Chapter 26
MILES
Nothing says I’m in a fucking state like booking the earliest possible therapy session on the first day your therapist returns from vacation, but I guess I’m that guy.
Lydia had given me contact info for a couple backup options while she was away, but I didn’t have it in me to start fresh with anyone. So I waited.
Too long, in hindsight.
I’d come dangerously close to throwing it all away the night I called Caroline. The closest I’ve come in almost a year. But, thank fuck, the only place I’d poured that poison was down the sink.
I’m not a religious man but, as cheesy as it sounds, I can’t help but think of Caroline like some sort of guardian angel.
Not that she’d done anything magical last week; there was no miracle.
No divine intervention. All she did was see me and love me and remind me there’s good underneath all the hard, ugly stuff.
That there’s a life to fight for. And, when my brother inexplicably showed up at my place to check on me that night, I’d known she’d also found a way to make sure I wasn’t alone.
I’ve looked at the picture she sent every night since—those teary, gorgeous eyes, and that outstretched pinkie.
She was right. Dorky pinkie promise photo aside—I couldn’t keep fighting just because she asked me to.
Couldn’t rely on her as my motivation. I need to find the fucks within, so to speak. Need to do this for myself.
Step one of Operation: Find the Fucks was to get in with my doctor, who tweaked my prescriptions. It’ll probably take another few weeks to feel the full effects, but there are glimmers that the worst of this shitstorm might be lifting.
Step two? Therapy.
Lydia listens to my tale of woe, scribbling notes.
I wonder what kind of lingo therapists use to describe this kind of situation. How do you say heartbroken hot mess in therapist-ese? I stuff down the impulse to ask, not wanting to waste my precious—and expensive—time with her.
Unable to help myself, I’m compelled to fill the silence as Lydia writes.
“There was this woman at AA a while back.” I shift in my seat, my jeans squeaking slightly against the faux leather couch.
“Talked about how she’d been dating this guy but thought maybe she was too attached.
Figured she could be replacing one addiction with another.
Is that a thing? Like, can you get addicted to a person? ”
Lydia sits back in her seat, looking thoughtful. “Is that what you think happened with Caroline?”
“I dunno. Maybe.” Then, I hedge. “No?”
She pulls her horn-rimmed glasses off, perching them on her head. “Well, before I answer your question—before I launch into the neurochemistry of addiction—perhaps you could tell me more about what got you thinking about that.”
Ah, tell me more. She’s good. Or that’s, like, Therapy 101.
Regardless, I take the babble bait.
“I guess I’m just… worried what we had wasn’t healthy?” Fuck. Had. The past tense makes me wince. “Like, maybe I got way too attached. I think the fire fucked me up. Brought up some shit about losing my parents.”
Lydia nods and pulls her glasses back down to scribble some more.
“How do I know if it was healthy? How do I know if I’m ready for something like that?”
“A sober relationship, you mean?”
“Yeah. Like, AA says wait at least a year, right?”
Lydia tilts her head in thought. “I think, Miles, instead of arbitrary timelines, you’ll find out more about your readiness by examining evidence from your own life.”
I frown. “Like what?”
“How you’ve handled various stressors recently. How you’ve coped.”
“Okay…” Spiraling into depression after losing Caroline doesn’t feel like an A+ in coping, somehow.
“Why don’t we look back at some of the things you’ve shared today?” Lydia scans her notes. “You said at the fundraiser, there’d been a strong temptation to drink, made worse by Caroline’s father.”
“Right.”
She raises her head. “What did you do when that came up for you?”
I puff air between my lips, slumping back in my seat. “I left. Called my sponsor, then called a cab, then called Jude. Did an AA meeting online when I got home.”
“So you distanced yourself from the trigger and reached out to your support network.”
I take a moment to think about it. “Yeah. Guess so.”
She nods and writes a note on her paper. “And the fire?”
I drag both hands over my face, then scruff them through the back of my hair. “Uh… well, I got scared. Wanted to get Caroline the fuck out of there. Y’know, to keep her safe, I guess. So we went back to her place.”
“You said the fire brought up memories of losing your parents.”
“Yeah.” I scrub at my scruffy beard. “It was… fucking rough. I told her about how they died that night. How I blamed myself…” I flick Lydia a guilty glance, like I’m doing therapy wrong. “I know it wasn’t my fault, but I was in a shitty headspace.”
She nods. “And that night, or in the days that followed, were you tempted to drink?”
I think back, dazed by how the memories have blurred in the weeks since.
“I mean, the thought must’ve crossed my mind.
Like, it’s always there in the back of my head.
But I was really focused on her. On being with her.
I dragged her to the gym the next morning.
” My lips twist as I remember how she’d bolted upright when I mentioned breakfast.
“And you’d say Caroline is someone who’s supportive of your sobriety?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Absolutely. Yes.”
“Okay. So, again, after the fire, you surrounded yourself with supportive relationships, sticking to your healthy routines and coping mechanisms. These have all been key tools for you, Miles. Exercise, especially.”
“Right.” I frown, pondering all this.
“What about the night of the election? You said you were offered a drink outright.”
“Yeah.” I shake my head at the memory.
“Did you take it?”
“No, but Caroline came over pretty much right away.” My knee starts to bounce.
“But there was a chance to accept the drink before she intervened?” Lydia asks.
“Yeah.”
“So you could have taken it, but you didn’t.”
“I was tempted.”
“But you didn’t act on that temptation.”
I frown again. “No, I guess I didn’t. And we got outta there.”
“Good. And more recently… The night you almost drank. What was that like?”
I feel myself sink into the couch. “Fucking awful.”
Lydia nods slowly. “Say more about that.”
“Caroline convinced me not to give up.”
“Was she there with you?”
“No, I called her.”
“Why?”
I take a moment to think about it.
“You didn’t have to call her. You could’ve just taken the drink. Or called someone else. But you called her instead.”
Tension chokes my throat and I try to swallow past it. “I guess I knew she wouldn’t judge me for fucking up. Or she’d understand why I was hurting so bad. And,” I swipe the tears from my eyes, “I dunno, maybe she’d give me a reason not to go through with it.”
Lydia, like the pro she is, silently extends a box of tissues. I take a couple, and she gives me a few moments to breathe. To process all this.
“Miles, what’s the pattern you notice here?”
I give her a look—borderline annoyed, mostly good-natured. “That I’ve been through stressful shit and stayed sober? Like, used healthy coping strategies instead of drinking?”
She nods, contemplating me before she speaks.
“The reason relationships are discouraged during the early stages of recovery is they often involve emotional highs and lows. It’s important to be in a place where you can navigate those stressors without falling back into unhealthy habits. In your case, drinking.”
“So you’re saying I’ve done that?” Something like hope creeps into my psyche. “Shown I can handle my shit?”
“I’m saying you’ve been tested. Especially recently. Put through some very stressful experiences—some significant temptation—and still chosen the sober path.”
I chuckle wryly at the wording. “Sounds like some kind of choose-your-own-adventure shit.”
Lydia smiles. “Something like that.”
“I guess that’s life, right?” I muse. “A bunch of fucking choices.”
People talk about a breakthrough in therapy like it’s some transformative a-ha moment.
A spark, a sudden light bulb, or the clouds suddenly part and you can see everything with perfect clarity.
But they don’t talk about the fatigue—the soul-level emotional drain of processing your shit.
The sheer effort of bushwhacking new neural pathways to get out the other side of the mess.
The way your past still claws at you, your old patterns none too keen to let go or let you embrace new ones.
Brains are dicks like that.
“So, wait.” Gus sounds confused. “You think you could go for it?”
“Not what I said.” I jab the button for the crosswalk and sling my bag over my shoulder, switching my phone to my other ear. “It’s not like all my problems magically disappeared here.”
Cowed though he may be by losing the race for governor, Pete Brennan is still a powerful, influential man; he could still use his position as a senator to fuck up my livelihood. This isn’t only a question of my mental readiness.
“Okay, but what I’m saying is, it’s more of a job thing than a sobriety thing at this point, right?”
“I guess?” My anxiety spikes just thinking about that. But there’s something else there. Something warmer, lighter. Something that feels like relief. “I dunno. I literally just got out of therapy. I need some time to think.”
“You gonna talk to her?”
“Dude, what did I just say?” Shaking my head, I jog across the street toward the construction site, reminding myself not to look at the gallery. I usually arrive at work earlier than Caroline would, but, after therapy this morning, I’m starting later than usual.
“Just sayin’, man…” I can practically hear Gus smiling on the other end. “You’ve been a miserable fucking mess lately.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly.
“Listen, I saw how happy Caroline made you, back before… y’know. I just mean it’d be cool to get your girl back.”
Fucking understatement of the century.
He goes on, “Is the job thing really make-or-break? There have to be other construction gigs. Like, if he were to screw you over with that one.”
“I dunno. In this town, it’s pretty much all Sitka builds. Trust me, I’ve looked into it.” I pin the phone against my shoulder and fish my hard hat out from my backpack. “If he can fuck with me here, he could fuck with me on any job site in Lennox.”
Gus hums a little sound of understanding and pauses. “Well, if it’s a paycheck you need, the station needs new recruits. A couple older guys are retiring this year.”
“What, seriously?” I squint against the low morning sun. A career change is too much to integrate into my exhausted goo-brain.
“Yeah. And like, I dunno if you’d be open to switching things up at that level—and I don’t wanna downplay the stress of that—but you’d pass the physical no problem. And if that old prick ever tried to fuck with anything LVFD-related, I’d back you up.”
Whoa. Becoming a firefighter?
Having heard a bit about the kind of calls Gus gets, I don’t know if I could hack it—especially considering how I lost my shit on Halloween. Of course, that was more about who was involved than the fire itself, but… God, the prospect of finding a way back to being with Caroline?
Could I change jobs?
“And hey,” Gus adds, “you know I love a happy ending.”
“Um, gross?”
He puffs a laugh. “Not like that. Shit. Happy ever after? You know what I mean. Plus, it’s almost Christmas.”
I have half a mind to brush him off, but a fuzzy kind of realization simmers in my head.
Maybe I’m not as trapped in this situation as I thought.
Aside from income, nothing’s tying me to this work.
I was already an addict back when I started out in construction, too far gone by then to give a shit about making an intentional career choice.
Construction work was a paycheck—a thing I could do.
Keeping at it was the path of least resistance.
I’m good at my job, but it’s not like a calling.
“Look, I gotta get to work. I can’t process any of this right now.”
“Could be a Christmas miracle…”
Jesus. Gus’ sap factor really goes off the charts when it comes to the holidays.
“Bruh, you sound like a six-year-old girl.”
“Hey,” he chuckles, “normalize grown men believing in the magic of Christmas, and—”
“Gotta go!”
“And true love, dude!”
“Bye!” I hang up on his sappy ass with a smirk and head into the site office.