped trying. When I realized the same evil that wrecked my childhood had crept into my home, even after all the pleading, all my faith.
Turns out, God doesn’t care if you pray.
This whole thing has shaken my faith to the core. I’m not religious. I never really was. I went to church here and there with my mom growing up, but it never clicked for me. I had my own thing, though, my own relationship with God.
But now? It’s dwindling. Sometimes I envy Jensen for not giving a damn about what happens after we die. He doesn’t overthink it. He’s never prayed. He just lives.
He says he’s agnostic. He believes in something bigger than himself, but doesn’t feel the need to define it.
One by one, people take turns at the front.
Stories of failure, of hope, of wins. Every story’s different, but they’re all the same at their core—people trying their damndest to get it right.
To rewrite their story. Some have relapsed again and again.
Some have been clean for years and still keep showing up. Because this? It’s a lifetime fight.
A woman around my age steps to the podium. She’s pretty, even wholesome-looking. And when she speaks, my heart splits in two.
She talks about losing custody of her children. About being homeless, and chasing the next needle, the next high, the next moment of unconsciousness. She lost everything: her husband, her kids, her family. Everything.
She starts crying as she shares that she’s been clean for one year today. Tomorrow, she gets to see her children for the first time in four years.
I sniff loudly, but I’m not the only one. There’s not a dry eye in the room. Jensen wipes at his face with the back of his hand, and for the first time in a long time, a calmness settles over me.
This woman isn’t a bad person. She’s a mother. She loves her kids. She just got caught in the web. Most of those people out on the streets didn’t start that way. They all had lives. People who loved them. Dreams. Homes. Families.
Addiction can steal even the purest of souls. It takes them slowly, piece by piece, until they can’t remember where they came from, let alone how to get back. Their soul gets buried so deep, they forget where to even start looking.
She sits down, and Jensen stands.
He walks to the front of the room, and I swallow my shock as he takes center stage.
“Hi, I’m Jensen.”
“Hi Jensen,” everyone echoes.
“And I’m… an addict.” His voice cracks. He swallows, staring out across the room. He exhales a shaky breath, trying not to break in front of everyone. “Sorry,” he chokes out. “It’s my first time actually saying that out loud.”
My breath shudders as a well of tears rises, overflowing and streaming down my cheeks like a river.
“I’m so ashamed,” he says. His voice breaks again, and he presses a hand to his forehead. “I wasn’t gonna come tonight, but my wife… She saw me last night at my lowest.”
His eyes find mine. I nod, encouraging him.
“I used two hours ago. So I don’t even know if I belong here yet. Sorry. I don’t know if I’m supposed to say that.” He lets out a breath. “Anyway, I want to stop. I just don’t know how. That’s all.”
He walks back and slides into his seat.
My hand finds his, and I grip it, tight and strong. I’m right here.
Jensen brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it. I offer him a small smile. And right now, I believe we might actually be okay.
I love him. He’s my best friend, and together, we can get through anything.
A few more people get up to speak and then Grant closes with a few remarks, then asks everyone to stand to recite the serenity prayer again.
“God grant me…”