23. Xander
Chapter 23
Xander
T he folding chair creaked beneath me as I shifted my weight.
The community center's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everyone in the circle in a harsh glow that left nowhere to hide. I ran my thumb over my sobriety chip—the bronze one marking one full year—feeling the weight of its significance. Today was the day I'd been working toward since that first shaky meeting twelve months ago.
I’d asked my sponsor to not make a fuss.
To let me just soak in the fact that I’d earned this chip, but now that I had it in my hand, something about speaking to them all just felt right.
Needed.
"My name is Xander, and I'm an alcoholic."
The chorus of "Hi, Xander" washed over me, familiar after all this time, yet somehow different tonight. More celebratory.
I cleared my throat. "Today marks one year of sobriety for me."
The circle erupted in quiet applause, a few people nodding with knowing smiles. The recognition felt both overwhelming and earned.
"I haven't shared in a while. Things have been... complicated lately, but in ways I never expected when I first walked through those doors."
Twenty pairs of eyes watched me without judgment.
That was the beauty of these meetings—everyone here had their own demons.
No one was interested in measuring the size of mine.
"Some of you know I've been working on opening a rehabilitation center at my brother's ranch," I continued.
"It's going well. Actually, better than expected. We're already fully booked for the first year." I paused, realizing I was stalling.
"But that's not why I need to share tonight."
My fingers tightened around the chip. "A few weeks ago, my life changed completely. A woman I barely knew ended up with temporary custody of her infant niece. DCFS got involved, and somehow I found myself in a fake engagement with her to help keep the baby safe."
A few eyebrows raised, but no one interrupted.
Jeremy, my sponsor, nodded slightly from across the circle, encouraging me to continue.
"We're living together. Playing house. Pretending to be something we're not." I swallowed hard, the words sticking in my throat. "Except somewhere along the way, I stopped being able to tell what's pretending and what's real. And I think... I think I don't want it to be pretending anymore."
The admission felt both shameful and liberating, like lancing a wound.
"Last week, I saw her talking to another man at the bookstore. An artist, like her. He was looking at her work, complimenting her talent, and I felt this surge of... jealousy. Possessiveness. Like she was mine to protect." I ran a hand through my hair.
"But she's not mine. We have an arrangement. A fake engagement. And I'm getting confused about where the lines are."
Jeremy's expression remained neutral, encouraging.
"I want this so much," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "A real relationship. A family. But I'm terrified that wanting it will somehow jeopardize everything I've worked for this past year. I'm afraid that if I let myself feel too much, need too much, I'll slip back into old patterns."
The meeting continued, others sharing their stories, offering perspectives that ranged from cautious to encouraging. When it ended, Jeremy approached me, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
"You did good sharing that," he said. "And congratulations on one year. Most people in recovery don't get a manual for navigating fake engagements that develop real feelings, especially not in their first year."
I laughed despite myself. "Funny how that's not covered in the literature."
"Look," Jeremy's expression turned serious, "being in recovery doesn't mean you don't get to have a life. It means you learn to have one responsibly. One year is a huge milestone, Xander. Don't let fear rob you of acknowledging that." He checked his watch. "But be honest with yourself about what you're feeling, and be honest with her. That's the only way to keep things from getting more complicated than they need to be."
I nodded, grateful for the guidance. The acceptance these people offered still felt undeserved, but I was learning to sit with that discomfort.
The meeting had run late, and the parking lot was dark when I emerged from the building. I was halfway to my truck when I spotted her—Blake, sitting on the hood of Reece's car, sketching in the dim light from a streetlamp.
My heart hammered against my ribs. How long had she been there? What had she heard?
She looked up as I approached, tucking her pencil behind her ear in a gesture I'd come to recognize as her artist's habit.
"Hey," she said simply.
"Hey," I replied, unable to form more words. "How did you—"
"Booker told me." She slid off the hood, standing to face me. "Not where, exactly. Just that you might need someone afterward. And that today was important."
The thought of my brother involving her in this intimate part of my life sent a wave of conflicting emotions through me—annoyance, embarrassment, and beneath it all, a strange relief.
"How long have you been waiting?"
She shrugged. "A while. Amelia's with Reece." Blake's gaze was direct, unflinching. "You don't have to tell me anything. I just... I didn't want you to be alone afterward if you didn't want to be."
The spring night air was cool, carrying the scent of new growth and possibility. In the distance, the streetlights of Willowbrook blinked like earthbound stars.
"Let's walk," I suggested, not ready to get in a car, not ready to go back to the cottage where our carefully constructed arrangement waited.
Blake fell into step beside me, her hands tucked into the pockets of her light jacket. We wandered down a quiet street, the silence between us not uncomfortable, but weighted with unspoken things.
We reached a small park, empty at this hour except for the occasional moth fluttering around the path lights. Blake sat on a bench, and I joined her, careful to leave space between us—though part of me wanted to close that distance.
"I don't know the first thing about addiction," she admitted. "But I know what it's like to be afraid of becoming your parents."
The air between us seemed to vibrate with shared understanding.
"My medical training makes it worse, in some ways," I found myself saying. "I understand exactly what's happening in my brain when I crave a drink. The dopamine pathways, the neural networks that have been rewired. I can analyze it clinically, but that doesn't always help with the feeling."
Blake nodded, her eyes reflecting the dim glow of the path lights. "Like how I can deconstruct a painting into its technical elements—composition, color theory, brush technique—but that doesn't always help me create something meaningful."
"Exactly." I was struck by how precisely she'd understood. "There's science, and then there's... life."
We sat in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of the town a gentle backdrop to our conversation.
"I'm afraid of failing Amelia," Blake whispered. "Of not being enough for her."
"I'm afraid of wanting this too much," I confessed, the words rushing out before I could stop them. "This life we're pretending to have. I'm afraid that if I let myself believe it's real, I'll lose sight of what's important."
Our fears, laid bare between us, seemed to create a bridge rather than a barrier.
"Is that why you've been pulling back?" she asked, her voice gentle. "I can feel it, you know. The distance."
I nodded, unable to deny it. "The recovery literature recommends avoiding new relationships in the first year of sobriety. As of today, I'm officially past that mark, but I keep wondering if what we have counts as new. If it's even real enough to count as anything."
"What do you mean?"
I turned to look at her, studying her face in the dim light. "Sometimes when I'm with you and Amelia, it feels so natural that I forget we're pretending. And then I remember this is all for show, for DCFS, and I don't know which version is the truth anymore."
Blake was quiet for a moment, then reached for her bag beside her on the bench. "I was going to wait until we got home, but..." She pulled out a small white bakery box and opened it carefully, revealing a cupcake with a single candle stuck in the frosting. "Booker told me about your one-year anniversary. I thought you might want to celebrate, even if it's small."
My throat tightened as she fumbled for a lighter, the small flame dancing in the darkness before catching the candle's wick. The gesture felt too intimate, too caring for our arrangement.
"Blake, you didn't have to—"
"Make a wish," she said softly, holding the cupcake between us.
I stared at the tiny flame, thinking about all the things I could wish for. Strength. Clarity. The courage to figure out what I really wanted. Instead, I found myself wishing for the ability to distinguish between what was real and what was performance.
I blew out the candle and looked up to see Blake's soft smile.
"We don't have guarantees in life, Xander," she said, setting the cupcake aside. "But maybe that's what makes the good moments matter more."
The truth of her words hung between us.
"The thing about recovery," I said slowly, "is that they teach you it's not about never feeling the craving again. It's about what you do when it comes."
Blake nodded, her hands folded in her lap. "Then maybe that's what we both need to learn. Not how to be perfect, but how to handle the uncertainty. Even when we don't know what's real."
Real. The word echoed in my mind, dangerous and appealing all at once.
"I keep thinking about that day at the farmer’s market," I admitted. "The way Ethan was looking at you. The way he was so obviously flirting with you. I wanted to make it clear that you were taken. But you're not. Not really."
Blake's breath caught almost imperceptibly. "Xander..."
"I know this complicates everything," I rushed on. "I know we have an arrangement, and I know I'm probably the last person who should be having these feelings right now. But I can't seem to help it."
She was quiet for so long I thought I'd overstepped, ruined everything.
"It does complicate things," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I felt something too. When I saw the way you looked at him, at me. Like I mattered to you."
"You do matter. Everything matters. Probably more than it should."
We sat in the charged silence, both of us apparently afraid to take the next step, to make this conversation more real than either of us might be ready for.
"I don't know what happens next," I said eventually. "I don't know if I'm strong enough for this to be more than what we agreed to."
"I don't know if I am either," Blake said. "But maybe we don't have to figure it all out tonight. Maybe we can just... see what happens. Day by day."
Day by day. It was the language of recovery, the only way I'd learned to live this past year.
"I think," I said carefully, "that I'd like to stop pretending quite so much. If you're okay with that."
Blake's smile was small but genuine. "I think I'd like that too."