Chapter 8
VALENTINA
There’s a moment in every bad idea when you realize just how bad it is. For me, it came ten minutes into an AA meeting, sitting in a circle of folding chairs that made my back ache and my pride shrivel.
This wasn’t rock bottom, but I could certainly see it from here.
The linoleum floor was scratched to hell, and the coffee smelled like something had died in it.
Todd—or Tom, or something equally forgettable—was sharing his story about how he’d hit his two-year chip.
“One day at a time,” he said, on the verge of tears.
Everyone clapped like he’d just solved world hunger.
I clapped too, because what else do you do when a grown man cries in public?
Maybe I wasn’t sentimental enough for sobriety. Or maybe I was just too pissed off to care.
This was my last meeting before I received my thirty-day chip, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. The final hurdle before Max handed over the money and I could stop pretending to care about these people and their feelings.
Thirty days sober. That was the deal. And I’d made it—technically.
I hadn’t touched a drink in weeks, though not for any noble reason. I just wanted to survive long enough to keep my mom breathing and my rent paid.
I stared at the coffee in the Styrofoam cup. My reflection rippled faintly across its surface.
Someone else across the circle was crying, their voice trembling as they talked about ruining Thanksgiving dinner and their kids not calling them anymore. I tuned it out, focusing instead on the crumpled slip of paper in my coat pocket—the one I needed to get signed to prove I’d been here.
The last meeting hadn’t gone so well. I’d stormed out when they’d tried to get me to share, and I didn’t get my slip signed. Max didn’t know, but he would if I screwed this up again.
He’d find out. He always found out.
“Valentina, would you like to share something?” the group leader asked, his voice pulling me back into the room abruptly.
“Huh?”
“Is there anything you think is worth sharing with the group today?”
Suddenly, I could feel everyone’s eyes burning through me. Most of them were hopeful stares, desperate for me to spill my guts in their circle of trust.
“No,” I finally replied.
He offered me a tight smile. “It’s alright, Valentina. This space is judgment-free.”
“Oh, really? I don’t know. Seems pretty judgmental to me.”
He cocked his head. “You know, Valentina, you don’t have to speak if you’re uncomfortable, but remember, we’re always here.”
“Fantastic,” I said sarcastically, hoping he’d read my tone.
The meeting crept forward painfully, each story blurring into the next. Eventually, the leader clapped gently, signaling the end. “Let’s finish with the serenity prayer,” he announced softly.
Everyone rose, reciting the prayer in unison.
I remained glued to my seat, staring blankly at the empty cup in my hand, waiting impatiently for the room to empty.
Once the others had dispersed, I fished out the attendance slip from my pocket and walked up to the group leader, boots squeaking softly across the worn linoleum.
“Hey,” I said quickly, thrusting the paper toward him. “Will you sign this sheet for me?”
Slowly, he took a long look at the paper I held pathetically in my hands. “But you didn’t participate today.”
“So what?”
He clasped his hands in front of him. “Attendance isn’t enough. Participation matters. Otherwise, I can’t confirm you’re genuinely engaging.”
Frustration burned in my stomach. “I sat here for two hours. What more do you want—a pint of blood?”
“It’s about genuine participation. I’m sorry, but I can’t sign.”
My fists tightened, crushing the slip between my fingers. I forced a bitter smile. “Look,” I said sweetly, my voice laced with anger, “I really need that signature.”
He sighed and shook his head in disappointment. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“No, I’m sure you can,” I retorted, annoyed. “You just don’t want to.”
“The program only works with honesty,” he replied calmly. “Pretending won’t help anyone—not you, not us.”
I laughed quietly, leaning in and lowering my voice to a harsh whisper. “Honesty? That’s rich. You spent fifteen minutes last week telling us how you can barely stand your wife. Maybe I should share that with her. Think that’d be helpful?”
There it was—panic in his eyes. “That’s completely inappropriate.”
“So is your refusal to sign,” I hissed back, holding the paper out again. I was done being denied—my inheritance, my chip, and this stupid signature. “Make your choice. Sign the paper, or we both leave here unhappy.”
He watched me carefully as if I’d walk away, but there wasn’t a chance in hell I was leaving without that signature. Finally, he snatched the paper from my hands and signed the bottom aggressively.
“Thanks,” I said, my attitude clear. Couldn’t even pretend to be grateful. Not today.
He didn’t reply, which was probably for the best, because anything he said would’ve just pissed me off even more.
When I made it outside, my pulse was hammering so loud I could feel it in my fingertips, clutching the stupid crumpled paper he’d finally signed. Just one signature, one damn name on a meaningless slip, and yet I’d had to practically blackmail the guy to get it.
What other choice did I have? These were the games I played now, scraping together proof I wasn’t spiraling even though I absolutely was. Lying my way into one more shot at an inheritance, a chip, whatever it took to keep people off my back.
At least today I’d gotten what I wanted. And maybe that made me a bad person, but honestly? I could live with that.
I wasn’t sure why I’d come back to these steps. The last time I was here, it was Lucia’s birthday party and I’d stormed out after an argument with my sister.
Isabel and I clashed all the time. We were like flint and steel, guaranteed to start a spark that could burn down an entire house instead of keeping us warm.
Lucia’s toys were everywhere: a soccer ball half-covered in snow, a fire truck that was way too bright for the grayish-white ground, and a doll missing one arm, just lying there forgotten.
When I got to the bottom of the steps, I looked up at the house. I could see my breath clouding in front of me as I stood there in the silence. It felt as if the house was watching me, holding its breath, wondering if I’d ever knock.
It was hard to gain the courage. Isabel was never happy to see me—not since Mama got sick and I bailed. Coming here was hard, like my two worlds colliding.
This house held memories of who I once was. The girl I was proud of. I couldn’t walk in there now, I’d be tainting the space.
I could still see us, me and Isa, two little girls running barefoot on this same porch, chasing fireflies until Mama called us inside. Isabel had been smaller then. Quieter. She’d followed me everywhere, her chubby hands clutching the back of my shirt as if I were the only thing keeping her steady.
She didn’t follow me now.
Finally, after my staring contest with the damn house, I climbed the steps hesitantly.
I was closer now, and could feel my heart pounding in my ears.
How would I face her? Why was I choosing now, of all times, to try? Right after I’d missed Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And New Year’s. Months without a single visit or a phone call. Isabel didn’t have to say it—I knew what she thought of me.
Finally, I knocked.
There was a part of me that wished she wouldn’t open the door. That she’d assume it was me who was knocking and decide I wasn’t worth the time or the energy. But she wouldn’t, because she was Isabel, and caring was her kryptonite.
The door opened, and Isa stood on the other side of it, shocked.
“Hi,” I said, plastering a gentle smile on my face.
She looked like she wanted to say something, but she chose to ignore me and close the door in my face instead. The slam came fast, but I was faster. Hell, I expected it.
I shoved my foot in the door, swearing under my breath as pain shot through my toes. “W-wait,” I sputtered. “Just—wait.”
“What the hell do you want, Vale? You don’t get to just show up here.”
“I know,” I said, crossing my arms tightly across my chest to keep the shakes at bay. “I know, okay? I just . . . Can we talk?”
“No. It’s late.”
“Please.”
Her eyes settled on something behind me. I could practically hear the whistle and see the smoke funneling through her ears as she thought of what to do.
Finally, she let out a long breath and stepped back, pulling the door open just enough for me to slip inside.
I kicked the snow off my boots and stood awkwardly near the door with my coat still buttoned up. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to stay. I wasn’t sure why I was even here.
I hesitated in the entryway and took the opportunity to look around.
It was homey. A pile of shoes sat by the door, Lucia’s tiny sneakers lined up next to a pair of men’s work boots.
The familiar smell of lemon hit my nose almost immediately, just like it always did.
It reminded me of those spring-cleaning days where Mama would turn our house inside out. Isa and I would call her crazy.
I stepped further in, turning to face my sister. “Is everyone asleep?”
“Lucia’s in bed,” Isabel said, closing the door behind me. “And Daniel’s out cold. He’s up at five for work.” She walked past me, heading into the kitchen. “You want a drink?” she called over her shoulder. “I opened a bottle of wine earlier, at dinner.”
A drink.
I slid my hand into my coat pocket. In there was my first chip. Thirty days sober. The plastic felt cheap and flimsy in my hand, like it would snap in two if I pressed too hard.
I wanted a drink, and technically, I could now I had the proof to give to Max. But there was a part of me—a small, stubborn part—that didn’t want to break the streak. I’d actually avoided even a sip, and somehow, that mattered. Not because of Max or his damn conditions, but because of me.