Chapter 38
VALENTINA
There was a special place in hell reserved for whoever had designed the chairs in AA meetings.
Honestly, you’d think hitting rock bottom—again and again and again—would earn you at least a padded seat, maybe even a nice cushion or a throw pillow.
But no. Instead, here I was, sitting in the same stiff, plastic monstrosity every week, my ass going numb halfway through another painful hour of self-reflection and oversharing.
Effective? Probably.
Humane? Definitely not.
My eyes wandered the room, passing slowly over the circle of familiar faces.
I didn’t miss the two group leaders, Greg, whose marital confessions were more dramatic than a daytime soap, and Steve, who always had something painfully earnest to say, like he’d swallowed an AA pamphlet for breakfast every morning.
I used to judge them. Hell, who was I kidding?
I still judged them, but it was mostly out of habit.
Except lately, something had shifted. I’d found myself nodding along when Greg talked about being tired of hiding, or quietly understanding when Carrie broke down again.
Something about these people felt alarmingly relatable, which scared the absolute shit out of me.
Because if they were relatable, that meant I was relatable, and I wasn’t sure I liked that.
The girl beside me started her usual spiel about rock bottom.
God, I hated that term. It implied there was some neat little finish line at the bottom, some well-defined moment where everything finally stopped getting worse.
But if I’d learned anything, it was that rock bottom was more like quicksand.
Just when you thought you’d found the lowest point, the ground gave way again and you sank a little deeper.
It was the universe’s twisted joke, really.
The last time I’d sat here, Steve had called my drinking a “coping mechanism.” Honestly, I couldn’t stand that phrase.
“Coping” implied intent, like I’d sat down with a neat pros and cons list and decided pinot grigio was my best option.
Drinking wasn’t coping; it was pure, reckless avoidance.
It was a blindfold, a distraction, a way to drown out every uncomfortable truth, every awkward family dinner, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering how the hell I’d gotten here.
Because, let’s face it, my life wasn’t exactly a success story.
My mother was sick. My first husband was dead.
My bank account was emptier than my emotional reserves, which was saying a lot.
And staying sober meant actually facing all that.
Acknowledging it. Dealing with it. Realizing that maybe, just maybe, my shitty decisions had something to do with it.
But the worst part wasn’t even the responsibility—it was the clarity. Sobriety made everything clear. It was in high definition too, like watching your life play out in 4K and realizing the main character was actually kind of an asshole.
The irony was, drinking had never been about how difficult my life had become.
My life had always been difficult. Alcohol was just the perfect scapegoat, the ultimate Get Out of Jail Free card.
Didn’t want to deal with my dying marriage?
Wine. Didn’t want to hear my mother’s disappointment?
Vodka. Didn’t want to face the glaring fact I had zero clue how to function like a real adult? Tequila—straight, preferably.
But numbness was only ever temporary. Eventually, reality would slip back in, usually at 3:00 a.m. on a bathroom floor, mascara streaking down my face, staring at a blurry reflection and realizing there wasn’t enough booze in the world to erase my choices.
Numbness wasn’t freedom—it was just delayed punishment.
When the circle’s attention shifted to me, I sat up straighter, plastering on my usual half-smirk.
“Hi, I’m Valentina, and I’m an alcoholic.”
Those words were routine now, rolling off my tongue easily. The first time I’d said them, they’d tasted bitter, humiliating. Now? They were almost comforting, in a twisted sort of way. At least here I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t a mess.
“If we’re being brutally honest—which, unfortunately, is kind of the point—I never drank because life was hard,” I continued with a dry voice. “I drank because it was easier than admitting I might actually be the problem.”
I paused, feeling every eye on me, and realized I was actually telling the truth.
“Drinking was the perfect excuse. A way to avoid accountability. To pretend none of my mistakes were really mine. But now I don’t have that excuse, I have to figure out how the hell to function without it. Apparently, avoidance isn’t healthy.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, suddenly very aware of everyone staring at me. The silence stretched on until I finally cleared my throat, desperate to break the awkwardness.
“Well, now that I’ve officially admitted that, can I go?” I asked, forcing a sarcastic smile and glancing toward the door.
Steve laughed softly from his spot across the circle, shaking his head as if he found me amusing. “That’s completely up to you, Valentina.”
Always giving nonanswers, like some low-budget Yoda who preferred to leave things vague enough to sound profound.
I sighed dramatically, waving my paper slip at him. “Do I at least get my signature, or are you gonna hold it hostage until I unpack my childhood trauma?”
He chuckled again, nodding toward Greg. “Greg can sign off for you.”
Greg shot me an exaggerated eye roll but set his coffee down.
I followed him outside the circle to a corner table, grateful to escape the uncomfortable scrutiny of the others. Greg scribbled something illegible onto my slip, handing it back with a tired smirk. It felt weird, not having to hold anything over him anymore.
Blackmail was an ugly word, but it had worked wonders in keeping Greg quiet when I’d needed him to sign off on these meetings without actually attending. Now, though? Now we were both here willingly—no more threats, no more manipulation, just mutual acceptance of our disastrous lives.
“Hey,” I said, nudging his arm with my shoulder. “How are things? Did you finally tell your wife the truth, or are we still dodging accountability?”
Greg laughed softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, I came clean. Turns out being honest isn’t actually lethal.”
I raised an eyebrow, feigning shock. “Amazing. Congratulations on officially upgrading from ‘piece of shit’ to ‘recovering piece of shit.’”
“Thanks, Valentina. Always a pleasure.”
“Obviously.” I took my signed paper back, waving it as I stepped toward the exit. “See you next week. Try not to relapse.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he called after me.
The second I stepped outside, I realized two things.
One: It was way colder than it was when I’d walked in an hour ago.
Two: My purse still had no cigarettes in it.
Truly rewarding.
I dug through my bag again, hoping for a miracle—a forgotten cigarette, some ancient pack of gum—hell, even a lint-covered candy. Something to distract myself from the restless itch that always crept up after these meetings.
But no. Of course not.
All I had was the gum wrapper I kept forgetting to throw away, a lipstick I’d bought while drunk (a shade called Midnight Mauve—when did I ever wear mauve anyway?), and the usual assortment of receipts from purchases I probably shouldn’t have made.
Sobriety hadn’t magically transformed me into a neat, responsible adult, clearly.
Then I smelled it. Cigarette smoke.
When I turned, I saw him.
Sebastian Callahan.
He was leaning casually against his black sedan, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal those familiar tattoos, dark ink wrapping around his forearms.
I took him in for a second, genuinely annoyed by how good he still looked.
His dark hair was still perfectly tousled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it all day, pretending to be stressed when nothing ever really bothered him.
He had a little scruff on his jaw, and then there was that damn smirk—the kind that promised trouble and made me like it.
Sebastian had always been easy. Easy on the eyes, easy to talk to, and easy to fall into bed with.
We’d worked together perfectly, like two puzzle pieces that fit just right, only to realize the puzzle itself was entirely fucked.
The problem wasn’t him. It had never really been him.
He was exactly what he advertised himself as: uncomplicated, charming, and mildly toxic.
The problem had always been me—how I gravitated toward uncomplicated toxicity every damn time.
But now, standing here in front of him after everything that had happened—after Marco—he just felt . . . different. Or maybe it was me who’d changed. Maybe sobriety had actually given me some clarity, even if it had come with a hefty dose of discomfort.
Sebastian had filled the emptiness when I’d needed it. He’d been the perfect temporary fix, the smoke in my lungs, the burn in my throat. But I wasn’t empty anymore. I wasn’t hollow.
Marco had done that.
Marco had been my choice. Not my default, not my easy escape, but my choice.
For the first time in my life, I wanted someone—genuinely wanted him—not just to distract myself or numb some pain, but because of who he was.
Because being with him mattered in a terrifyingly real way I’d never experienced before.
I sighed, pulling my bag back onto my shoulder. “I swear to god, Sebastian, I’m this close to getting a restraining order. You really can’t take a hint.”
He chuckled, unbothered as always. “Oh, come on. You and I both know if I weren’t here, you’d miss the attention.”