Chapter 71 Cord
Cord
Oh, for the love of God, the AA meeting was located at his mom’s awful Catholic church.
Cord stared at the building, feeling sick.
He’d spent countless Sunday mornings trapped in the pews of St. James the Less, often feeling dizzy and hot—childhood disassociation?
And what the hell was the “less” part of St. James the Less?
Cord asked the AI chatbot on his spanking new iPhone, who explained that “the less” also meant “the younger.” Hm!
That was completely useless knowledge—thanks for nothing, artificial intelligence!
His new phone had also come with the Sweethearts app installed.
(“It’s cute,” the AT talk about creepy.
But then he was actually thinking about his fake wife, wasn’t he?
And mightn’t it be much easier to have a partner who didn’t have needs or demands?
A shortie in your pocket whom you didn’t have to worry about? Whom you couldn’t hurt?
What is a shortie? Cord asked AI.
“Shortie” is a term that can have several meanings depending on the context:
A slang term of endearment or nickname for someone who is short in height
A slang term sometimes used to refer to a woman or girlfriend (particularly in hip-hop culture)
In finance, a “shortie” or “shorty” can refer to a short-term investment or a short position (betting that a stock will decrease in value)
A short film or video
A short story or piece of writing
A short drink (as opposed to a tall one)
Short shorts or short pants
The meaning typically depends on the context in which it’s used. Is there a specific context you’re interested in?
Cord gritted his teeth—why did an AI answer end with an invitation to chat more?
(He knew, of course, that it was all about user engagement but that didn’t make it any less annoying.) Cord went back to his car, unlocked the door, tossed his phone in the vehicle, locked it, and strode into the church of his youth.
Cord had been sober for maybe ten hours since the last green sip of the last bottle in Charlotte’s liquor cabinet (crème de menthe).
He saw a sign with a triangle, the symbol for AA meetings, and an arrow.
The thought crossed his mind that he could ask his AI chatbot what, exactly, the meaning of the triangle was, but then he realized he had no phone and honestly who cared about this random information?
He pushed through a swinging door, following the signs.
The hallway smelled of industrial cleaner and instant coffee.
Room 204 was empty except for a few couches and chairs and a folding table holding a coffee urn and store-bought sugar cookies.
The Twelve Steps were framed on the wall.
Cord did feel powerless. He did. That was Step One, “Feeling Powerless.” He wanted his phone and a Scotch.
Cord hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he had the wrong day. Without his fucking device, he didn’t know what time it was. He had long coveted an Omega Speedmaster Gemini IV watch. He could afford it. Why didn’t Cord treat himself?
A middle-aged woman emerged from a side room, carrying a stack of pamphlets.
“You’re here for the meeting?” she asked, sinking into a chair. She had a child’s pink barrette in her hair.
Cord nodded. He took four strides, sat on a couch, and examined his Hoka sneakers.
He jammed a throw pillow under his lower back.
When he had gone to meetings regularly, he’d usually brought a notebook and pen, just to have somewhere to look while people spoke.
Sometimes, he’d taken notes or drawn elaborate castles with turrets and drawbridges.
A few people entered the room. They all seemed to be teenagers. One boy caught Cord’s eye—lanky, with headphones around his neck and an oversize sweater despite the warm weather. His defensive posture, the careful way he scanned the room, reminded Cord of himself.
The teens glanced at Cord curiously as they arranged themselves in the circle, some sprawling, others sitting ramrod straight. When the room was full—about fifteen kids ranging from what looked like thirteen to eighteen—the facilitator addressed the group. “Is anyone a newcomer to Alateen today?”
“Oh, no,” said Cord. “I thought this was AA. I’m sorry.”
The kids’ heads swiveled to stare at him. “AA is in an hour,” said the woman.
“You can stay,” said the kid with the headphones. “If you want.”
“I never went to Alateen,” said Cord. “I should have, probably.” Some of the kids laughed; Cord felt buoyed. “I’m a double winner,” explained Cord—this was “recovery speak” for a child of an alcoholic who had become an alcoholic.
“Stay, it’s cool,” another teen murmured.
“Is everyone comfortable with that?” said the woman in charge.
The teens exchanged glances. Finally, a girl with purple hair shrugged. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
“You are one of us,” said the kid with the headphones in a Darth Vader voice. There were nods of agreement. Cord felt happier than he’d felt in a while. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m Cord. I’m an alcoholic. And my dad was an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Cord,” the group responded in unison.
The facilitator took her place in the circle.
“For those who are new today, my name is Hannah. My father was an alcoholic for most of my childhood. He finally got sober when I was seventeen, but by then I’d developed a lot of habits to protect myself—hypervigilance, people-pleasing, taking responsibility for everyone’s feelings.
” She paused. “I’ve been attending Al-Anon for twelve years now, and I’ve learned that I didn’t cause my father’s drinking, I couldn’t control it, and I couldn’t cure it. But I could heal myself.”
She glanced around the circle. “Today, we’ll each have three minutes to share whatever’s on our minds. No one will interrupt or respond directly to what you say. This is a safe space to express yourself without judgment.” Hannah placed a small timer on her chair arm. “Who would like to begin?”
The room was quiet for a moment. Then the purple-haired girl raised her hand.
“I’m Dani,” she said. “My dad’s been sober for almost a year…
this time.” She stared at her hands. “He missed my band concert again last week. Not because he was drinking, but because he was at a meeting. I know I’m supposed to be supportive of his recovery, but sometimes it feels like nothing’s really changed.
He’s still not around.” She fell silent, and for over a full minute, no one spoke.
The timer went off softly, and Dani nodded once, indicating she was finished.
A boy with glasses raised his hand.
“I’m Alex. My mom promises things are different now.
She’s got six months sober. But I still find myself checking the recycling bin for bottles.
I still get nervous when she laughs too loud.
I don’t know how to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.
” Alex looked around, then down at his lap. “That’s all.”
One by one, the teens shared their stories. No one responded, no one offered advice. Just three minutes of raw truth, followed by silence, then another voice. Cord sat quietly, absorbing their words, seeing himself in their hypervigilance, their premature responsibility, their exhaustion.
When it was the lanky boy’s turn, he spoke so softly Cord had to lean forward.
“I’m Miguel. My dad went to rehab four months ago. Now he’s home, and everyone acts like our problems are over. But he goes into the garage every night for hours. My mom makes excuses for him. And I’m the only one who helps my little sister with her homework.”
Cord bit the inside of his lip. How many times had he checked Regan’s math problems while their father was “working” and their mother was “resting”?
“The worst part is that it’s like I know everything’s going to fall apart again. I just want to be a normal kid.”
The timer went off. Miguel nodded and leaned back in his chair. Hannah turned to Cord. “Would you like to share?”
Cord hadn’t planned on saying anything, but he found himself nodding.
“I’m Cord. I’m an alcoholic.” He looked around the circle, at these kids whose experiences mirrored his own.
“When I was your age, I was like many of you. I mean, my sisters and I took care of ourselves…we took care of each other. We stayed out of my father’s way when he was in a mood, but I was always scanning for danger. ”
The timer ticked quietly.
“That need to take care of everyone, to control every situation—it followed me into adulthood. I built a career around fixing problems, controlling outcomes. I became very successful, but I never learned how to just…be.”
Cord sighed, allowing himself to speak his truth. “And then I started drinking too. Even though I swore I never would. I used alcohol the same way my dad did—to just…shut it off, to stop feeling responsible for everyone else’s happiness.”
The kids were watching him intently now, without the skepticism they’d shown earlier.
“I’m uh, I’ve been sober for a day. Not even a day—like ten hours.
Again. I’ve been here before. I’m still learning that I can’t fix everything—can’t fix my partner, can’t fix my sister, can’t fix myself through sheer force of will.
” He met Miguel’s eyes briefly. “The patterns can be broken. They’re hard as hell to break, but it’s possible. I believe that. I do.”
The timer sounded. Cord nodded, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt.
Hannah thanked everyone for sharing and concluded the meeting with the Serenity Prayer. They all stood in a circle, held hands, and said, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
The teens began to disperse. Cord hung back, not sure whether to wait for the AA meeting or just go back to Charlotte’s. As he was gathering his things, the boy named Miguel approached him hesitantly. “Hey,” Miguel said, his hands jammed in his pockets.
“Hey,” Cord replied.
“I was wondering…” Miguel paused, clearly uncomfortable. “Um, I’m supposed to get a sponsor.”
Cord blinked in surprise. “Oh, I can’t be a sponsor, Miguel. I’m, like, at Step One.”
Miguel shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, got it. Sorry. I just…man, it’s tough being a gay kid in this town. You wouldn’t know.” The kid seemed simultaneously defiant and terrified, as if expecting rejection but daring Cord to say something about his sexuality.
“Oh, Miguel, I do know,” said Cord. They stood in silence for a moment. “Want to grab a coffee?” said Cord.
Miguel looked up, surprised. “Really?”
“Really.”
A cautious smile spread across Miguel’s face. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure. That would be cool.”