Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vanna
February settles over Morgantown like a heavy gray blanket.
The days blur together in a rhythm I'm slowly learning to love.
Wake up next to Garrett.
Eat breakfast in the clubhouse kitchen with whoever else is stumbling around at that hour.
Go to my NA meeting at the community center on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Help Aunt Ellie stock the bar.
Fold laundry. Make dinner. Fall asleep in my husband's arms.
It's boring. It's mundane.
Yet, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever experienced.
For years, my life was chaos.
Never knowing where I'd sleep, where my next fix would come from, whether I'd survive the night.
Every day was a crisis.
Every moment was desperation clawing at my insides.
Now I know what tomorrow looks like.
And the day after that, and the day after that.
It's terrifying in a different way.
The fear of losing something good is almost worse than the fear of having nothing at all.
But I'm learning to live with it. One day at a time.
The NA meetings help.
It's a small group—maybe a dozen regulars—that meets in the basement of the Methodist church on Pine Street.
Folding chairs arranged in a circle, bad coffee in Styrofoam cups, the faint smell of mildew and old hymnals.
Fluorescent lights that flicker sometimes, casting strange shadows on the water-stained ceiling tiles.
Not glamorous. But honest.
I didn't want to go at first.
The idea of sitting in a room full of strangers and talking about my addiction made my skin crawl.
I'd spent years hiding what I was, lying about where I'd been, constructing elaborate stories to cover the track marks and the tremors and the desperate hunger in my eyes.
The thought of stripping all that away, of standing naked in front of people I didn't know and admitting the truth—it felt like suicide.
But Patricia—my counselor from the rehab facility—made me promise I'd find a group when I got home. "The work doesn't stop when you leave here," she said. "Recovery is a daily practice. You need people who understand."
And Garrett drove me to the first meeting himself, waiting in the parking lot for an hour until I came back out.
When I slid into the truck, shaking and exhausted from the emotional weight of it, he just took my hand and said, "I'm proud of you."
Now I look forward to it.
There's something powerful about being in a room with people who understand.
Who don't judge.
Who've been exactly where I've been and are fighting the same fight.
When I talk about the cravings that still hit me sometimes—the sudden, overwhelming need that comes out of nowhere—they nod.
They get it.
They don't look at me like I'm broken or weak or dangerous.
They look at me like I'm one of them. Because I am.
"My name is Vanna, and I'm an addict."
"Hi, Vanna."
I've said those words a dozen times now.
They still feel strange in my mouth—the admission of something I spent so long denying.
But they also feel true.
And there's power in that truth.
In owning what I am instead of hiding from it.
Today's meeting is small—just eight of us, huddled against the February chill.
The basement is freezing despite the ancient radiator clanking in the corner.
Mark, who's been clean for three years and sponsors half the group, is running the session.
Denise, a middle-aged woman who lost her nursing license to pills, sits across from me, her hands wrapped around her coffee cup for warmth.
Hawkins, a kid barely out of high school who reminds me too much of myself at that age, slouches in his chair with studied indifference that doesn't quite hide the fear in his eyes.
And the others, each with their own story, their own scars, their own daily battles.
"How are you doing this week, Vanna?" Mark asks.
"Good. Really good." I put my hand on my stomach—a habit now, a constant reminder of what I'm fighting for. "Seventeen weeks pregnant. Still clean. Still showing up."
"That's what it's about," Mark says, nodding. "One day at a time."
"One day at a time," the group echoes.
The meeting continues—Hawkins shares about a close call at a party, Denise talks about the anniversary of her mother's death and how she almost used—and I listen.
Really listen.
Because their struggles are my struggles.
Their victories are my victories.
After the meeting, I linger by the coffee table, refilling my cup even though the coffee is terrible. Denise comes up beside me, her eyes kind.
"You're doing great, you know," she says quietly. "I can see the change in you. From that first meeting when you could barely look anyone in the eye—you're different now."
"I don't feel different."
"That's how you know it's real." She smiles. "The fake stuff feels dramatic. The real stuff just feels like life."
I think about that on the drive back to the clubhouse.
Maddox is my shadow today—the club's been rotating who stays with me, making sure I'm never alone—and he doesn't try to make conversation.
Just drives, his massive hands steady on the wheel, his presence a quiet reassurance.
The real stuff just feels like life.
Maybe that's what this is.
Not a dramatic transformation, not a Hollywood redemption arc.
Just life.
Ordinary, boring, beautiful life.
Tildie shows up at my door on a Thursday afternoon with a bag full of fabric samples and a manic gleam in her eye.
"We're planning the nursery," she announces, pushing past me into the room.
"I've been researching color palettes, and I think we should go with something gender-neutral since you don't know what you're having yet.
Sage green is very in right now. Or maybe a soft yellow?
What do you think about animals? I saw this adorable woodland theme with little foxes and deer and—"
"Tildie." I hold up my hands, laughing. "Breathe."
She stops mid-sentence, takes a dramatic breath, then grins. "Sorry. I get excited. Ruger says I have two speeds: asleep and hurricane."
"He's not wrong."
We settle on the bed, fabric samples spread between us.
Tildie holds up a swatch of pale green against the light, tilting her head critically.
"This one. This is the one. It's calming but not boring, you know? And it'll work for a boy or a girl."
"I like it," I admit. "But Tildie, you don't have to do all this. The baby doesn't even have a room yet. We're still in Garrett's—"
"Your room," she corrects firmly. "It's your room too.
And we'll figure out the nursery situation.
Ruger's already talking about converting the storage space at the end of the hall.
It's got good light, and it's right next to you guys, so you can hear the baby at night until we get some trailers or cabins built closer to the clubhouse. "
I stare at her. "Ruger's talking about that?"
"Ruger talks about a lot of things when it comes to you and Bloodhound." She sets down the fabric and looks at me seriously. "You know this club is your family, right? Like, actually your family. Not just words. We take care of each other. That's what we do."
My throat tightens. "I'm still getting used to that."
"I know. It took me a while too." She scoots closer, tucking her legs under her.
"When I first came here, I was a mess. Running from a bad situation, no money, no plan.
Slowly I just... became part of things. It wasn't dramatic.
It was just people showing up for me, day after day, until I realized I belonged. "
"How long did it take? To feel like you belonged?"
"Honestly?" She considers the question. "A few months.
Maybe longer. There were days I still felt like an outsider, like everyone was just waiting for me to screw up and prove I didn't deserve to be here.
But those days got fewer and further between.
And eventually, I woke up one morning and realized this was home.
Really home. Not just a place I was staying. "
I think about my own journey.
The years of addiction.
The times I disappeared.
The bridges I burned and the people I hurt.
If Tildie—who came here with a clean slate—took a year to feel like she belonged, how long will it take me?
"You're thinking too hard again," Tildie says, poking my arm. "I can see it on your face."
"Sorry. Bad habit."
"Here's the thing about belonging." She picks up another fabric swatch, this one a soft butter yellow. "It's not about earning it. It's not about proving yourself. It's about showing up. That's it. You just keep showing up, and eventually, the belonging happens on its own."
"That sounds too simple."
"Most true things are." She holds up the yellow fabric. "What do you think? Backup option if we can't find enough of the green?"
I take the fabric from her, running my fingers over the soft cotton. "I think it's perfect."
We spend the next hour looking at samples, debating themes, laughing at the increasingly ridiculous options Tildie pulls up on her phone.
By the time she leaves, my face hurts from smiling.
It's such a small thing.
An afternoon with a friend, talking about baby stuff.
But for me, it feels like a miracle.
It happens on a Sunday morning.
I'm lying in bed, Garrett still asleep beside me, watching the pale winter light filter through the curtains.
It's early—maybe seven—and the clubhouse is quiet.
Peaceful.
No engines rumbling, no music thumping, no voices echoing through the halls.
Just the soft sound of Garrett's breathing and the distant hum of the highway.
My hand rests on my stomach, like it always does now.
I've gotten rounder in the past few weeks—actually starting to look pregnant instead of just bloated.
My shirts are getting tight.
Tildie keeps threatening to take me shopping for maternity clothes.
And then I feel it.
A flutter.
Low in my belly, like butterflies trapped under my skin.
Like something inside me is stretching, shifting, making itself known.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
There it is again. A tiny movement. A nudge. A kick.
"Garrett." My voice comes out strangled, barely a whisper. "Garrett, wake up."