Chapter Twenty
“You went on a date with Ethan?” Luke grabbed a handful of ketchup chips from the plastic bowl resting precariously on a pillow between us on the couch. “That guy you work with?”
“It wasn’t a date.” I grabbed a single chip from his hand and stuck it in my mouth. “It was just dinner. As friends. Colleagues.”
“You know there’s a full bowl of chips right there.” He pointed at the bowl between us.
“I like yours better.” I grabbed another one out of his hand.
I had just finished telling him about the weird and awkward dinner that had ended just under an hour ago, minus the part where Ethan called Luke pudgy. Hannah was at another sleepover and Luke had texted to see if I wanted to come over and go through some wedding decor options. I had jumped at the chance to end my non-date as soon as I possibly could.
“Are you really still hungry?” he asked as he brushed my chip crumbs from his lap.
“I had a plain chicken breast, steamed vegetables and a tiny sticky toffee pudding,” I said as emphatically as I could with my mouth full. “Of course I’m still hungry.”
“Because your body is a temple.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay”—he grabbed his laptop that had been sitting off to the side—“let’s talk decor.” He moved the chips and pillow, scooted in closer so our thighs were touching and set the laptop on both of them so I could see.
“You’re warm,” I said as I snuggled in. “I like it.”
“So, are you into this Ethan guy?” He clicked through his tabs, trying to find the Pinterest collection Kate had sent us.
I looked at him sideways. “He wouldn’t be the first person I’d choose to go out for dinner with again, but he’s okay. He’s fun to work with. I wouldn’t say I was into him though.”
Luke kept scrolling, seemingly randomly, eyes down. “So you’re not attracted to him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He looked up, head to one side. “Explain please.” He closed the lid on his laptop halfway.
“There’s a difference between finding someone attractive and being into them.” I opened the lid on his laptop.
“Meaning?” He closed it again.
I sighed. “Meaning I could still be attracted to someone, and act on it, without wanting to take it any further than, you know, sex.”
“You mean you could have sex with someone without feeling anything for them but sexual attraction?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Yes. Is that a problem? And before you say yes, think about what your answer would be if one of your man friends said the same thing.” I jabbed my finger at him.
“Whoa.” He grabbed my finger and pulled it down. “I wasn’t judging. I was just asking. I’ve always been curious about relationship dynamics.” He gave my hand a squeeze and then rested his on top.
I scoffed, pretending I wasn’t acutely aware that his hand was on top of mine.
“What?” He tipped his head again. “Why the snort?”
“Nothing. I just find it funny you said ‘relationship.’ Like I told you before, I haven’t had much luck in the relationship department.”
“I predict, now that you’re sober, you’ll have more luck.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
Luke put his laptop to the side and gave me his full attention. “I truly believe you deserve happiness, Julie.
No one had ever said that to me before. And all I could do was nod. And it wasn’t because I didn’t believe he thought that; it was because I didn’t agree.
Was it now that I finally told him? Was I ready to take that risk? Being friends with Luke had contributed a lot to helping me stay sober; to getting my life back on track. What would happen if I lost that?
Suddenly, it felt like the joyful energy had been sucked from the room. A different kind of energy, heavy and sad, seemed to be escaping from a small hole in the wall I had so carefully built. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I tried again, voice low, almost a whisper.
“I used to be a really shitty person,” I said, eyes down.
“I don’t believe that.” He lifted my chin with the crook of his finger and held my eyes with his.
I removed his hand from my face and placed it in his lap. “I have to say this, let me say this.”
He nodded, solemn, ready to hear what I had to say.
And then I was lost, inside my memories, inside the guilt and shame and self-hatred that had fuelled my alcoholism for decades. Waking up with the heaviness of knowing I had, once again, done something I would never have done when I was sober.
“One of the reasons why I would get so drunk is because I could do things without thinking. I could do a lot of shitty things without caring about the repercussions,” I finally said. “I wouldn’t care about the friend who threw me a party, spent a ton of money on food and booze, and then watched as I left for the club with my friends,” I said in a daze. “I wouldn’t care about the girlfriend who was sitting at home waiting for her boyfriend who was, at that moment, passed out in my bed. I wouldn’t care about things I’d say and then forget; about people I’d hurt in the process.”
I flashed back to the evenings before I would go out. Smoothing shaving cream on my legs, knowing there was always the chance I would get so trashed that I would hook up with someone who was equally as trashed. I didn’t care about their situation. I knew I wouldn’t feel guilty if I had enough booze coursing through my veins.
Until the next day. Until I’d wake up. That’s when the guilt would rage. The shame sitting in the pit of my stomach and then rising to tighten my chest, pulsing around the never-slowing beat of my hungover heart. It was then that I hated myself the most.
“Do you know what it’s like to have to quit a job because you’ve slept with basically everyone you’ve worked with?” I said solemnly, snapping back to reality. “To be literally sick with worry the next day because you know you had sex with someone but you don’t remember how it started, and you don’t know who knows, and you don’t know if the person you slept with is even going to remember?”
He shook his head. Of course he didn’t. He was an amazing person. Doing even one of those things wouldn’t have even crossed his mind. But when I looked into his eyes, instead of seeing what I expected, instead of seeing judgment, I saw tenderness. I saw kindness. And I knew how important his friendship truly was to me.
“It feels horrible,” I whispered, emotion finally cracking my stoic fa?ade. His compassionate gaze gave me permission to be openly flawed. “And as much as I would be terrified of being found out, as much as I would dread the whispers and sneers, I secretly wanted it to happen. I wanted to be mortified. To feel pain. And do you know why? Because I fucking deserved it. And even though I would feel ashamed, at least I would feel something.” Tears filled my eyes and I stopped to take a sip of water.
“Did it ever happen?” he asked gently. “Did anyone ever confront you?”
“No,” I said. “No one ever did. Or, I guess, no one ever has. Yet. But now, now when I become overwhelmed with guilt and shame, I have to deal with it. I can’t have a drink—or seven—and push everything away and pretend it didn’t happen. I have to feel my feelings and suffer through them. Because if I let them go, I won’t remember why I need to be sober. And what if I forget? If I think it’s okay to forgive myself, then there’s nothing stopping me from drinking again.” I was now full-on crying, tears running down my face.
Luke handed me a tissue from his pocket. “So, you think you don’t deserve to feel better?” he asked.
“I know I don’t deserve to feel better.”
“Why not?” he asked.
I threw up my hands in exasperation. “Because of the things I’ve done.” Was he even listening? How was he still sitting here so calmly? How was he not halfway out the door?
“And,” I continued, “to be clear, I’m not asking for absolution. I’m telling you because I thought it might help explain why I am the way I am.”
“It does actually,” he said. “I’ve always thought you were closed off; now I know why. It makes a lot of sense. You don’t think you deserve love so you close yourself off to anyone who might be wanting to give it to you.” He paused and scratched his chin. “One thing I don’t understand though. Why did it start? In my experience with people who drink too much, there’s always something that kicks it off. Some sort of damage. Something that sparks the drinking and the destructive behaviour.”
I closed my eyes. Letting my thoughts go back to when I was young. Remembering how incredibly na?ve I had been.
“You likely won’t believe this,” I said, “but I used to be kind of a romantic. More like Kate.” I smiled wistfully and Luke nodded, urging me to go on.
“I didn’t rush into things back then. Sure, I’d pick up men and have some fun after the bar, but it never went further than making out on the couch. Sex was never on the table.
“One night, at a club, I ran into a guy I hadn’t seen since high school. A guy I’d known had always had a crush on me. We chatted and danced; I flirted and he bought me drinks. By the end of the night, I knew I’d had too many, but I invited him back to my place anyway. The romance of meeting up and getting together after not seeing each other for a while didn’t escape me.”
Luke smiled as if he understood. As if he could see my youthful hopes and dreams. As if he could also believe them.
“So.” I shrugged. “I broke my rule. I slept with him. All drunk and sweaty and slippery on my beige suede couch, caught up in the passion of finally giving in to what we both wanted. I fell asleep and he left shortly after, leaving a note saying he had to get up early for work.” I shook my head. “I actually folded it up the next morning, thinking of where I could save it. A keepsake from the start of our relationship.”
“I feel like I know where this is going,” Luke said quietly.
I nodded slowly. “I came home after work to a message on my machine. It was him.”
I still remember the flip in my stomach when I’d heard his voice asking me to call him back, certain he was going to ask me on our first official date.
“When I finally got a hold of him, he told me he wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to be weird if we saw each other again. ‘If?’ I asked him, still not fully understanding.” I laughed bitterly.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Luke said. “You had every right to think you would see each other again.”
“He didn’t respond at first, but after a lengthy pause, he told me he had to go. I was ‘super-hot and everything’ but he wasn’t really looking for a relationship. Two weeks later, I found out through a mutual friend that he was dating a cute redhead he’d met at work.”
It turned out he was looking for a relationship; just not with me.
“I mean, honestly,” I continued, “it wasn’t that big of a deal, these kinds of things happen all the time, to both women and men. But for some reason, I took it hard. I guess it didn’t help that, over the next year or so, I heard that several more times: I was fun but not relationship material. Every time after I’d had too much to drink. After I’d invited a guy back to my place hoping he wanted more than just sex, thinking in the back of my mind that this time would mean something.”
The worse I felt about myself, about the way my life was turning out, the more I drank. And the more I drank the more stupid decisions I made. I slept with men I knew and then started sleeping with ones I didn’t, trying to make myself feel better, wondering how things could possibly get any worse.
And then they did.
Luke brushed back a tendril of hair that had fallen in front of my face. “People deal with rejection in all sorts of different ways,” he said. “And that’s okay.” He squeezed my hand. “Thank you for telling me. It couldn’t have been easy to go back to when it all started. We never know what’s going to push us over the edge.”
“That wasn’t it,” I said. “That wasn’t what pushed me over the edge.”