Day Forty-Three Sober
From: Charlie Jones
To: Charlie Jones
Fuck, I’m angry.
I hate being angry.
It makes me want a drink.
From: Charlie Jones
To: Charlie Jones
Subject: Day forty-three sober (cont.)
I’m back at the stables now. Charlie’s out somewhere—avoiding me, probably. I wish I’d been calmer when she told me about Rog. I keep seeing her face when I snapped at her. She looked hurt, and disappointed, and…anxious. Which I hate.
But I also hate being treated like I can’t cope. The wolfish voice in my head thinks I can’t cope, either, at least not without a beer or two, and it’s hard enough ignoring that all day without Charlie acting like one small problem will make me fall apart.
Look at you, though, the voice says. A little argument with your coworker and you can feel the darkness creeping in again. You’re this close to having a drink.
But the darkness won’t close over me today.
And I’ve not had a drink. I’ve lit the log burner—a fire is just the right kind of high-maintenance—and I’m mainlining Doc’s custard creams. Sugar, keeping busy, and learning my lesson.
If I really saw Charlie as a coworker, I wouldn’t care nearly as much about her opinion of me.
I need to put my walls back up—I need to concentrate on what I came here to do, and focus on my future.
The shop profits aren’t high enough to justify two comanager salaries from October yet.
And I’ve been ignoring the possibility that we won’t get there, because frankly I’ve not wanted to think about it.
Charlie and I are a team now, we’re…well, we’re whatever we are, friends, I guess, if you can call someone a friend when you want to stare at them all the time.
But I need to face reality. If we don’t step things up a gear, there will only be funds for one of us to stay on. And I need to ask Marly exactly what that decision looks like, because that person has to be me.
First off, though, I need to speak to Rog.
CJ
From: Charlie Jones
To: Charlie Jones
Subject: Day forty-three sober (cont.)
I eventually tracked Rog down—he was still at the polytunnel, picking late into the evening with Marly and a few of the remaining summer workers.
A lot of people have assumed the worst of me, over the years.
It’s the ogreish looming, probably, the fact I’m not much of a smiler.
So I’m not going to do that to Rog. I’m done with the darkness, the pessimism—when I’m not depressed, I’m a person who hopes for the best and looks for the good.
So that’s what I did in the polytunnel this evening.
I just asked him, straight up.
“Rog, did you take some cash from the shop till the other day?”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, probably,” he said distractedly. “For the extras fund. We always take it out the farm shop till—all one business, isn’t it? It evens out, that’s Rosie’s logic.”
“That’s…Rosie’s…logic?”
“So you know there’s always a few B Marly silenced me with a look.
“I’ve wanted to ask you what happens if we can’t justify both our salaries,” I said instead. “How will you choose who stays?”
Marly waved that off, too. “Let’s cross that bridge. I suspect the answer will become obvious pretty soon.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked at me shrewdly. “Just know I’m rooting for you.”
We moved on to discussing something else, though now I’m home I’m realizing how uncomfortable that made me. Was she saying I’d get the job over Charlie, if it came to it? I should be pleased, obviously. But I can’t help thinking it doesn’t seem very fair.
CJ
From: Charlie Jones
To: Charlie Jones
Subject: Day forty-four sober
Charlie didn’t get home until after midnight. I’d left the farmhouse around eleven, but I wasn’t in bed, I was just watching the fire die down, drinking endless lemonades, writing that last email and ignoring the voice telling me it wouldn’t be a big deal to have a glass of wine.
“I spoke to Rog,” she said. Her tone was muted. “I’m really glad he wasn’t stealing.”
“Mm. Me, too.”
We said nothing for a while. I didn’t let myself look at her. I just fiddled with my lemonade bottle and stared into the fire. If we didn’t live together, there was no way we’d have spent any time together this evening. Everything still felt raw.