Love, Julie: A Poignant and Humorous Romance

Chapter One

One Year Ago

I didn’t want to be here.

Slouched in the passenger seat of Kate’s oppressively hot car, I tilted my head so the air conditioning blew my long, thick hair off my neck. My stomach flipped as I thought about stepping into the stifling heat and walking through the community centre door. It wasn’t just that I was nervous; it was more the lingering stomach ache, the dry mouth, the hint of depression. It was like I was still hungover. But that couldn’t be possible, could it? I laid my head back on the seat and softly groaned.

It had been one month since I’d fallen off the wagon. One month since I’d embarrassed myself, and everyone I loved, at my brother Ben and my best friend Kate’s engagement party. One month since I’d determined I was “cured” from being an alcoholic and deserved a glass of champagne. After all, I’d been sober for a solid seven months; obviously that was all the time I needed to get my shit together after being a drunk for most of my life. Turned out I wasn’t. Cured, that is.

“Julie, you should probably go in.” Kate tucked a dark curl behind her ear and gently nudged my elbow with her own. “It’s almost noon.” She turned the car off and, with it, the comfort of the air conditioning. Jerk, I thought, but not without love.

I squirmed in the sticky seat. “You know I don’t have to be here, right? I can do it by myself. I was doing fine for the better part of a year. I just slipped a little—it won’t happen again.” I pulled down the visor and peered above my sunglasses into the tiny mirror, my pleading green eyes touching the deep brown of Ben’s. My older brother. My rock. Kindly taking the backseat, knowing my nausea had the tendency to develop into carsickness.

“We’re not forcing you to go.” He leaned forward and put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. “This is your choice. If you want to try something else, you have our full support.”

Kate turned in the driver’s seat to face me and nodded. “Whatever you decide.”

I pulled off my sunglasses and then quickly slid them on again, the brightness of the summer sun piercing my eyes and boring a hole into my skull. Mornings like this were the worst, especially when you couldn’t temper them with a breakfast screwdriver.

Could I do this myself? I really didn’t know. Mostly because I didn’t actually do it myself when I tried to get sober the first time. When I first hit rock bottom, when I came close to losing my best friend forever, Kate and Ben were with me every step of the way. And even before that I was always hanging out with one of them; I was never on my own. At night, my multiple online dating conquests kept me occupied, filling the loneliness hole if you will.

Gross. My stomach flipped again.

But since Ben and Kate had gotten together almost a year ago—which, by the way, I fully supported—we’d been hanging out less and less. And since I’d deleted all my online dating accounts, I’d been alone more and more.

So, the question remained: could I do this myself? Maybe. Should I? Probably not.

I sighed dramatically, undid my seatbelt, pushed open the door and rolled out of the car. “See you in two hours,” I said, poking my head back in, catching the relief as it pulled the tension from their faces.

“You’ve got this, Jules!” Ben smiled and pumped his fist awkwardly into the air, the knuckle of his thumb grazing the arm on his glasses. “We’ll be here when you’re done.”

The inside of the community centre was hot and humid, diffused, inexplicably, with the faint aroma of farm animals. I walked down the hallway—the slap of my sandals on the chipped laminate echoing like gun shots—clenching and unclenching my fists, wondering which door I was supposed to open to enter a room I never thought I’d be entering. There was no signage to be found. I guess that’s why they called it anonymous.

I was just about to give up and leave—ready to call Kate and Ben, ready to tell them I had failed yet again—when one of the doors swung open from the inside and an older man popped his head out. His lower lip protruded as he blew out a puff of air, stirring the wisps of silver hair that stuck to his brow, and kicked a wooden wedge underneath the door to prop it open.

“Is this…?” I started, eyes darting to the floor.

“It is,” he said warmly. “Come on in. Are you a family member or here for yourself?” He guided me into the musty-smelling room, gently touching my shoulder.

I swallowed, for once at a loss for words. “I…myself? I didn’t know family members could come to the meetings.”

“They don’t normally.” He started to unfold orange plastic chairs from a stack in the corner. “Today is a celebration day. We have a couple of big milestones to acknowledge. I’m Tim.” He held his hand out and I took it firmly in my own.

“Oh. Cool. I’m Julie.” This wasn’t what I’d had in mind for my first meeting. I already didn’t want to be here, and now I was going to have to sit and celebrate some strangers’ milestones one month after I’d just tanked my own. Of all the meetings I could have chosen in the entire city of Regina, why did I have to pick this one?

“Isn’t the meeting supposed to start at noon?” I asked, one foot out the door, my stomach fluttering with tiny, anxiety-ridden butterflies.

“12:30.”

Shit.

“Is there a washroom somewhere?” I asked, wanting to run, wanting to hide from this stifling room, from the part of myself that needed to be here. So much for ripping off the Band-Aid.

I headed in the direction Tim pointed, pushed open the heavy bathroom door and closed it behind me, grateful it was empty, grateful for the quiet. Not super grateful for the overpowering smell of sewage, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, I guess.

I took a shallow breath, trying not to gag, and tried to find a spot on the mirror that wasn’t stained with water marks. The unflattering fluorescent lights made my eyes appear duller than they actually were, the bags underneath more prominent. My long blonde hair had wilted in the stifling heat and I pulled it back with a pink silk scrunchie I’d been wearing around my wrist.

I looked like I hadn’t slept in weeks.

You can do this, Julie,I thought. You have to do this. If not for you, then do it for Ben and Kate. The last thing they wanted to deal with was a forty-four-year-old raging drunk while trying to plan a wedding.

I nodded once at my reflection and, no longer able to withstand the stench, forced myself back into the hallway, towards the room. More people had arrived in the short time I’d been gone and I achieved my goal of slipping in unnoticed, surrounded by cheerful chatter.

It seemed that Tim had been busy since I’d left. Two plastic tables had joined the chairs, one holding a silver coffee urn that looked like it had arrived straight from the seventies and one that was slowly being filled with cookies and donuts and all sorts of things I couldn’t wait to stuff into my face. This might not be so bad after all.

I made a beeline to the tables and poured some stale-smelling coffee into a Styrofoam cup. “Who even uses Styrofoam anymore?” I muttered.

“They were donated,” a deep voice declared, startling me from my judgmental thoughts. “Ten years ago. They’re still not even close to running out.”

I turned towards the voice and was almost blinded by his wide smile, brimming with sparkling white teeth and confidence.

“Oh. Sorry.” I waited for him to step aside. He was not a small man and he was completely blocking my view of the desserts.

“I’m Luke.” He held out his hand, looked at it, wiped it on his shorts, and held it out again.

Do people even shake hands anymore?

“Julie.” I tried to conceal my distaste as I lightly gripped his sticky hand. I did not succeed.

“Sorry,” he laughed. “It’s icing. From the cake I brought.” He pointed to a cake on the dessert table: round with white icing and gold piping, the perfect sugary likeness of an AA chip. “You are all my heroes” was written in gold.

Delightful.

I smirked. “Are you the group’s cheerleader?” How could someone with a drinking problem be so cheerful?

He laughed. Cheerfully. “No, I’m here for my friend.” He pointed at a shaggy-looking man talking to Tim across the room. “I like to include everyone; just in case they don’t have anyone to support them.”

Of course you do.

“Doesn’t it make your heart full to see all of these people achieving their goals?” He tucked a strand of his strikingly auburn hair behind his ear and it seamlessly blended into his similarly hued full beard.

“Sure does.” I looked down at the baked goods in front of me, willing him to leave me alone, pretending I was trying to decide what to choose when I knew full well I was going to choose everything.

He leaned in conspiratorially and stage whispered, “I like to think it’s my delicious cakes that keep them coming back.”

If he says something about doing God’s work, I’m leaving.

“Well,” I said, filling a paper plate with a chocolate cupcake, two gingersnaps and a frosted mini-donut and then backing away. “Enjoy the celebration.”

“You too!” he said with a jaunty wave.

I sat and watched him cut the cake as I shoved pastry into my face. His solid thighs pressed against a pair of worn cargo shorts; a short-sleeved green-and-grey plaid shirt stretched over his stocky frame. I stared until he caught me and then quickly looked away, flipping my ponytail over my shoulder. Sorry, buddy. I’m not really into hipster lumberjacks.

I confidently crossed my legs and then lowered my eyes, lids hooded over a flash of guilt. Why was I being such a bitch? Just because he was annoying didn’t mean I had to be a jerk.

I sighed. This meeting had better start soon or I was going to start voicing my crabby opinions out loud instead of safely in my head. I glanced back towards the door, trying to calculate the time it would take to flee through the crowd, trying to ignore the uncomfortable pressure in my chest. Would it be too much to ask for someone to crack a window?

And, just like that, the meeting started. Tim walked to the front of the room and cleared his throat and everyone rushed to their seats. After a short speech about how lucky he was to be among so many courageous people, followed by about five minutes of enthusiastic clapping—Luke leading the charge—the meeting officially began.

One of my pre-set conditions for attending this meeting was that I would just sit and watch for my first time. I wanted to see how things were done before I made any rash decisions.

So, I sat. And I watched. For two hours. Two hours of shifting my hips in an unyielding plastic chair while members went up, one at a time, and basked in the glory of their lengthy sobriety, proudly pocketing various colours of round plastic chips.

Two hours of twelve steps and greater powers and making amends and whispering prayers while I sat in silence, tired and ashamed, the sting of self-hatred forming a lump in my stomach.

My tongue was like paste as I sipped on terrible coffee, desperately wishing it were water, breathing deeply as tiny prickles of sweat buzzed on the surface of my skin whenever someone rose to celebrate their success. That had been me once. It wasn’t that long ago that I had been on my way to being a better person. Positive and motivated. Ready to face whatever challenges lay in front of me.

I ached to share their joy, but instead I gritted my teeth, stewing in my own self-pity, gripping the edges of my summer skirt as I tried to hold my horrible, unfair feelings inside.

Until I couldn’t.

Until I completely lost my shit.

“I am so proud of all of you who are celebrating your milestones today,” Tim said as the meeting started winding down. I could tell I wasn’t the only one who was tired—hands raw from clapping, bellies full of sugar—but, by the end, I had firmly convinced myself that I was the only one who was also carrying the additional draining effects of withdrawal. I slowly blinked as the combination of nausea, dehydration and mental defeat swallowed me whole.

“Those who are celebrating have worked so hard to get here.” Tim beamed. “They made, and continue to make, a decision to turn their will and their life over to a higher power—over to the care of God.” He smiled, his eyes sweeping the room, slowing down and then stopping when they touched on mine. “All we need to do is ask for His help and He will take care of the rest.”

I could have stopped my eyebrows from furrowing. I could have stopped the scowl from tugging at my lips. But as my stomach roiled with each new, shallow breath, dense with the exhales of a room full of converts, all I could think about was the immensity of shit that I had slogged through in the four decades I had been alive. And how there hadn’t been even a whiff of a higher power helping me out then.

Who had taken care of Ben when he’d had panic attacks at school and all the other kids had made fun of him?

Me.

Who had watched as our parents pretended everything was fine and that Ben was just “quiet for his age” because they didn’t understand social anxiety?

Also me.

Who had made Ben come home from university, the only place where he had friends, the only place he could be his real self, merely because I had let some man get the better of me?

I closed my eyes, dizzy from exhaustion and irrational rage.

And then.

“You know what? No.” A brash voice burst from the silence.

My voice.

I jumped up, ready for a fight. Ready to unleash my frustration onto a room full of innocent people. “I may be powerless over alcohol, but there’s not a chance in hell that I’ll be turning my will or life or anything over to the care of Him or anyone else. Men are what got me here in the first place.”

I looked around, my tired eyes meeting those wide with shock. I knew I should stop; I knew it wasn’t their fault I was such a mess. I knew I was ruining what, for most, was a very special day. But I couldn’t.

“I may be a drunk, and I may be a fuck-up,” I raged, “but this is my life, I’m responsible for it, and the only one I can depend on is myself. Not you, not a higher power, certainly not ‘God.’” I air-quoted. “If she even exists.”

A collective gasp rose from my rightly offended audience and I turned to leave, thankful I had chosen a chair at the end of a row.

My vision blurred and my ears buzzed as I moved towards the door, feeling like I was walking in slow motion; like my feet were trudging through sand. My breath caught at the sensation of a hand on my arm and I turned towards what was sure to be a well-deserved biting remark.

But when I blinked, I could only see kindness. Luke, the cheerful lumberjack, was looking up at me like he understood. Like he could see past my hateful words to something I didn’t even have access to.

I didn’t like it.

“I don’t need your pity,” I hissed and tore my arm away.

“And I’m taking these brownies!” I yelled to the rest of the room as my clever parting shot, grabbing the paper plate upon which they were sitting. “They’re fucking delicious!”

“So, how was it?” Kate’s wide smile faded as I slid into the front seat. “Uh oh, what happened?”

“Can we go get something to eat?” I pulled on my seatbelt. “I’m at the bottom of a serious sugar crash right now and I could go for some real food.” I held up the paper plate. “Brownie?”

I glanced over at Kate as her eyes flickered to the rear-view mirror, knowing they were meeting an equally concerned set on Ben.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll tell you more when we get to Vic’s. This is more of a sit-down conversation.” I pulled down the visor and poked the dark circles under my dull eyes with the tip of my finger. “Yuck. I look like death.”

“Don’t say that.” Kate gently slapped my thigh with the back of her hand. “You are the most gorgeous woman I know. I know you feel bad, but don’t be mean to yourself. Many women, myself included, would be quite pleased to look like you on your very worst day.” She smiled encouragingly.

“Well, I’m glad you look like you,” Ben said to Kate from the backseat, squeezing her shoulder.

“Ugh, get a room,” I muttered, a smile tugging at the sides of my lips.

We drove in silence to Victoria’s Tavern, what used to be our weekly lunch spot, but considering Ben and Kate had cancelled twice last month, I wasn’t sure we could call it that anymore.

Kate parked on one of the side streets in the deserted wilderness of what was once a bustling downtown.

I looked around, eyes blurred with nostalgia. “Remember how busy it used to be down here when we were kids? Remember the Christmas displays at The Bay? I feel like the whole city would be downtown on the weekends. Am I misremembering?” I shook my head and kicked an empty soda can down the sidewalk.

“No, I remember that too,” Kate said. “I remember going to the Cornwall Centre with my dad before he left and it was always really busy. Now the mall is empty when I come here on Saturdays. If I come down here at all.”

“Sad,” I said and looked up to find them standing in front of me, both trying not to look concerned, both failing miserably.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” I said as we walked towards the pub. “I’m not dying, I’m just a drunk.”

Kate grabbed my hand. “Don’t say that. You’re not a drunk. Before the engagement party you’d been sober for, what…how long?”

“Seven months,” I said, swallowing my regret.

“Exactly!” She lifted her hands in an awkward little cheer before pulling open the heavy door of the pub and letting me and Ben through. “And that’s great. You just had a bit of slip-up, like you said.” She nudged Ben in the stomach.

Ben jumped and a “hell yeah!” burst awkwardly from his mouth.

“Hell yeah?” I raised my eyebrow. “Since when is that something you say?” We slid into our usual booth in the corner.

Ben looked at me and then at Kate, who shrugged as if to say, Don’t ask me why that came out of your mouth.

We took out our phones, scanned the QR code on the table and scrolled through the online menu.

“We’re just worried about you,” Kate said. She put her hand on Ben’s and he visibly relaxed. “Are you going to tell us what happened?”

Even though Kate and Ben had been dating for almost a year, it was still hard to think of them as a single unit. Now it was always “we” think this and “we’re” doing that. At some point they had ceased being distinct people and had morphed into a solid entity.

I closed my eyes and put my head in my hands. “It was a milestone celebration meeting,” I said, “which, in normal circumstances, would have been great. But as someone who recently ruined seven months of sobriety, I wasn’t feeling all that celebratory.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Julie.” Ben looked at me, knowing me better than anyone. “So…what did you do?”

I took a deep breath, not sure where to start, and was (thankfully) interrupted by the server who set down three waters on the table, condensation sweating from the glasses. I picked one up and held it in my hands, wishing I could dive into its icy coolness and escape this wicked heat wave.

“Anything else to drink?” She pointed her pencil at me. “I’ve noticed you haven’t had your usual Shiraz for a while. We have half-price bottles on until six.”

Kate’s head shot up and Ben cleared his throat.

“No thanks,” I said, meeting her eyes, trying to pretend my mouth hadn’t just gone dry. “I’m an alcoholic now.” I shifted in my seat, peeling my bare legs off the vinyl-covered booth, instantly regretting that I had worn a skirt.

“Cool.” She put her pencil in her pocket and walked back towards the bar.

“Why do you need to do that?” Ben asked after she was gone, his face flushed.

I shrugged. “I like making people feel uncomfortable?”

“Well, you nailed it.” His hand automatically went to the back of his neck, the place it disappeared to when he was nervous.

“You always feel uncomfortable, so that doesn’t count.” I grinned.

He rolled his eyes. “So, are you going to tell us what happened or what?”

“Wow,” Kate breathed after I’d finished.

Ben didn’t say anything. He just kept opening his mouth and closing it again, like a stunned goldfish.

“It’s fine,” I said, swirling the ice cubes around in my glass with my cardboard straw, pretending it was true. Pretending I wasn’t so ashamed that I wanted to cry. “I’m just not going to go back.”

They were both silent, trying to look at each other without me noticing.

“Oh my God, you guys, what?” I said in a burst of exasperation. “Stop looking at each other like you’re my disappointed parents. I get that enough with my actual disappointed parents.”

“Sorry,” Ben said. “We’re just worried.”

“I know,” I said, my voice softening. “You don’t need to worry though, I’ll find something else.”

“What was actually wrong with this one?” Kate fanned herself with a cardboard beer coaster. “I mean, why did you get so angry?”

“I don’t know.” I rested my chin on my steepled hands. “I know it works and has saved people’s lives and is great in so many ways. But, honestly, besides the celebrations pouring salt into my gaping wounds of failure, I just didn’t feel connected to the program itself; the rigid structure and rules. I don’t think I could consistently deal with the twelve steps and the depressing introductions and everyone chanting the alcoholic’s name like we were all in a monastery.”

They both nodded, wanting to understand.

“They just weren’t my type of people, you know? They were all really nice. Too nice, maybe. Especially this one guy, he was like Barney the dinosaur. If Barney wore plaid. He kept looking at me with, I don’t know….”

“Sympathy?” Ben offered.

“No…more like….”

“Pity?” Kate jumped in.

“No. But thanks,” I said dryly. “More like empathy. Like he really cared.”

“Yeah, that would suck,” Ben said. “I hate when people care.” He smiled.

“I don’t know,” I said, ignoring his sarcasm. “It was just…too much, I guess.” I sat back, wanting the conversation to end. Not wanting to dig any deeper. Unable to put into words the fact that somehow, in a room full of people who had struggled just as I was struggling, I had never felt more alone.

Ben leaned in and grabbed my hand. “Listen, Julie, I know you’re strong and I know you’re dedicated, and for a solid seven months of sobriety you did it without any formal help.”

“Well, I couldn’t have done it without you guys,” I said. It was true. Without Ben and Kate’s love and support—their endless patience with my shitty moods when I was going through withdrawal, their willingness to come over at the drop of a hat when I wanted to drink—I very likely would still have been barrelling down my own unique road of self-destruction.

“And we’ll always be here for you,” Ben continued. “But I know what it’s like contending with the battle of unreliable mental health. And maybe”—he looked at me, trying to gauge my reaction—“maybe this time you need a bit more help than just us. I know you don’t think we’ve noticed, but we can tell you haven’t been doing well this past month.”

I opened my mouth to argue and then closed it as my mind went back to a month ago. Ruining the special night of my brother and my best friend, the two people I loved the most. Disappointing my family and friends. Disappointing myself.

And Ben was right. Having dealt with anxiety his whole life, he did know a thing or two about surviving mental health challenges.

And honestly? More than anything, I owed this to them. They had stuck with me through everything. Through a life of fuck-ups; through endless mistakes. At what point did I stop being a burden? I had to do this. I had to truly get my shit together before they gave up and left like everyone else. I had to turn my life around; for real this time.

“All right,” I relented and then laughed at the barely contained shock on both of their faces. “I know you’re right. One of the things I’ve learned is that, sometimes, you need to trust the people who love you more than you trust yourself. And I trust you both. I’ll get the support. I’ll start looking for another group. But,” I added, “it’s going to be my type of group. Something with people I can relate to. No steps. And no religion.”

“Good,” Kate said. “And, like we’ve said several times before, we’ll support you in whatever you do.” She raised her eyebrows. “As long as it doesn’t involve having a glass of champagne.”

Ben put his head in his hands, tufts of dark hair poking through his fingers.

Kate looked back and forth between us both. “Too soon?”

And then I laughed. Like a real, cleansing laugh, releasing the knot of stress that had taken root in the centre of my shoulder blades.

“This is why I love you, Kate,” I said wiping tears from my eyes. “You always know the wrong thing to say.”