Chapter 35
thirty-five
. . .
Shift
Present Day
taven
Saturday, 4:43pm
I cruise along the highway with Evelyn in the passenger seat beside me. The white dashed lines of the road pass us by and I mindlessly watch them, switching lanes and passing cars in my hurry to drop her off. Then I can get back to Desiree. My Dazzle, who just learned something terrible about her father and is now stewing in the realization of it. I need to see her and make sure she’s alright. I want to help her sort through whatever feelings she’s having about it.
I think about how I used to use drinking to cope with things I wanted to push down and ignore. When you struggle with addiction, you often think about what the trigger is. And what is the turning point on the path of destruction? For me, there were many things—all the internal fears of whether or not I’d actually find any success, anxieties of living up to the doubts I felt from my parents. Thoughts that I held no worth, that I was incapable of building anything of value, that I would be a failure.
Then there was the time that I ran into Frank Hatson. It was at a grocery store, the summer after high school. I was just getting ready to head off to Philly for college, where I knew I might finally get my chance with Desiree. And there he was, her father, mere feet away, and I wanted nothing more than to march up to him and feel the sweet satisfaction of my fist meeting his face.
Holly came around the corner. I saw her smile at him, and I was frozen in my tracks, seeing the mother that looked so much like her daughter. It stopped me, and I turned on my heels and walked away, chest tight and breaths short. The wind felt like it had been knocked out of me, and I walked outside and gasped for air, wondering what was happening to me.
When I got home, I reached out to Jacqui. I didn’t understand the reaction I was having, and she was the only person I could think to talk to, though I hated bringing up the subject at all. My sister was soothing, telling me I didn’t need to carry this on my shoulders. She said how sorry she was for everything. She blamed herself, and she said she knew the several weeks of her attachment to Frank Hatson was the reason me and Desiree were apart. I had been furious that some fucker made her think she was to blame. He had taken advantage of her innocence, couldn’t she see that? She admitted that for a couple years, Frank had been progressively more flirtatious with her. It disgusted me. The last thing I wanted her to do was blame herself, yet I also understood.
We can be really skilled at beating ourselves up for our mistakes, living with regret and messages of “You’re a fuck-up, everything bad that happens is your fault.” I knew that feeling well.
To this day, there’s little I regret more than not being able to see any sweet justice served to Desiree’s father.
Evelyn’s exhausted. I can see it in the circles under her eyes and in the frown on her lips. We head toward her place, politely talking about meaningless bullshit. Our conversation is limited to safe topics like how her trip was, the long flight with the elderly couple beside her flip-flopping between random bickering and mini naps complete with snoring.
She fills me in on all this, and she never once asks me how last night’s concert was. I’m guessing she just forgot, which is fine by me, but I know she’s also jet-lagged and not at a hundred percent. Meaning I should probably hold off any real conversation with her. I noticed she didn’t have her engagement ring on, but her text saying she missed me has me confused as to where exactly she stands.
I think back to when Evelyn initially mentioned having second thoughts about marrying me. It was several weeks ago. She had been spending a lot of time with a coworker, someone she realized she had crossed some lines with in the way of flirting and extended communication outside of work parameters. She came to me and told me everything, wondering if she was ready for marriage. Yeah, I’ll go ahead and admit, it hurt like hell to hear that.
But there was also a part of me, this little gnawing part, that thought maybe it was for the best, so the reassurance I offered her was half-hearted. While I do love her, and will forever be grateful for her steadfast loyalty as she stood by me through my darkest hours, I also never felt the same raw intensity for her that I share with Desiree.
I also know that there’s something dangerous about trusting a spark you have with someone. I’ve considered whether or not that kind of spark is in fact healthy, or if it’s the desperate pull toward something that’s ultimately not good for you, all wrapped up in the appeal of a revved-up state of existence.
That’s also how drinking was for me.
It was this itch, a burning itch to crack open a beer, just one or two, just a little something to take my mind off whatever thing was stressing me out on any given day. I would tell myself drinking was a good thing, that it was helping me. Soon one or two became three or four beers, and when that proved to not be enough, it was a shot washed down with a beer. There, that was better. I’d feel nice and light and buzzy, not a damn care in the world.
And then that turned to liking feeling light and buzzy several days a week, drinking no longer something reserved for weekends or social events. I’d be stuck on a project at work, decide to reach for a drink to calm down my frustrations, dripping with sweat and grimy with engine soot. I’d be at a party drinking politely along with everyone else, but sneaking sips from a flask any time I thought no one was looking. My tolerance was high, and my itch was strong.
I understand now that I’m someone who likes more , always. When one drink feels so refreshing, I’d decide more would be even better. More could translate to other things as well—more projects, more cars, and when I was single, more women. Drinks by the bar followed by taking home the cute blonde that had been flirting with me all night became a favorite pastime.
My rock bottom should have come in the way of a potential DUI. One I managed to get out of, but once at the station, I called Desiree, even though she had walked out at that point. I was locked behind bars once again, sobering up and dying from an exploding head and scared I might lose my license, yet I still wanted more to drink. I’d slipped up, sure, but I could keep it together. No more liquor, I’d just stick to beer, everything would be fine. I have since learned that clinging to a belief that this thing is the only thing to bring me any real happiness is a lie, but it took me a while to get there.
My addiction to alcohol was progressive. The limits I’d set for myself after one embarrassing or dangerous incident or another were shorter and shorter-lived each time. I’d look at the timeline between major slip-ups—ones where I was thrown out of a bar after some fight, or waking up in a woman’s bed having no idea how I got there or if I used a condom—and realize they were turning into the norm. I’d laugh and joke with the guys at the shop, sharing the tales of my drunken shenanigans, but soon the stories started getting less funny and more fucked-up.
But the saddest incident will always be the day Desiree left me. She was in my kitchen, counter lined up with rows of empty bottles she had dug out of my trash bin and collected from the trunk of Inferno. I was furious with the insinuation, yelling at her as she cried and asked when things had gotten so bad. She was telling me some story from the night before—behaviors of mine that I didn’t even remember, and I sure as hell wasn’t ready to hear it now. It scared the shit out of me to imagine what she was telling me was true.
I walked right out of my apartment and headed straight for—you guessed it—the bar. Telling myself she was crazy, I was fine. Internally I was filled with shame at having put her in danger, and embarrassed to have my secret exposed by someone I idolized. I was self-conscious that she was back in my life, a doctor in the making, and I was still living off my parents’ credit card.
It took my parents cutting me off, and eventually my mom showing up and pulling my ass into rehab to finally get myself healthy again. I’m ashamed to admit that. Somehow the disappointment in my mother’s eyes was more than I could handle, and it became quickly evident how clueless I was at managing money and living life on a budget. I had to give sobriety a real shot and get it together.
I wish it could have been Desiree that I stopped for. I always wondered about that, why this woman I loved wasn’t enough to get me to stop. I hate that she’s asked herself that, too. I’m glad she got to finally say her piece last night, let out some anger, but I know it’s not that simple to clean up the damage and hurt. It’s something I want to address with her again, because she needs to really, truly know that she was enough, I just wasn’t ready for it. That’s the truth.
I subconsciously believed she was too good for me, and I couldn’t handle it. I was convinced she was going to wake up one day and realize she could do better, that she’d break my heart eventually. This amazing and smart woman, someone who just left a damn doctor for me. Left a fucking surgeon. I resented her for making that choice. Misery wrapping around me and pushing her away, just to be safe, to beat the inevitable.
After my parents stepped in, I was broke and eventually crawled my way back to their house, tail between my legs. I was stuck living with them at twenty-six years old, like a kid under their watch, under the iron fist that I had always been dying to get out from under. That felt like the lowest of low points for me. It was fucking humiliating. And sadly, it worked. Suddenly dependent under their roof, a couple bucks to my bank account and alarmingly sober, I used my anger to fuel my drive.
I saved up. Got a shitty apartment of my own, yet I was strangely proud and wanted to celebrate. I drank a little. I had been sober for several months at that point. Clearly, I was fine. Just a couple beers. No big deal.
Evelyn was back in my life at that point, as a friend. I hadn’t told her that I had a few drinks now and then, convincing myself that it was just to keep her from unnecessary worry. When a few drinks became a few too many one evening, I passed out. I woke up the next afternoon with no recollection of the night before. I had sworn to myself I could still handle alcohol. Instead, it was handling me.
It was Evelyn I called to confess my relapse. Evelyn that went with me to that first AA meeting, where I quietly listened and didn’t say a damn thing, still convinced that these people had an addiction much worse than mine. I had never woken up in a ditch, nearly frozen to death, at least, or handcuffed to a hospital bed. My fuck-ups weren’t so bad.
But I went to a meeting again anyway, then again, and soon some of the stories I heard sounded a whole lot like things I had been through too. We were all just a bunch of retired partiers from various walks of life, but not so different. We had been maneuvering with a belief that alcohol served us, until we could finally understand that it in fact did not.
I listened to guys that were sober for mere days, then some that were sober for twenty-five years, still coming back here, just to ensure they stayed on the path they really wanted. I remember inwardly rolling my eyes at them at first. Twenty-five years seemed like a pretty clear indicator you’d be alright, why the hell still show up?
This one day a guy came in—he’d been sober for nearly a decade. He said he slipped up, got behind the wheel and nearly killed someone. He was crying in sobs. I stared at him, stunned and in disbelief. That someone could be sober for that long, yet still lose themselves with a drink—it scared the shit out of me.
It clicked then, that this drug is dangerous, and I wanted nothing to do with it. I finally stopped believing the lie that alcohol was a good thing that I would always miss. It wasn’t.
All this rehashing of my journey to say, it’s taken me some time to trust myself again.
We pull up to Evelyn’s house and she turns to me. “Help me unload my bags?” she asks, and I tell her of course.
We walk in and I help her get settled before giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. I tell her to rest and call me later this week. Now’s not the time to break things off or make any major decisions. I mean here I am, stuck in this limbo, helping unload luggage with a woman I asked to marry me, and all the while the love of my life is waiting for me at home.
It’s fucked up, is what it is.
With Desiree now aware of everything with her father, I’m thinking I need to just get through the rest of the weekend with her as platonically as possible. Make sure she’s feeling alright, no sudden memory loss or nausea symptoms popping up, and then take her back home and clear my head.
I’m getting ready to walk out and do just that when Evelyn calls my name.
I turn back to her, watch as she reaches in her purse and pulls out the ring I gave her. I stare at her, the wild red hair that she always has neatly tucked in a ponytail, now long and loose down around her shoulders.
She steps toward me. “I don’t know how to say this, Taven, but I want you to take this back.”
I stand there, frozen and stunned. She’s giving me the ring back. She’s officially ending it. My heart pounds at the realization. Here I am, one foot out the door, too chicken shit to break her heart just yet, and she’s doing it for me.
She wants me to take the ring back. It’s over.
“Say something, Taven.” I see the concern all across her face. She’s known all along she wants out, hasn’t she?
Eventually, I verbalize the only words that I seem to be thinking. “But your text. It said you missed me.” I wince at how stupid that sounds. How hypocritical, even. This is supposed to bring me relief, right? So why am I questioning her on it? Her work trip— was the guy she had mentioned been with her? I imagine wild nights they had in their hotel room, overlooking London and Big Ben and whatever the fuck else might be there.
Evelyn sighs. “Taven, this might be hard to hear, but I thought I was texting someone else when I sent that. The guy I told you about.” She looks up at me through her eyelashes, and I see the guilt on her face. I guess we’re both prone to relapses.
And I guess she wasn’t with him in London after all.
“Right,” I slowly draw out. “You thought it was him, not me.”
A nod. Maybe a tear, if I’m not mistaken, but she blinks it away and looks up at me. “I’m so sorry. I realize that’s an empty string of words at this point, but…well, if I’m missing someone th at’s not you, then I think it’s pretty telling that this here isn’t working.
“And maybe it never was supposed to, Taven, if you think about it. I think I came back into your life at a time when I was lonely, and you were working through things, and we got swept up in that. I got swept up in that, because I do care about you, and I think I just loved the fairytale of the two kids that reconnected all those years later and fell in love after a dark time.”
I huff out a laugh. Replace the woman in that fairytale with someone else, and I’m completely guilty of getting caught up in that too.
Evelyn’s crying now, telling me over and over again how incredibly sorry she is, how she hopes one day I can find it in my heart to forgive her, that she should have never led me on like she has and how she was a coward for not speaking up before, but she’s speaking up now and please, could I forgive her?
I step toward her and pull her into my arms for a hug, not liking seeing her fall apart and punish herself like this when I’ve been far from the perfect hero. “It’s okay, Evelyn. Really, it’s okay.”
I don’t mention Desiree. I don’t mention the woman she knows I’ve always held a soft spot in my heart for, because it feels like that would be some cheap attempt at me throwing it in her face just to hurt her right back. I won’t do that to her.
I hear her voice, muffled in my chest. “You’ll be okay? You won’t drink again?”
I pull her back. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
She shrugs guiltily. “A little.” I look at her and realize she’s probably been holding on to this out of fears that I’d step off my path.
“Evelyn,” I say into her shining green eyes. “I’m never going back to that, I know that in my gut in a way I can’t really explain, but it’s the truth. And it’s you who helped me get to that point,” I say, giving her shoulders a little shake. “But you don’t owe me your whole damn life because of it. That’s on me to keep up with, not you.”
“You promise?” she asks.
“I promise.” I hug her again until she calms down, and I reassure her that we’re going to be fine. That we’re better as friends, and maybe in time, we will be again.
She says she’d like that.