89. Lolly
eighty-nine
Lolly
We order brunch and settle in on his couch, the TV playing a random season of Supernatural.
Comfortable in an old t-shirt that smells of him and these ridiculous pink pajama pants, I relax into the sofa, resting my hand on his leg.
It’s curious that we’ve already found this position again.
His legs in my lap, fingers curling around mine.
“I can’t believe you didn’t brush your teeth a second time,” I tease.
He gently kicks my thigh with a huff, “Whatever.”
I chuckle. “You love it,” I say.
His cheeks redden.
“So,” I say, “tell me about your recovery. I have a few friends that are sober, so I know it isn’t a cake walk.”
He clears his throat. “I, um. Where do you want me to start?” He asks, brows raised.
“Start at the beginning,” I reply.
“How much time do you have?” He asks, fisting his shirt in his hands.
“I have all the time you need. I want to know everything,” I admit.
He swallows, then his gaze falls to the floor for a bit before he brings his eyes to meet mine again. A new vulnerability swimming in them. “Well,” he says, “I know this might come as a surprise, but I wasn’t the easiest patient during my stent at Twin Rivers.”
I feign surprise and he laughs.
“Dr. Teguns was the psychiatrist on staff,” he pauses, “and after our first few sessions, he said something to the effect of, ‘Mr. Bailey, I want you to sit down, pull the cotton out of your ears, and put it in your damn mouth’.”
I can’t help but laugh at his impression of this guy, imagining the look of astonishment on Bailey’s face.
“Plot twist,” he says, twirling his fingers in the air, “the asshole psychiatrist had been in recovery for over twenty years.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“So, during the two weeks I was inpatient, he told me his story,” he says.
I wait, a gentle smile tugging at my lips as I watch him compose his thoughts.
“Unfortunately, every twelve step program is centered around some sort of faith.” He rolls his eyes.
“And, as I’m sure you can imagine, the whole God thing was about as appealing as a soup sandwich.
But, he’s agnostic and helped me navigate the spiritual aspect of the steps,” he adds, shrugging his shoulders as if he was talking about the weather.
“He knew I had a bone to pick with the god I grew up with, and helped me find an idea that worked for me.”
“A soup sandwich?” I laugh, shaking my head.
“Fuck yes,” he exclaims, rearranging his feet.
“If I’m being honest, I probably owe that man my life,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “And an apology,” he laughs. “I was fucking intolerable.”
I laugh, brows raising, “You? Never.”
“I may or may not have hid my roommate’s house shoes for days because I couldn’t stand the fucking noise they made on the flooring.” His cheeks flush.
“Where the hell do you hide a pair of house shoes in a psych ward?”
He bites his bottom lip and winces. “In the ceiling.”
“Fuck, Bailey.”
“Yeah, I actually felt like an asshole a few days later. He turned out to be a pretty cool cat once I got past the homicidal phase of my detox.”
He shakes his head and continues. “Anyway, when they released me, I decided I’d give meetings another shot.
I started going regularly and somehow, something in me started to change.
It’s like I walked in there scared, angry, and lost, and they managed to, against all odds, love me into a better version of myself. ”
I smile, squeezing his hand in mine. Hoping he’ll keep talking.
“The craziest thing is that I thought I was going to meetings to learn how to stop drinking or taking pills…” he pauses. “But what I found in there… What I learned—was how to live. I didn’t realize I was on a slow suicide mission until they held the mirror up, showing me my truth through theirs.”
He pulls in a deep breath. “It hasn’t been easy. The first few months were a fucking nightmare,” he says, rubbing his face with his hand. “I’m honestly glad we didn’t run into each other then, because I was a force to be reckoned with,” he says with a huff.
He’s not wrong, I think the timing was kismet.
“And now?” I ask gently.
“And now,” he echoes, “most days, I’m okay with the man I see in the mirror. For the first time in my life, I don’t hate the person looking back at me.”
“I’m so fucking proud of you, Bailey.” I mean it with everything I am.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t the person you deserved,” he says, voice wavering, eyes leaving mine. “But I think that I’m slowly, and maybe a bit begrudgingly,” he laughs, cheeks reddening, “growing into the kind of man who could be worthy of you.”
I lean across him, resting between his legs, and take his face in my hands. “Green eyes,” I say against his mouth, “all that you are is more than enough.” I kiss him gently, hoping he can hear the words I’m unable to form.
“Thank you for showing up for yourself,” I say softly.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he whispers.
We stay like that, cuddled up and cozy until the food arrives and it feels like home. The exhaustion and the weight I’ve been carrying have eased so much I’m afraid to leave. Afraid it will find me again.
“I need to check in with Corina,” I say between bites. “Make sure Mom is okay.”
“Is it hard being away from her?” He asks, eyes wide with concern.
“It is. And it’s strange because some days are worse than others. I always feel guilty, but sometimes it’s just this suffocating fear. It’s exhausting, and I know it’s unhealthy, but I can’t shake it,” I admit.
“Does it help that you can look in on her?”
“It does help. I think it’s the only reason I’ve gotten out of the house at all in the past few months.”
“You’re extraordinary,” he says quietly.
His words resonate deep within my chest and in this moment, I decide that maybe I’ve done right by her after all.