Chapter Four
I’d like to proudly say that I am taking time away from Portside so I can focus more on being mature.
I could proclaim that the fact that I have successfully avoided the place for over a week has everything to do with me sobering up so that I can focus on knocking shit off of my to-do list, but that would be a lie.
On the evenings when the silence gets to be too much, I’ve just been drinking from the comfort of my own recliner instead.
Nothing harder than a couple beers, though, and not to excess.
I read somewhere that quitting cold turkey could cause severe withdrawals. So, I’m carefully weaning.
It’s a start, right? Rome wasn’t built in a day.
No, see, the thing is—that stuff Marcus and Caleb said, about me flirting with Gordy?
Well, so, that’s the biggest reason I’ve been scarce at the pub.
That’s not what he and I are about, I’m sure of it.
I just needed some time away to think. He and I–we have a mentor-mentee type of friendship—if you can even call this one-sided thing a friendship.
I turn to him for advice, and he delivers in the most brusque way possible.
Seriously, what I need to do is try to fix things with Sarah. For real this time. What I lacked before was effort. Now, I’m ready to try, and all this questioning my sexuality has done is detour my efforts.
My time away from the pub hasn’t all been spent trying not to get shitfaced at home, though. I did manage to procure myself a new shower curtain. It’s a cutesy one with little seagulls all over it—very nautical. So, I guess I did check off another thing on the to-do list after all.
Want even more proof that I’m getting shit done?
I got some groceries: a few bags of Pizza Bites for myself, along with some dino nugs, boxed mac and cheese, and broccoli for when the girls come over again.
No big haul, but once the girls report back to her, my ex-wife should be impressed that it’s better than empty cupboards nonetheless.
Oh, and since I spent some extra time in the produce section, I got apples too.
They say one of those a day keeps the doctor away, so we’ll see.
I’m doubtful that the tote of apples I bought are all actually Cortlands.
Some seem like Mac’s, and isn’t that a damn disappointment to bite into, lemme tell you what. They’re mushier.
Christ, listen to me getting all persnickety about apples.
You’d think I was half in the bag already tonight, but I’m not.
Tonight, I haven’t had a drop to drink, actually, and I feel completely fine—no harsh feelings of withdrawal.
Woohoo! Look at me go. The girls have some Christmas play they’re doing for school before break.
It’ll be my last chance to squeeze ‘em before they head down to Massachusetts for Christmas with the Babcocks, and I want to see them off while completely sober.
It’s Sarah’s year to get them for the holiday, and, as much as it kills me, I have to take turns.
Last year, I had ‘em, and it was epic. I had the apartment all done up like the North Pole.
I wrestled the biggest, fattest balsam I could fit into the living room.
Christmas Eve night, I let them sleep out on the couch to watch for Santa.
After they were out cold, I doused Tati and Terra with Silly String, and on Christmas morning, I blamed it all on their silly elf, Squiddles.
This year, knowing I won’t have my girls, I just didn’t muster up the energy. Ma insisted that I have something, so she dropped off a literal replica of a Charlie Brown tree. There on the coffee table it sits—my lone decoration. A wimpy pine bough with a lone red bulb dangling from it.
At least this year, I will be giving them the best gift of all. It won’t be the expensive as shit snow tubes under the tree; it’ll be the promise that I will no longer touch a drop of alcohol. They will be returning back to Maine to a still-sober father, mark my words.
I arrive at Ternbay Primary School before Sarah and the girls do, but that’s ok.
It gives me time to support the boosters and purchase a bouquet each for my snow angel, Tati, and reindeer, Terra.
My early arrival must please my ex-wife, given that the look on her face right now is one I haven’t seen in ages.
Shit, I did something to impress her. Haven’t done that in a few years. That makes me grin as I pass my squealing daughters their flowers before scooping them up—one perched on each arm.
“Well, well,” Sarah sing-songs, “look who beat me here. You look good,” she hums, giving me an appraising sweep.
Wow, okay. I can get on board with her eyes on me again.
Hell, maybe if I keep putting this kind of effort into my appearance, she’d reconsider reconciling after all.
I wouldn’t be opposed. If there was one place we used to get along very well, it was in our bed—well, before she started giving me the cold shoulder, anyway.
“Uh, thanks. Tried something different with my hair tonight. It’s called a pomade. Sounded very fancy.”
She snorts. “I meant your eyes don’t look crossed, Gannett. You’re not d-r-u-n-k.”
I frown. Welp, there goes that. She’s still just as repugnant as ever. “Cripes, Sarah. I’m really trying this time. Have a little faith in me, would you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Hard to with you. You have a track record for not following through, Gannett.”
Ignoring her—because I don’t need her seeing the hope she just dashed in me—I bounce my girls. “You ladies ready to break a leg tonight?”
Tati’s eyes go wide. Terra yelps, “I don’t wanna break my leg!”
I chuckle. “It’s just a saying. It means that you’ll go out there and do a good job.”
Tati’s nose scrunches. Ever the analytical one, she notes, “That’s weird. Breaking legs isn’t a good job.”
“How about this, then? Just go out and knock my socks off,” I try again.
She shakes her head. “No bare feet. The floors are yucky.”
I chuckle and kiss her cheek. “You’re too cute, you know that?”
She nods. Terra jumps in, proclaiming, “Me too! We’re ‘dentical!”
I give her a kiss on the cheek next and agree, “Yes, ma’am.
You too! Now, shall we?” I try to school my nervous excitement over being in such close quarters with Sarah again as we watch our girls perform tonight.
Maybe… just maybe she can see that I’ve started trying to make an effort, and see me for the father and husband I used to be.
“Ope, just one second,” Sarah halts me. “Steve’s coming. He just had to try to find a place to park.”
I arc an eyebrow up at her. “Steve?”
“Yeah,” she huffs, narrowing her eyes to look out the windows facing the parking lot, “Steve. My boyfriend.”
I feel the moment my soul leeches out of my body, pooling around the least scuffed up pair of work boots I could find for tonight. “When did this happen?” I ask her.
“Been a couple months,” she hums, still searching for this mysterious Steve—which is probably a good thing, so she can’t see the total look of shock and betrayal that’s probably written all over my face.
I mean, I didn’t totally expect her to wait for me to come around, but it was a comforting thought that she had remained single since our divorce…
And now here we are. Not one single mention of this guy before tonight, and she’s invited this rando to come out and watch our daughters’ Christmas play? He’s already attending family events?! “I’m sorry, Sarah, but what the actual fu—”
“There he is!” she cuts me off, practically launching herself at the lanky beanpole that just strolled in.
A quick visual assessment proves that I could easily cast an ominous shadow over this shrimp, in the right lighting.
Guy looks like an absolute twatwaffle in an argyle sweater vest, chinos, and goddamn penny loafers.
My lord, who even puts pennies in their actual penny loafers anymore? Rich people, that’s who. I’m barely scraping by rubbing my two cents together these days—between child support, rent, and alimony—and this dweeb is accessorizing with them?!
The absolute fucking gall.
Turning to my girls, I ask, “Is this also your first time meeting Steve tonight, like it is for me?”
Both of them shake their heads. “Steve an’ Mumma have sleepovers a whole bunch,” Terra explains.
I suck in a deep breath and hold it. Mentally, I chant: I am a grown man. I will not cry. I will not fall apart right here in front of my daughters.
See, here’s the thing about coming into sobriety that I’ve noticed—you feel all the things. Intensely. Like all the things you’d spent years numbing come flooding back all at once.
“You must be Gannett,” Steve says, sticking a slender hand out for a shake, then thinks better of it when he sees both my arms are full. I could set the girls down and return the handshake, but… nope. Not that mature yet. The urge to Hulk out and rip his arm off is too strong.
The image of an epic brawl between Stretch Armstrong and Gumby flashes in my mind, causing me to snort. Me being Stretch, of course.
“I am,” I reply, dashing that mental performance. “Steve?”
He nods, grinning. Fucking stupid-ass looney toon looking moron.
“Steve what?” I ask, hoping for a last name so I can get Deputy O’Reilly to run a background check on this guy. The guy doesn’t give off overt felon vibes, but who am I to judge? Maybe he runs a dark, underground chess league or something.
Where I would expect to see the fucker’s stupid grin to falter at my clipped question, it doesn’t. It gets suspiciously bigger. “Promise not to laugh?” he asks. “Stephens.”
“Steve Stephens?” I clarify.
He chuckles. “If you wanna get technical, it’s Steven Stephens, but yes.”
“Do I dare ask what your middle name is?” I ask, setting the girls down so they can follow their teacher backstage.