13. Alex
13
Alex
Alex woke to the aroma of coffee and baked goods and the worst headache he could remember in years.
He opened his eyes just a crack, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling and the light stabbing his eyeballs. As he pulled the blanket higher, its scent caught him by surprise.
Juno.
Then everything came rushing back, making his stomach lurch. He'd been passed out in Juno's apartment.
The letters. Mrs. Becker had refused to elaborate, just patted his arm and insisted he go directly to Juno.
So he had. He'd worked up the courage to come last night after Juno's closed. But her car had been gone, and no one had answered his knock.
He'd waited almost an hour before he'd lost his nerve. Because he wasn't just coming to ask about the letters. He wanted to mend fences, to fix what had gone wrong all those years ago, to bridge the chasm between them. But asking for her honesty meant offering his own, and telling her his secrets risked destroying any bridge they might build.
Back at his apartment, he sat in his parked truck, engine idling. Did he want to endure another eight years of unresolved wounds? Could either of them bear it? What if Mrs. Becker was right—that they'd been circling each other all this time because they both longed for something different?
He harbored no illusions about romance between them. Once he revealed everything to her, there was no way she'd even consider him in that light.
But friendship without this brutal tension? He'd take it in a heartbeat.
In utter frustration over his own indecision, he'd gripped the steering wheel hard and shook it, causing the whole truck to shimmy. He'd revved the engine a few times, even knowing The Beast was loud and obnoxious, then he'd roared out of the parking lot and back down the street the way he'd come.
He'd sit outside and wait for her. Wherever she was, surely, she had to come home, right? And when she did, he'd be waiting. He'd be ready to hear her out, and he'd tell her about Lena. And he'd offer her his friendship, his loyalty. He'd be the kind of man that she could depend on, even if it took him the rest of his life to prove it to her.
So, there he'd sat, his thoughts roiling inside him, the quandary of what to do, how to move forward, of how to become someone different, someone new, churning up his gut.
Then his mind had drifted to the old days and what he used to do on Friday nights. How he'd walk the three blocks from his place to Bill's Tavern, then stumble home hours later, having spent way too much on drinks with his buddies. Or with whatever woman was clinging to his arm that night. Of the way that first sip of cold beer felt sliding down his throat. Of the warmth in his belly when he switched to whiskey.
It was unseasonably cool for a mid-July night, and sitting alone in a dark alley, waiting for the woman he ached for, knowing that after they talked, she'd either hate him even more or agree to be friends and nothing more, all Alex could think about was getting his hands on a bottle of whiskey. Just a shot would do it, a couple of ounces of liquid courage.
In his drinking days, he'd always kept a bottle behind his passenger seat. When he got sober, he'd cleared out every drop of alcohol from his apartment and truck. He even avoided the tavern despite missing their catfish fritters.
But then he'd started wondering—had he checked thoroughly? Was it possible there might be a fugitive bottle still hiding out under that seat?
In moments, he'd begun to fixate on the idea, picturing it in his head, wedged between the brackets that slid the seat back and forth.
It had angered him, that fixation, and, determined to do the right thing, Alex had gotten out to look, intending to toss any findings in Juno's trash.
After some rooting around, his fingers had closed around the familiar weight of a bottle. He'd hardly believed it, having assumed that it had all been twisted, wishful thinking on his part. Somehow, though, one rogue fifth had evaded his cleanout. He'd hesitated, suddenly paranoid—what if Juno had security cameras in the alley? What if she'd been watching him the whole time, deliberately staying away?
Then he'd made the very bad decision to tuck the bottle inside his flannel, clomp back around to the driver's side of his truck, and climb back in to continue waiting for Juno's return.
As time had passed, the comfort the whiskey had offered was too much to resist. He'd just needed a reprieve from the chaos inside his head. One good swallow. Maybe a second.
And then Juno was there, shining a light in his face. On his failure.
Now, in the light of day, shame rolled through him with such force that he clutched his stomach. Three years sober—meetings, milestones, hard-earned chips—all thrown away in one moment of weakness because he was afraid to tell Juno about his demons.
And of all people to witness his downfall, it had to be the one woman he wanted so badly to impress.
Why couldn't he stop messing things up?
When the contents of his stomach stayed where they were, he forced himself to sit up slowly, his head protesting every movement. The events of the previous night came back in fragments. Juno finding him in the truck. Insisting he stay at her place for the night. Helping him up the stairs. The look on her face—not disgust or anger, but something worse, something that brought an overwhelming urge to cover his face and weep like a child: pity.
Besides, he didn't deserve her concern. He certainly didn't deserve her kindness.
"You're such a loser, Frampton," he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.
The room spun as he scooted forward to the edge of the cushion. His injured ankle throbbed inside the walking boot, but it was a minor discomfort compared to the hammer striking his temples. The trash can Juno had placed beside the couch sat mercifully empty. At least he hadn't disgraced himself further.
Somewhere below, he could hear the gentle hum of the coffee shop in operation. Juno would be down there working, flashing that friendly smile as she served the regulars who depended on her to start their day right. Of course she wasn't up here, dealing with a hungover mess who'd shown up on her doorstep in the middle of the night, uninvited and unwanted. The woman had a business to run, a life of her own to lead.
There was a glass of water on the coffee table, the corner of a folded note tucked under it. In Juno's neat handwriting, he read: Bathroom's all yours. Towels in the cabinet, a new toothbrush on the counter. Help yourself to anything else you need.
He picked up the glass of water, his mouth pasty. He had downed half of it when he heard the front door open.
"Oh," Juno said, pausing in her entryway. "You're awake."
She was professional and put-together in her black Juno's Coffee Bar apron, a stark contrast to how he must look. Her eyes swept over him, assessing. There was that pity again.
"I was just coming to check on you," she continued, stepping into the apartment. "How's the head?"
"Not so good." Alex set the glass down carefully. "Juno, I'm so sorry—"
"Hold that thought." She disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a bottle of medication. "Take two of these. Then shower. And brush your teeth. You'll feel more human."
He accepted the pills gratefully. "You should be furious with me."
"Maybe I am," she replied, her expression unreadable. "But right now, I'm more concerned about why you were drinking in your truck in my alley. And after three years sober."
The simple observation—that she knew exactly how long he'd been sober—caught him off guard. It mattered to her?
"I'll go back downstairs and grab you some coffee and something to eat," she continued. "Poppy can handle things for a few minutes while we talk, if you're up to it after your shower."
"You don't have to…." His words faded at her stern expression.
"I know I don't have to." Her tone was matter-of-fact. "Just get that shower. And do it now; I'll be back soon, and I don't have all morning."
After she left, Alex dragged himself to the bathroom, wincing at his reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, stubble bordering on beard, hair sticking up at odd angles. No wonder she'd looked at him the way she had.
The hot water helped, as did the pain relievers beginning to take effect. By the time he emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his jeans with his dirty shirt flung over one shoulder, the floor beneath his feet had stopped undulating and his stomach seemed to be in a better mood, even if his head wasn't. He was surprised to find that he was actually hungry.
He was so focused on making it back to the couch without falling that he didn't see Juno standing in the middle of the living room until he stood almost directly in front of her.
"You okay?" she asked, stepping back quickly, her eyes darting away from his bare chest. She'd removed her apron and kicked off her shoes at the door, and now only wore a light blue Juno's Coffee Bar polo shirt tucked into form-fitting jeans.
She looked fresh as a daisy, he thought.
"I brought you this." She held up another one of her shop shirts, this one in black. "Yours is… used. I hope it's the right size." She practically tossed it at him, then made a beeline for the kitchen table, saying over her shoulder, "I also brought nourishment."
He'd taken one whiff of his shirt and had opted not to put it back on, so he couldn't be offended by her diplomatic assessment.
Once he'd slipped the clean shirt on and joined her, he took in the tray of coffee fixings and a platter with a couple of pieces of thick toast, a bagel, muffins, and several slices of perfectly fried bacon. Then he noticed the half-empty cup of coffee in front of her. So she'd been waiting for him.
"I was starting to get worried," she confirmed his suspicions. "You were in there a while."
He shot her a wry grin. "Yeah. Sorry to worry you. That might have been the best shower I've had in a long time." He plucked at the front of the shirt. It was snug, but it would do for now. "Thank you," he said, grateful for far more than the shirt and shower.
"You're welcome."
Alex eyed the array of options in front of him, relieved that his stomach wasn't exactly rebelling at the idea of eating. "I don't know where to start."
After a moment, she suggested, "How about why you showed up here drunk in the middle of the night?" Her voice was gentle but firm. "After three years sober," she repeated, driving the point home.
He picked up a piece of lightly buttered toast. The bacon smell was making his mouth water, but he'd better choose carefully, both in what he put in his mouth and what he let out of his mouth. "How did you know about that?"
"Mrs. Becker," she said in her direct way. "When she told me about Jason."
Her expression softened, and she started to reach across the table toward him, but then seemed to change her mind and picked up a muffin, instead. "I didn't know, Alex. No one told me. You could have said something to me, you know." Now she almost looked hurt.
"It's not something I talk about." He wrapped his hands around the warm mug. "It's easier that way."
"Is it?"
"Yes." Then he looked away. "Or maybe it isn't. I don't know. Everything seems harder these days." Wow. Now he was sounding like quite the downer. He met her gaze again. "I'm not making excuses for my behavior, Juno. I messed up bad last night, and I'm sorry you're the one who's stuck dealing with it. With me."
Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with unspoken thoughts. Alex gingerly ate his toast, while through the window, the morning light cast patterns across her kitchen floor. Juno pinched off pieces of her muffin, but didn't really eat much. It was obvious there was a lot going on inside her head.
"I never got any letter from you, Juno." The words came out before he could second-guess himself, and he forced himself to look at her when he said them. He needed her to see the truth in his eyes.
"What?" Her face registered surprise, then confusion.
"The letters you sent after you left. I never got them." He leaned forward.
"Who—" She broke off, then frowned, a suspicious glint in her eyes. "Then how do you know about them?"
"Mrs. Becker."
Juno shook her head. "That meddling woman." But she didn't really sound that upset.
Alex leaned forward, pressing in. "I never got anything from you, Juno. Not a letter, not an email, nothing. My texts went unread, and my thousand calls went straight to voicemail, then your number was disconnected."
Juno's expression shifted, disbelief warring with something else—hope, maybe? She held up three fingers. "I sent you three letters, Alex. To your house. Your parents' house."
He started shaking his head, then thought better of it when the room tilted precariously. "I never got them," he insisted, begging his stomach to settle so he could concentrate on the conversation. The weight of fifteen years of misunderstanding loomed large between them. "All I knew was that you were there one day, and gone the next. No goodbye, no explanation. I thought..." He swallowed hard. "I thought you'd just decided I wasn't worth the trouble."
"I thought the same about you." Her voice was quiet. "When you never answered."
Alex ran a hand through his nearly-dry hair, the smell of her aromatic shampoo he'd used filling his nostrils. "Will you tell me now what they said?" he asked, his voice gravelly with emotion. Would she tell him after all this time? Would her words even be relevant anymore? They'd been teenagers….
Juno looked down at her coffee and said nothing for several moments. Finally, she lifted her gaze to his. "Are you sure you want to know?"
Alex didn't hesitate. "I do."
She pressed her lips together in a thin line, took long breath in through her nose, then began in a flat, almost monotone voice. "I wrote lot of things, Alex. That I was sorry I couldn't tell you before I left. That my dad was making us leave in the middle of the night. Again. That he was making us skip town, to be more precise. I couldn't call or text you or respond to any of yours because he destroyed our phones; said he didn't want anyone to be able to track us."
"Track you?" This all sounded so surreal. Sure, Juno's parents, especially her father, had been oddly detached, uninvolved, to the point where it often seemed to Alex that Juno pretty much took care of herself. But why would he be afraid of being tracked? What had he done?
Juno continued in a more conversational tone, almost like she was telling someone else's story. "My father is an addict. Alcohol, drugs, rolling the dice; any and all of it. Sober, he's an exceptional gambler. Or an exceptional cheater, depending on your perspective. But wasted, he's a sorry excuse for a human being, and when he starts using, that's when things start catching up to him. Back then, that's when things always caught up to us, too. My mother, God bless her, enjoyed the lifestyle he provided while he was winning. Whenever things went belly up, she blindly believed him when he insisted he'd make everything good again, that the downturn had been someone else's fault. My mom also liked her oxy, and since my father kept her supplied with the stuff, she went along with just about anything he said," she added ruefully.
"You're talking in past tense," Alex murmured, his heart racing at her words. "Your parents… are they… gone?"
Juno made a rough sound at the back of her throat, half anger, half pain. "My dad killed my mom a few years after we left Autumn Lake."