Chapter 16
VALENTINA
I’d never heard so many people complain in all my life.
And that was saying something, because I’d spent the past two years listening to Max bitch about my life choices, and before that, I’d had a husband who spent more time whining about the world being against him than actually doing something about it.
But this? This was unreal.
The meeting room was filled with the kind of forced sadness that made my skin itch. Folding chairs arranged in a circle, a percolator of burnt coffee in the corner, and a whiteboard that hadn’t been updated since January.
I leaned back in my chair with my arms crossed, half-listening to some guy named Ray talk about how his drinking had cost him his fifth marriage. Fifth. At some point, you had to wonder if alcohol was really the problem.
I stared blankly at a spot on the wall, letting their voices blur together.
This was my last meeting.
The last signature I needed.
The final box to check before Max handed me the next step, the next hoop to jump through before he was satisfied enough to let me have my money. Maybe he’d even think about setting up a marriage for me.
I was so close.
I shifted, feeling the signed attendance slips crinkle in my pocket. Perfectly forged proof of my dedication to sobriety.
Gregory or Greg or whatever his name was—the leader, the moral compass, the guardian of personal redemption and some other bullshit—clapped his hands together, offering a serene smile. The kind of smile that made me want to set something on fire.
“And now,” he said, “we’d like to hear from Valentina.”
My stomach dropped. I blinked. “What?”
He nodded encouragingly, as if this were some pivotal moment in my redemption arc. “Would you like to share?”
Was he really going to do this to me again?
God, no. I’d rather sit here and listen to Cheryl’s sob story about how she hid vodka bottles in her kid’s diaper bag, or hear Mike drone on about finding enlightenment in a gas station bathroom.
At least then I wouldn’t have to pretend to say something profound about my own mess.
At least then my ugly truths would stay mine.
Everyone here spilled their guts so easily, as if publicly flaying yourself alive in a church basement was some badge of honor. And for what? To get a round of sympathetic nods from strangers who probably left here judging you anyway?
No, thank you.
Besides, if I opened my mouth, what the hell would even come out? “Hi, I’m Valentina, and I’m here because sobriety feels like a life sentence?” Or, “Hi, my name’s Valentina, and I’d rather claw my eyes out than admit I actually need this?”
Sober thoughts bred internal misery.
At least when you were drunk, you could drown the truth in cheap liquor and denial. Sobriety forced you to sit in silence with every mistake you’d ever made. It made you stare directly into the eyes of all the things you’d been running from and say, “Yeah, I fucked that up.”
Admitting things sober was terrible—like peeling off your skin one confession at a time. And if I was going to peel off layers, it certainly wasn’t going to be in front of an audience who clapped politely as you exposed your wounds.
“I’m good,” I said finally. “I think I’d rather listen today.”
He looked disappointed, like I’d personally robbed him of his golden sponsor moment. One woman muttered something about progress under her breath.
“If you’re not ready to share,” he said carefully, “that’s fine. But participation is key, Valentina. It’s how we hold ourselves accountable.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
Here we go again.
Participation, accountability—two words they loved to throw around here.
As if my ability to stand up and bleed my personal trauma in front of strangers would somehow prove I was healing.
As if the measure of my sobriety hinged on how convincingly I could narrate my disaster to a room full of sympathetic faces.
The whole thing felt like some twisted therapy session I hadn’t signed up for, run by people who probably got high off hearing everyone else’s dirt so they could feel better about their own boring lives.
And just like last time, when the meeting ended and I walked up to him, my slip in hand, he refused.
I wasn’t surprised. Gregory thrived on moments like these—moments when he could remind me he had the upper hand. Moments when he could wield his self-righteous sobriety over me and act as if signing a piece of paper meant he held my future in his stupid sweaty palm.
“You didn’t participate,” he said like he was speaking to a child. “You know the rules.”
Was he really going to do this to me again?
“Come on,” I argued. “I sat through the entire thing. Isn’t that enough participation?”
He folded his arms, looking at me like he was my disappointed father. “You know it’s not.”
Oh, the urge to snatch the pen right out of his hand and sign the damn thing myself was overwhelming. But I couldn’t. I needed him to do it. Needed to play by his stupid rules until Max got off my back and Marco stopped looking at me like I was a problem that constantly needed solving.
“Gregory,” I started, fighting to keep my tone even, “we both know this slip is bullshit anyway. Just sign it, and we can both move on with our lives.”
He frowned. “If I sign it without you putting in the effort, I’m doing you a disservice.”
“A disservice?” I echoed, disbelief creeping into my voice. “Please. Spare me the good-guy speech.”
He sighed, clearly exhausted from playing the savior. “Maybe next week, Valentina. If you share.”
“Greg,” I said sweetly, “didn’t you tell us that you cheated on your wife when you relapsed?”
His expression froze.
I smiled.
“I mean, really, how could she ever trust you again? After everything?” I sighed, shaking my head. “If I were her, I’d probably wonder if you were still doing it. If I could really believe anything you said. I mean, trust is such a fragile thing after all . . . ”
Greg stared at me, clearly regretting ever having opened his mouth. He probably thought his little confession last week made him look noble—admitting to his faults, baring his soul to earn a few pats on the back and some half-hearted applause.
But now? It just made him vulnerable, and I knew exactly how to twist the knife.
He cleared his throat. “Valentina—”
“It’s funny how accountability only goes one way around here. You can parade your mistakes like they’re badges of honor, but God forbid someone else chooses to handle things differently.”
I tapped my fingers against the unsigned slip.
He hesitated for only a second.
Finally, he took the paper and wrote his cheap, sloppy signature at the bottom, and I snatched it from him.
“Thank you,” I murmured. “Accountability really is key, Greg.”
I didn’t bother sparing him a second glance before turning on my heel and making my way outside.
I exhaled, watching my breath curl in front of me as I clutched the signed slip of paper in my hand. The last one.
That was all that mattered.
I should’ve felt accomplished by the signatures and the chips, but I didn’t. It was hard to feel accomplished when I hadn’t achieved them honestly. It was also hard to feel it with no one cheering me on but myself.
Strangely, a part of me felt annoyed by everything. Myself. Max. The entire situation that had left me backed into a corner, forced to play by rules that had never been built for someone like me.
Deserved or not, I shoved the paper deep into my bag. When I walked to the curb, I felt eyes on me.
My pulse kicked up, my heels clicking a little faster against the pavement, but I forced myself not to stop. Not to look. Not until I had no other choice.
And then I did.
There he was.
Sebastian Callahan.
He was leaning against his car door, arms crossed, wearing a smile that could get him almost anything he wanted. It usually did.
Sebastian was always good with timing. It shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did to see him again.
It wasn’t like we hadn’t played out this scene a dozen times before.
But he had this irritating habit of digging his way under my skin.
He knew how to be cruel without ever raising his voice; knew how to twist compliments into insults and vice versa; knew exactly how to kiss me so I’d forget why I should hate him.
We’d spent nights in hotel rooms I had no business being in, shared drinks in quiet corners of bars where no one would recognize us. He knew me better than I’d ever admit to anyone, and the worst part was, I’d let him.
Sebastian was the worst kind of familiar—the kind that reminded you of who you used to be; of all the bad decisions you’d made willingly, eagerly, as if consequences were just something that happened to other people.
He’d been my escape, my secret indulgence, my destructive comfort.
And when he smiled at me now, looking at me like he knew exactly how fragile my grip on sobriety was, I hated him for it almost as much as I hated myself.
“Sobriety, Valentina? That’s rich.”
I kept walking.
“That’s it?” he called after me. “No hello? No ‘Sebastian, what are you doing here?’”
I didn’t want to stop, because I knew what stopping could mean. It could ruin everything for me.
But I did stop, because I was curious.
Curiosity had always been my problem, especially with Sebastian.
I turned slowly, as if I couldn’t be bothered. As if he were the inconvenience. He was still standing there, one hand tucked lazily into his pocket, his dark brown hair slightly messy in that intentional way that drove me insane.
“Fine,” I said as I indulged him like a vice. “What’re you doing here?”
His smirk deepened. “Waiting for you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Jesus.”
“You don’t believe in Jesus,” he said, looking at the church behind me. “Don’t you think it’s a little freaky to confess your sins in the basement of a church?”
“You’d know all about sins, wouldn’t you?” I huffed, shifting my weight. “Go home, Sebastian.”