Chapter 9 #2
Henry cut in. “And the bar drinks aren’t free, but they are discounted just for this group. All bar tips will go toward the next Lemon Drop event.”
With all the official business taken care of, the group returned to visiting, mingling, and getting food. We were about half an hour in, and things looked to be going exactly as Jack had hoped.
This was good. As much as I’d usually rather scoop my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon than make small talk with random folks around town, the vibe in the outdoor dining area was upbeat and easy. If it meant something to Jack, I could definitely make myself participate every other week.
Hell, the pesto dip alone was likely enough to bring me back.
And the cake was an added bonus.
At one time, the bar would have been a strong pull, but I’d recently had a bit of a breakthrough with my therapist about my reliance on alcohol.
The conversation had been terrible, and I’d hated every single second of it.
I hadn’t left with any big plans or promises, but the whole thing had flipped a switch in me. I’d realized just how often I got through a day by drinking, and something deep inside sparked to life with a challenge.
I wasn’t na?ve enough to think I could just stop cold-turkey, but for the time being, I was feeling pretty determined.
After all, I’d almost died. Alcohol might not have been the culprit to my heart attack, but it had likely played a part. If I planned to stick around to see my boys live their lives, the alcohol needed to be gone.
Yeah, yeah, a ton of people had been telling me that since before the heart attack, but I was a belligerent S.O.B., and telling me to do something was the quickest way to make me refuse just on principal.
Again, my therapist said I was grasping at control in whatever ways I could get it thanks to my past and my health condition.
So, anyway, I’d promised myself I’d stick to tea instead of alcohol at the Lemon Drop, and so far, I’d done well.
There was no way I could drink unsweetened tea.
I’d found out the hard way that Bryce preferred his iced tea unsweetened when I almost choked to death on the dirt water he had in a pitcher in his fridge.
But I’d agreed to swap out real sugar for monk fruit sweetener in my iced tea, and I had to admit it wasn’t half bad.
Skipping the sugar actually made me feel slightly better about the amount of sweet stuff I was putting in my body—next thing to cut was the damn suckers…
if only sugar-free ones came as cheap as good ol’ Dum Dums.
Henry eyed me as I walked past the bar.
“What?” I grunted.
“You want a drink?” he asked all tentative, like a man disarming a bomb.
And fuck if that didn’t sting.
Hell.
Had my drinking forced everyone to walk on eggshells around me? Fuck it all the way to hell and back again. The last thing I wanted to do was to make my boys and friends have to tiptoe around me.
Shame, guilt, and regret washed over me as a tiny voice whispered, “You’ve been doing this to them for years, but now that you’ve decided it’s for the best to cut the shit, it’s all good?”
Nope. Wasn’t going there.
I wanted a life with my family and friends. I wanted a life period. It maybe wouldn’t be worth living without my boys, but I knew I had to make changes if I was going to be around for them.
“No,” I said, raising my iced tea. “I’m good.”
I hadn’t told anyone I’d set a goal to cut back on the alcohol. I didn’t need all those eyes on me. The weight of their expectations.
Honestly, there wasn’t a single time in my life when I could remember attending any type of social event—and, let’s be honest, I could convince myself a lonely evening by the firepit was a social event—without plying myself with some sort of alcohol.
The whole situation had me a mix of anxious, proud, on-edge, and waiting for the moment when I fucked up. When one word or action from someone would remind me of all the shit in my past and have me reaching for something to dull it all.
But so far, the iced tea, veggies and fruit, and cake had kept me satisfied.
Bryce had been by my side for much of the evening, letting me introduce him to people he hadn’t yet met, keeping the conversation going when I might have crept toward being a bit too prickly.
At one point, I nearly stopped breathing when he patted my jeans pocket, but I quickly realized he was suggesting a sucker.
And damn if he wasn’t right. The cravings were lessening in frequency, but they hadn’t decreased in severity.
The little globe of sugar helped, but the cardboard stick seemed to be the part that eased my tension the most. I missed the long drag on a smoke, the instant rush the nicotine provided, the all-over wash of calm, but I’d realized after I quit smoking that having something to do with my mouth and hands was one of the hardest habits to break.
A flash of conversation danced through my mind from a few nights before.
“I wish I could get rid of the suckers,” I’d said, rolling the stick between my fingers. “Feels like I’m rottin’ my damn teeth out. Lance says it’s better to lose my teeth than die, but they constantly feel furry like they’re wearin’ little sugary fur coats.”
Bryce had laughed. “What if we got you some sugar-free candy? Jack had some kind of lemon drops the other day, and they didn’t have the bad kind of artificial sweeteners.”
“It’s the stick. It’s like my brain and body have accepted they aren’t gettin’ the nicotine, but I can’t get past needin’ something to do with my mouth and hand.”
The look Bryce had given me had lasted a beat too long, and I’d been forced to replay my words.
When I’d huffed and rolled my eyes, Bryce had grinned like a loon.
“I’m just gonna put it out there,” he’d said, “in the interest of your health and being a good friend, I’m always willing to help with mouth and hand activities. ”
“Fuck off,” I’d said around the sucker, but I hadn’t been able to keep the laughter from my words. “I used to smoke about a pack a day, pretty sure ain’t no one want to deal with that many blow jobs a day.”
“Don’t knock it ’til you try it,” Bryce had teased.
I snorted and chomped on the sucker, preferring the crunchy sugar and possible broken tooth to the potentially dangerous images Bryce’s words had ignited in my mind.
“I’d like it noted for the record,” Bryce went on, “that you didn’t say no.”
“I’m not blowin’ you every time I need a smoke.”
Bryce had smiled and waggled his brows. “Who said anything about you blowing me?”
His words sent a jolt through me as I considered what he meant.
Fuck.
“Offer stands,” he’d said with a wink before he went back to applying painters’ tape to the walls.
I eyed the cake, but the sucker had coated my mouth in such sweetness, I didn’t know if I could stomach the dessert. The carrots wouldn’t have ever been my top choice, but the dip was damn good, so I scooped some of the pesto shit into a bowl and placed about ten carrots off to the side.
Luckily, I could stand to gain some pounds if I was going to turn it back into muscle—that was my plan once the gym was open—because I was basically eating my weight since I stopped smoking.
But carrots were good for you, right? My ticker might not be the healthiest, but I’d have the best damn eyesight in Haven Grove as long as they kept plying me with that damn dip.
Bryce came over and snagged a carrot just as the Roadhouse door opened. Two people walked from inside the restaurant to the outdoor dining area.
An older lady I recognized as the tenant in Lance’s apartment and another older woman completed the duo.
Nothing struck me as significant about any of them, but Bryce whispered, “Holy shit,” as he sucked in a breath, began coughing on what I assumed was a carrot trying to kill him, and choked out, “Dizzy?”