6. Alexei
6
ALEXEI
D ad isn’t much of an eye-roller, but he rolls them at me now. Yes, I gave him a speech about my whites and which ones needed to be hung to dry and which ones were safe to go in the dryer. He wants to ask me why it matters—since I only wear whites under my blacks—but he refrains.
Instead, he asks, “Are you sure he seemed in a good place?”
“He just asked what I was doing and then asked me if I wanted to go for a walk,” I say, shrugging into a new hoodie from my load of blacks. “I know how to handle mood swings and look for signs, Dad. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
I’m a dick and we both know it. Yes, I’m proud of my dad for his sobriety and how well he’s doing, but the kid in me will never forget all the times I administered Narcan, cleaned up his vomit, stopped an overdose, and called 9-1-1. I can’t forget the nights I kept vigil over his spasming body, the terrible people he brought around, the sight of needles and rubber bands, and the multitude of lies and excuses I was too young to see through but did anyway. I don’t even like spoons.
I’m twenty-five, never touched a drug, don’t drink alcohol, and am very conscious of everything I consume, do, and get excited about. I’m as clean as a whistle, but I’ve lived the addict life because of the house I grew up in and the parents who pretended to raise me. I have a right to be salty about it, even if addiction is a disease and I thoroughly understand that. I’m nice when I can be and a dick when I can’t. Sue me. I know it comes from a place of fear, of worry about a backslide and losing another parent, and at times, it gets to me. I already lost my mom; I don’t know if I can survive the loss of my dad, too.
“Alright, well, let me know.” Dad keeps his eyes on my laundry. “And try to have fun, Alex.”
Fun. Something else I’m mindful of. Can’t have too much of it, can I?
I whisper an ‘I love you’ that he doesn’t hear and leave him in the laundry room. The house is so massive and outdated that my walk from the laundry to the front door takes three whole minutes and goes dark in some places where the lights don’t reach. Dad’s hobby turned into a mechanic shop, and he needed something more stimulating. Hence, the falling-down mansion. We’re fixing it because it’s supposed to be fun and fill us with pride.
We’ll see. It’s growing on me. A lot.
I pull open the restored front door, still not used to it being silent as it swings, and find Gage just about to knock. He smells like cigarettes, only this time, no detergent.
“Oh, hey,” he says, sort of smiling and sort of looking awkward. “Hey.”
“You said that already.” I adjust my septum piercing and walk by him. “Where are we walking to?”
He pulls the door shut and shoves his hands in the pockets of his pants. Decides to take them out. Fucks with his hat a bit. “Uh, just around?”
The brim ends up high on his forehead, a mess of dark hair jutting out from underneath it. Sexy. But I can’t think that, so I look at my feet and start walking down the darkening street. We’re silent for a bit, wandering through the neighbourhood with no purpose or direction, and by the time we’re a few blocks away, Gage lights a smoke and pushes his hat up even more.
“Are you scared of me?” he asks, surprising me.
“What do you mean?” I slow my steps, intrigued by the question.
“Because I’m who I am. Because you grew up with an addict, and now you’re hanging out with one.”
“Addicts don’t scare me, Gage,” I tell him honestly. “Addiction does. But I’m pretty hardened to it. And it’s frowned upon to refer to an addict as an addict. You’re a person with a substance use disorder.” I learned that years ago when my dad never labelled himself as anything other than an addict, essentially taking his own identity away.
He goes quiet again, so I look at him with curiosity.
“I’m guessing my family feels the same way you do. Hardened to it when they shouldn’t have to be. Makes me feel like shit, I guess.” He takes a drag, and I hate that I find it attractive. It’s a thought that scares me because I’m conditioned to hate anything addictive, and now some guy comes along and makes smoking seem sexy. There’s nothing sexy about smoking. It’s a cause of cancer, a money pit, a stinky habit, and a way to worsen the health of a body that is most likely already unhealthy. Especially considering how much fried meat and potatoes he ate at breakfast.
“So, you feel guilty?”
“Damn right I do,” he says. “The twins were pretty sheltered from me because they were so young when I lived there. But my mom had to live a life she never planned, and Owen had to suffer through my reputation because we’re so close in age. I ruined their lives while ruining mine, and it just fucking sucks, you know?” He glances at me, pulling his hat down again. “And now I’m twenty-seven and barely have a relationship with the twins because they’ve always been hidden from me so I didn’t taint them.”
I don’t have siblings, so I can’t understand that, but I have lived a similar life to his family. I was the family member that never wanted that lifestyle but had it forced upon me anyway, and yeah, while I’m hardened to it, I’m not a robot, so it hurts sometimes. It left behind some fear, but I’m pretty skilled at coping these days. What I can understand is the guilt Gage feels. My dad feels it, too, and no matter how well he does and how hard he tries, it’s always there. Gage will live with it forever, but I don’t tell him that because there are plenty of other things to focus on. Better things.
“So, build the relationship now,” I say as we turn a corner to a street we’ve already walked down. “That’s what I’m doing with my dad. You’re living at home again, so now’s your chance to get to know them how you want to.”
Gage doesn’t say anything to that. He tosses his smoke and walks to a park, sitting on one of the swings, not swinging. I sit on the one next to him, facing the opposite direction.
“I came back here to conquer this town,” he admits. “This is where everything bad started, and I want to be able to look at it, see it, remember it, and feel okay about it because I’m better now. Stronger. More determined.”
“But?”
“But when we walked into that first diner, memories hit me, and I felt so fucking overwhelmed that I basically stopped breathing until you said nope and walked right back out.” He looks at me, big brown eyes grateful, if not a little hesitant.
“I have a way of telling that sort of thing,” I tell him, kicking my feet in the dirt. “I could tell you weren’t comfortable, so I left.”
“How?”
I shrug. “Not sure. Just know. You should go back there. When you’re in a good mind space. Alone or with someone you trust, and just let it sink in. Just to prove to yourself that you can.”
“Maybe we can go there to eat breakfast sometime,” he says, eyes shifty and awkward.
I smirk. “Are you shy?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I’m selfish, impulsive, short-tempered, and full of self-doubt, but I don’t think I’m shy. You just make me feel weird things. I’m still getting used to it.”
“What weird things?”
“Things I shouldn’t feel, so I’m trying to be a good friend and talk about literally anything else.”
“Tell me one.”
He stares at me with an annoyed look masked by a smile. It doesn’t bother me. “Okay, well, I can’t figure you out. You’re all gothy and covered in black and tattoos, but you have blue-ish hair and painted nails. You’re quiet and moody, but you blurt things out that I don’t expect. Like telling me you’re gay and just straight up asking me what I’m addicted to. Not to mention your commitment to hating me during breakfast.” He laughs. “You seem like a loner, but you don’t seem lonely, if that makes sense. You’re just hard to read, and I kind of like it. And I’m trying not to think about you being gay.”
“Because you don’t want to like me?”
“Because I shouldn’t.” That self-doubt creeps across his eyes. “Sex addict, remember?”
I did some research. Sex addictions aren’t always handled with abstinence. Not that I’d ever encourage him to have sex when he isn’t ready or doesn’t trust himself, but a lot of recovering sex addicts learn better impulse control, healthier attachments to people, and more attentive reactions to arousal and sexual consent.
“Have you ever had sex sober?” I ask.
He hangs his head. “No. Drugs led to energy, and sex was a way to expel energy. Some drugs made me horny, so that made it all worse. I had a need that wasn’t met, like an itch I couldn’t scratch, and I turned to sex to satiate it even though it wasn’t ever that good. Can’t fuck in rehab, and while I was with my last boyfriend, we only ever had sex when he thought I was sober, but I really wasn’t. When I was actually sober, I didn’t want him. Or maybe I just didn’t trust him. Or myself. I don’t know. Basically, no. I’ve never been sober and had any sort of sex. Not even in high school.” He cringes, already feeling ashamed about telling me all that. He could have just said no, but I like that he shared.
“I’ve never been drunk,” I tell him.
“Ever?”
I shake my head. “Never tried weed. Don’t drink. And walking with you is the closest I’ve ever been to cigarette smoke.”
“Shit. I’m sorry. I won’t smoke around you.”
I smile at him, loving that he said that. “We’re opposites, Gage. I have way too much control over my impulses, and you have none. We might be a good match. For friendship.” I shrug. “My dad thinks I’d be an addict’s best friend because I have an iron will.”
“Aren’t you worried I’ll, I don’t know, corrupt you or something?”
“Nope. You won’t ever have that kind of control over me.” And I’ve never been more sure of anything. “Because I value myself and never want the life my parents lived.”
Maybe my life prepared me for this, maybe it didn’t, but I became a master of control during my childhood, and as an adult, some might call me a control freak, but I take the title with pride. Fear is healthy when it makes us cautious, but I admit I tend to overdo it at times.
Gage groans, tilting his head back and gripping the chains of the swing. “Don’t tell me things like that. I’m dumb enough to take it as a challenge.”
“You want to control me?”
“I don’t want to, but impulses and an adrenaline rush might make me try,” he admits. “You always have to keep your guard up around me. Maybe we shouldn’t be friends.”
I want to agree with that because I don’t think we should be friends. We should be boyfriends. But Gage doesn’t seem ready and I’ve never had one before, and I just met the guy this morning, and oh my god.
No, Alexei! Bad impulse control!
But wait. I’m allowed to like people. Regular guys get crushes all the time, and it doesn’t make them obsessive or compulsive or whatever. I’m allowed to have a crush on the new guy who can’t read me.
“I have a therapy appointment on Monday,” Gage says. “With someone who specializes in sex addictions.”
“I have a dentist appointment on Monday,” I say. “With someone who specializes in nervous patients.”
Gage smiles at that. “Are you always factual and honest?”
“Yes.”
“Do you lie?”
I think about it. “Not if I can help it.”
Gage swings a bit, his feet scuffing the grooved dirt beneath him. “I lie. Or I did. I’m kind of a compulsive liar. Pretty good at it, too.” He looks at me, not smiling or frowning. “I’m going to fuck up a lot. If we’re going to be friends, you should know that.”
“With your addictions?” Because I want no part of that. If he isn’t here to give it his best shot and already has intentions of relapsing, I will walk away and never look back. I’ll think about him, feel sorry for him, worry about him, and fret over him, but it won’t be enough to draw me back.
“I hope not,” he says sincerely. “I just mean, like, as a friend. A person. I make a lot of mistakes, and I’m still getting used to how that feels while… sober.”
“Oh, well, yes. I expect that. No one is perfect.” I nod. “I make mistakes, too. I don’t often realize they’re mistakes until someone tells me I didn’t follow social protocol or I acted rudely because I was honest. So, you can expect mistakes from me as well.”
“Are you neurodivergent? On the spectrum?” he asks while blushing.
“No. I was tested. I’m just weird.” I shrug.
Gage looks up at the stars becoming visible in the clear, darkening sky. “A neurotic rambler and a neurodivergent recovering addict walk into friendship…”
I smile despite myself. A friendship .