30. Pizza And The Game
Chapter thirty
Pizza And The Game
Drake
A few hours earlier…
“We should celebrate!”
“It’s just a few months of sobriety, Stanley. I would hardly call that an accomplishment.”
“Are you kidding?! You know how many people have fallen off the wagon before now? Ow!”
There’s a scuffling over the phone before Ed comes on.
“Ignore the dummy. We’re proud of you, Drake. You should come over and celebrate. And if you don’t want to make it about sobriety, consider it a thank you for helping me find a new nanny.”
Okay, I can deal with that. It makes it feel like it’s less about me.
“Sure, fine. I get the feeling if I keep saying no, you’re going to keep bugging me about it.”
“Damn right, we are,” Stanley yells in the background.
“Just no alcohol. I don’t need anything that’s going to trip me up and send me sliding back down again.”
“Sparkling stuff, then. Pizza?”
“And wings. If we’re going to go all in, might as well be all the way. You still have that tub of ice cream in the freezer?”
“I was saving that for Alexander,” Ed whines. “But I do have fudgsicles.”
I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, fine, we can do fudgsicles. Just don’t tell anyone three grown-ass men spent a Friday night in front of the TV eating goddamned fudgsicles.”
“They won’t hear it from me. Stanley, on the other hand...”
“Hey!”
After the end of the phone call, I pick myself up and change out of my hospital gear, still covered in a few spots of blood.
Nothing about the work has changed except my attitude toward it.
The despair and heaviness aren’t there anymore; Chelsea’s help reminded me that I can’t save everyone and I can only do my best to make sure that they’re given all the care I can provide.
Blaming myself isn’t going to bring those people back or make the situation any better.
She also reminded me that I have a safety net to keep me from falling again: Stanley, Ed, and her.
I don’t have to go through those thoughts and feelings all by myself anymore.
“You know I hate pepperoni, Ed.” I scrunch my face, pick off a huge, greasy piece of processed meat, and toss it back into the box. “Where’s the little tyke tonight?”
“I convinced his mom to come get him for the night. I told her we were celebrating your accomplishment and she was more than eager to help.”
“Did you tell her...” My heart stops in my chest for a second.
“No, not the specifics. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
His sentiment warms my chest and I clap him on the shoulder. Chelsea was right: I don’t know why I overlooked my friends so much for support. They covered for me when they should have rightfully turned me in and made me go to therapy. I don’t know where I’d be right now without them.
“Are you getting a little misty-eyed on me?” Ed suddenly says, resting his hand on top of mine. “I’m not going to judge you for it. You deserve all this.”
“Shut up.” I plant my hand on his cheek and shove him away. “Only because you got pepperoni. Next time, let me order the pizza.”
“By all means.” Ed gestures to the three boxes of pizza covering his coffee table. “And next time, you can pay to watch the game without any ads.”
“I can always rely on you two to still argue during a happy occasion.” Stanley takes a huge bite of his pizza; a bit of melted cheese hangs from his bottom lip.
“Now who’s being judgmental? Pass me a drink, would you?” Ed wipes some grease off his face and extends a hand.
“The magic word?”
“Please.”
“Better. Who raised you?” Stanley hands him a small bottle of sparkling cider before devouring the rest of his slice and going back to the game.
I don’t know what could make this evening any better.
Knock knock knock!