20. Gage
20
GAGE
I ’ve been in a bit of a rut. A mood rut. I don’t know how to feel about the whole Paul thing. Part of me wants to be pissed off and mad at him for it, but then that part fights with the part of me that knows I did shitty things to him, too. I lied compulsively. I fucking cheated on him. Often. I stole from him, abused his kindness, and used him as nothing more than a guy who’d put his fingers under my nose to make sure I was still breathing.
So, do I really have the right to be angry?
But what kind of low-life fucking prick strategically places pills and drinks around the house to entice his addict boyfriend, who was too greedy and stupid to notice? I mean, I expect it from another substance abuser, but not Paul. But then Alexei said a thing. He said that power is like a substance, and Paul abused that. And… it helped. It helped enough that I was able to put it out of my mind for a bit.
But now my mood is still confused.
I’m happy, strong, proud, and falling for a neurotic rambler, so that gives me all the good feels. But I’m also doubtful, scared of failure, and worried about tainting everyone, so that locks me in the bad feels. Pair that all with the ups and downs of neurodivergence and a full day spent in ADHD paralysis, and it’s a clusterfuck of an emotions party in my head.
So I leave the house, shouting at Mom and the twins that I’m hitting up a meeting. Nathan and my old sponsor Kristen both say that when you’re feeling any sort of way, find a meeting. So, I’m taking their advice and sitting in a chair, listening to the same group of people and a few new faces talk about their lives. And it’s good. Uplifting. Temporarily helps my mood.
After, I walk out the church doors with a smoke between my lips and a lighter that refuses to light.
One lights up in front of me, and I lean into it before I even look to see who offered it. My blood chills. Or gets thin. Or burns or something.
“Hey,” I say to Brian. “What’re you doing here?” Why are you here? Did you follow me? What the fuck is going on?
“Lost my truck keys,” he says, nodding to it parked way up the street. “So, walkin’ home. You headed that way?”
Yes, I am headed that way because he has to pass my street to get to his house, and I still don’t have a vehicle and… shit. “Yep.”
We’re walking, and I offer him a smoke, and he’s kind of quiet, but I can tell he’s on something. I’m terrified. Not because he’s a user, but because he’s got something I want. He’s feeling something I want to feel. He’s controlling his mood with a substance that could help control mine. And I’m thinking about it. But kind of rationally. Like I’m weighing the pros and the cons, trying to remind myself that it’ll help in the moment and make it worse after the moment is over.
Then I’m picturing the sadness in my mom’s eyes when she sees mine glossed and bloodshot, the subtle worry from the twins, and the disappointment from Owen. I’m thinking about quilting night at Marian’s and how I’m supposed to bring a snack this week, so I’ve been planning my grocery trips to make something special.
I’m thinking about Alexei and how he said he wouldn’t hate me if I relapsed, but that it’d hurt him. I don’t want to hurt him. Ever. But I’m destructive. I hurt things.
But I don’t want to, and maybe that’s enough of a change in me not to ask Brian what he’s on and then pretend like I’m not drooling over it.
“So,” he starts, jarring me from my freeway of thoughts. They’re all just zipping around up there with no traffic lights or speed limits. I clench, preparing for the worst, readying my excuse to either accept his offer or turn it down. “What’s rehab like?”
Oh. My feet stop moving and I’m staring at him, and I think he feels weird about it, so I pick up my pace again and try not to show how mind-blown I am.
“Yeah, it’s, uh, tough, man. It’s so hard, but it’s… I’ve got a lot of experience,” I say, chuckling because, once again, I’m prepping to poke fun at myself and my addiction. Like, wow, nothing is more funny than addiction, right? So lame. “I’ve been eight times.”
He finishes his cigarette and has no shame about asking me for another. I hand him one. “Eight? Shit, that’s nuts, man. It, uh, worked? This time?”
I’m nodding like it’s true. Like I’m saying yes. “So far. I feel good. I don’t ever wanna be hooked on that shit again. Feels good to have control. Uh, of myself.”
He’s asking me about rehab. Why? Does he maybe want to try it? I’d fucking pay for him. I’d pay for him to go eight times if that’s what it takes.
“Yeah,” he says, slowing down a bit. “Think maybe I, uh… might need to give that a go.”
“Yeah, man,” I’m saying, smiling. “It’s tough, but it’s worth it.” But that’s not what he wants to hear. That’s a sales pitch that all family members make, trying to convince you that something you don’t understand will be worth it in the end. We don’t rationalize that while we’re trying to stay cozy with our vice of choice. So, I add, “Honestly, Brian, it fucking sucks to detox and go through withdrawal, but once that shit is out of you, it’s like you fucking meet yourself for the first time. Like, I’m twenty-seven and just getting to know myself now. And it’s the first time in twelve years that nothing but cigarettes have controlled me. Pretty damn surreal, to be honest.”
“You got a number or something for a place?” he asks, not looking hopeful but not looking defeated either.
So I give him the number for the place I just spent a whole year at. I don’t tell him I stayed a year because that’s the longest commitment you can make, and it’s terrifying your first time. Did I need a full year after a frappé and a day-long bender? Probably not. But probably yes. Because it made me take it seriously. I hit my one-year mark while in there instead of out here in the real world, where drugs and pills are more readily available. It got me over a hurdle and helped me jump into my new life. I walked out of rehab on that one-year day, and… wow, I haven’t looked back since.
I open my mouth to tell him it’s expensive and that I can help. I close my mouth. He’s not ready. If I tell him I have money, he’ll come for it for a different reason. He needs to be ready first.
“How’s Becky?” I ask when the conversation drops after that.
Tough guys don’t cry. Not tough guys like Brian. But he blinks away some tears, takes another cigarette from me, and then says, “She’s pregnant. And I’m scared.”
That took balls, and I’m so proud of him.
There is an awful grating sound coming from the basement, but I’m not allowed to go down there and look. Alexei kicked us both out of his workshop for prying, and now Nathan and I are cooking the meal subscription box while Alexei tinkers with his old things.
I’m so happy.
Am I allowed to be this happy?
“I think I’m gonna get in touch with a lawyer,” I tell Nathan, chopping veggies for the stir-fry. “About the house I co-own in the city.”
Because now I’m afraid of Paul. I was going to give him the house, but everything Sonya said has been plaguing my mind, and I’m unsure about confronting him. Maybe it’s better to go through a real estate lawyer, sell the place, pay off the rest of the mortgage, and split the rest right down the middle. He can’t be mad about that, can he? Especially since he already has someone new living in a house I partially own and pay for.
“Want some backup?” he asks. “I can come along. Help out.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll let you know when I have something concrete.” I glance at him. His back is to me, but he seems at ease. Not like he wants to kill me for dating his son. Not like he’s disappointed in me for being a welcome intruder in their home. Not like he’s judging me as not being good enough for Alexei. “Do you date?”
He looks at me over his shoulder. Then he looks towards the basement stairs. When Alexei starts making a bunch of noise by grinding something, he says, “No. Sort of. Not really.” A deep breath. “It’s new.”
I grin at him. “Alexei doesn’t know?”
“I’m afraid he’s going to tell me I’m not stable enough for dating.”
I snort. “Who is? It’s fucking mind-bending, the emotions people go through while dating. Recovered addict or not, it’s tough shit made worth it by all the good feels.” When he smiles but doesn’t say anything, I ask, “Do you believe in soulmates?”
He spins to face me. “Did Alex tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Nothing. And I don’t know. Not really.” He shrugs. “Some people do. So… yeah, some people do.” He turns back around.
So, Alexei then? Does Alexei think I’m his soulmate? Oh, shit. Or does he think I’m not his soulmate, so this thing has an expiration date? Fuck.
“These are chopped. Can I go creep on him?” I drop the knife and don’t wait for an answer. I keep my socks light on the stairs and only step on the creaky ones when Alexei is using some sort of tool. Then I lurk.
Because goddamn. For a guy who mostly wears sweatpants and hoodies, it’s almost jarring to see him in a pair of work-style pants, a thick, rough leather apron slung over his neck and draping down to his mid-thighs. It’s worn brown, so much warmer than his blacks and icy blues, and he makes it beautiful. Alexei can make any colour beautiful.
Then I panic a bit when he picks up a blowtorch and has no idea that it’s now spewing fuel while he tries to get it started.
“Woah.” I place my hand on his and turn the knob off. Alexei jumps, swearing at me. “I know this place is made of stone, but Jesus, Alexei. There is wood in here!”
“I know what I’m doing,” he insists. “I thought I kicked you out?”
“I kicked myself back in. What’re you working on?” I peer over his shoulder.
He starts to hide his project from me, then thinks better of it. “Light switches,” he says. “Or more like the covers that go over the light switches. I found them on that shelf out there, and they’re all rusty and corroded, so… I’m fixing them. Grinding the rust off. Yep.”
Yep. I smirk. “They’re gonna look perfect in this house. How many are there?”
“Like twenty. Maybe eighteen if I can’t get these two restored.” He points at two pretty badly corroded ones.
“They’ll look amazing in the sitting room, don’t you think?” I meet his icy blue eyes, falling for him a bit more every single day.
“Yes, Gage. I do think. That’s exactly where I… how did you know?”
I tug on the front of his apron and bring him against my front. “Maybe our souls know how to read each other.”
His eyes widen, and shock mixes with his melting. God, he really does think we’re soulmates, and that just makes me fall for him even more. “You think? I mean, natural progression of slow-moving boyfriends would be straight into?—”
“Casually moving boyfriends? Fast-moving boyfriends?” I smirk. When I tell him we’re soulmates, it’ll be when I kiss him. When he knows with absolute certainty that I’m committed, trust myself, and am acting on nothing but my feelings for him. I want to kiss him now, but first I need to squash a few self-doubts and this constant buzz of negativity that tells me I don’t deserve him.
He’s leaning against me but won’t wrap his arms around me, but I think that’s just his bold defiance. He wants to hug me, but he’s going to make me do it first. He turns his face, nuzzling against my neck, and switches conversational gears once again. “Do I grate?”
“Grate?”
“Yeah, like on your nerves. Am I stress-inducing? Am I bad for sobriety?”
I push him back and palm his cheeks. “One hundred percent no. You’re amazing for sobriety, for more than sobriety. Why would you ask that?”
“I did some ADHD research,” he says. “And basically just discovered that the way your mind works is super complicated. And since I’m also a complicated person, I just wondered if we’re two complicated guys in a slow-moving relationship that only has room for one complicated guy. Like, do I make your already busy mind even busier, and that’s gonna be bad for you?”
“Here’s the flip side to that, Alexei. Because flip sides are important.” I move my hands down to the sides of his neck. “Boring people don’t stimulate me. Boredom leads to bad decisions. Bad decisions will land me in rehab for the ninth time. So, be complicated because it keeps my mind engaged. Be you because I fucking lo—need you to be you because you’re crazy perfection just like this. Just as you. I don’t want less than your best.”
He stares at me. I stare at him. It’s comfortably awkward. Then he exhales through his nose. “I guess my dad introducing us is like meeting the really old-fashioned way. It fits my romantic dreams.”
Another switch flipped fast. I laugh. “See? I’m making your dreams come true, and you’re far exceeding mine with your complications. Be you. Be us. I love us.”
He smiles so wide that he gets embarrassed about it and hides it in my neck.