Chapter 31 #2
“Well,” Davis says after a long beat. “Guess that answers the question of whose fancy car that is. You could have called and said you got another ride, you know. I’m going to be late.”
Brody’s mom clears her throat, eyes flicking over our sprawled bodies, Brody’s shorts, my very obvious unbuttoned coat. Her cheeks are pink, but there’s no anger there. Mostly, I see something akin to cautious amusement.
“We do have somewhere we need to be,” she says gently. “Unless you plan to attend the meeting like that.” She gestures to Brody’s overall state of being.
Brody flails off me so fast he nearly face-plants in the grass. “Oh my God, I, uh, yeah. Right. Shit. The meeting. I’m… shit.”
His mom discreetly covers a laugh with her hand.
Brody scrambles to his feet and then immediately bends down to offer me a hand, eyes wide. “Are you okay? Your ankle?”
I take his hand and let him haul me up. The ankle protests, but I keep my face smooth because I’m not about to admit weakness in front of his family ten seconds after they found their son dry humping me on their lawn.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Totally fine. This is all fine.”
No one believes me.
“This is, um, Beck,” Brody says.
“Ohh,” Davis says. “I see.”
“Shut up, Davis.”
What does he see?
It occurs to me that two people just witnessed me making out, quite inappropriately I might add, with Brody. Who is a guy. Of course he would be out to his family, though. So why do I care?
Do I care?
I don’t think I do. In fact, I feel a bit proud of myself, other than meeting my—is he my boyfriend?—um, person’s family for the first time.
Mrs. Miller steps forward and hugs me. She hugs me.
I don’t move because I’m not sure how to react at first. “It’s very nice to meet you.
I’m Brody’s mom, Sharon. Welcome to our home.
” She chuckles a little awkwardly. “I’m so sorry we had to meet like this.
Our front yard isn’t exactly the height of romance. ”
“Ma’am,” I say, hugging her back tentatively. My heart is still pounding. “I, uh, apologize for that, um… display?”
Brody’s brother snorts.
Mrs. Miller smiles, and it’s tired but real. She seems surprisingly unbothered by what she just saw. “Oh, honey, if you think that is the most scandalous thing that’s happened on this street, you have a lot to learn about this family.”
Brody groans. “Can we not?”
Davis claps him on the shoulder. “We really do gotta get going, but I totally understand if you can’t make it.”
“No, no. I want to go. I want to be there for this.” Brody glances at me, torn. “We’ll be back. I have to go.”
“Go,” I say immediately. “I didn’t mean to mess up your day. I just—” I swallow and pull him to the side so I can lower my voice privately. “I couldn’t let another minute go by without telling you the truth. That I love you. The stuff about Pierce, too, but mostly that I love you.”
His lips quirk. He gives me a small, heartbreakingly soft smile. “I’m sorry I ruined everything,” he says quietly. “I should’ve taken a step back and pushed pause or something.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I say, stepping closer. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well,” Mrs. Miller says mildly, “maybe he shouldn’t have broken Pierce Jamison’s nose. That wasn’t good.” Brody winces.
“His nose isn’t broken,” I tell her. “I heard the trainer who went with him tell Coach he’s barely bruised.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “You wouldn’t know that from the way Mrs. Jamison was screaming about it. She said it was broken and that he might need surgery.”
“Sounds familiar,” Davis mutters. “He’ll probably get away with it. Again.”
A hot flare of anger spikes through me. “Not if I can help it,” I say, surprising myself with how steady it comes out.
“The team is putting together a plan. I’m not sure how much we can do yet, but no one is happy with Pierce’s bullshit.
And no one wants to see Brody go.” I look at the man in question. “I don’t want to see you go.”
Brody blinks rapidly, like his eyes might be burning, too. Maybe we’re allergic to the grass, because I can’t imagine Brody tearing up.
Davis eyes me. “If you’re not opposed to shitty coffee and listening to a bunch of strangers talk about all the ways they ruined their own lives, you’re welcome to come along.”
“Really?” Brody asks incredulously.
Davis shrugs. “It’s Christmas Eve. Might as well drag the new boyfriend into the fun.”
Boyfriend.
My heart does something stupid and painful behind my ribs. I think the grin on my face must be manic, because Brody looks at me funny.
I glance at Brody. He’s watching me with something like hope and terror twisted together. “Yeah. I’d like that. If that’s okay?”
Brody swallows. “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with Davis,” he says, voice thick. “And if you want to come.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure exactly what we’re going to, but from the context clues, I’m guessing it’s a family AA meeting or something? I hope I’m not intruding by accepting the invitation, but I really don’t want to leave Brody.
Davis stares at me for a long second, then nods, satisfied. “Alright then, fancy pants. Let’s go.” Then he pauses and eyes his brother. “Speaking of pants…”
We eventually make it to the meeting, and I’m kind of blown away by my life right now.
If someone had asked me two weeks ago how I’d be spending Christmas Eve, I probably would’ve said something about a formal dinner, uncomfortable small talk with my father’s colleagues, and pretending not to notice my mom drinking too much wine while my father whispers subtle barbs about everyone’s net worth.
Instead, I’m sitting in a church basement on a metal folding chair that wobbles, drinking truly atrocious coffee and listening to people tell the worst stories of their lives.
And I am in awe.
People stand and sit and stand again, sharing.
Some are older than my parents, hands shaking as they speak.
Some are barely older than me. They talk about jail and DUIs, and lost jobs and marriages that survived anyway and kids they’re trying to rebuild bridges with.
They talk about days marked one at a time.
About calling their sponsors instead of dealers, or heading to a diner for coffee instead of the closest liquor store.
No one flinches, or laughs, or judges. They just listen and affirm every feeling and every story. Tears aren’t a weakness here, they’re strength.
When Davis gets up, I feel strangely anxious for him. I didn’t realize this was a milestone meeting for him until I heard it mentioned when we first arrived.
He walks to the front holding nothing but his foam cup. He clears his throat, looks around the room, then zeroes in on a point just above everyone’s heads like he’s trying not to make eye contact with any one person in particular.
“I’m Davis,” he says. “I’m an alcoholic.”
The chorus of Hi, Davis is warm, familiar, and free of judgment.
He talks about the night he almost died. About how he woke up in the hospital with tubes in his arms and his family around him, worried and crying and remembering the worst day of their lives. He talks about shame, and fear, and the bone-deep exhaustion of wanting everything to stop. Everything.
Then he talks about six months. Six months of boredom and rage and cravings and tiny victories like going to the store by himself and not staring too hard at the person in front of him buying wine or beer.
Six months without taking any kind of pill at all, even ibuprofen.
Six months of watching his mom and brother worry about every sigh, headache, bad day, or mood swing.
Six months of his mother’s tired optimism and unrelenting patience, and six months of useless texts from his annoying little brother.
Six months of them showing up for him when he didn’t feel like he deserved it.
“I’ve done a lot of shit I’m not proud of,” Davis says, his voice cracking.
“But my little brother still looks at me like I can be somebody again. He moved back home when he was thriving somewhere else, just so I wouldn’t be so far away if…
if something happened.” He swallows hard, knuckles going white around the cup.
“And that was my moment. My rock-bottom, when I knew I needed to do better. For my mother and myself, but mostly for him. Because I can’t bear the thought of him waiting by the phone to hear if I’m dead. Because he deserves better.”
He looks directly at Brody then, and I feel the breath Brody takes as much as I can hear it.
“You’re the strongest person I know,” Davis says. “You’re my inspiration to see this through. I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of loyalty, but I’m trying every day to be the man you think I am under all of this mess.”
By the time he finishes and accepts the six-month chip from the meeting leader, my throat feels too tight to swallow. These people are amazing.
When he sits back down, Brody hugs him so hard they nearly topple off their chairs. I slide my hand along the metal folding chair between us until my fingers brush Brody’s knee. He looks at me, eyes wet and wondering.
“He’s right, you know,” I say quietly. “You’re the strongest person I know, too.”
His gaze drops to our hands. I’m not actually holding his, but my fingers are close enough that I can feel the heat. He shakes his head, looking away.
“I just had a full-blown meltdown in front of our entire team and threw away my future to land one punch,” he whispers back.
“It wasn’t worth it, Beck. It wasn’t strong.
Neither is laughing off that shit for years or letting them talk about my mom and brother the way they did.
Neither is running away from the fallout. ”
“Maybe not,” I say. “But you kept moving forward. You didn’t let them break you. Even when you snapped, you were true to yourself. That’s strength, Brody.”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t pull his knee away either.