“Dirty?” she asks.
“Nah, I’m sober. And someone’s got to make sure she gets home safe.” I haven’t had a drop since the party.
“Good man.” The waitress nods and heads to the bar, leaning over the counter to pass along our order.
“You didn’t drink at the party the other day either. I just thought you weren’t feeling it,” Avery says.
“I never really liked to before. It’s just an easy solution, even though it never lasts. My therapist has really encouraged me to evaluate my relationship with alcohol. Identifying why I reach for it, when—that type of thing.”
That morning after, I called Dr. Davis and talked for two hours. About taking one day at a time and going from meeting once a week to twice to ensure I have the support I need. Most of all, we had a serious talk about how though my behaviors didn’t align with alcoholism. I was abusing alcohol as a coping mechanism for anxiety I didn’t know I had. I was so sure what she called cycles of rumination and aches, accompanied by rapid heart rate, were what everyone felt.
Naming the feelings has helped me find some sense of control. Knowing there are patterns to look out for and triggers to avoid gives me some power, when in the past I’ve stayed braced for impact, not understanding the signs. Not saying it will be easy, but it’s a start that I’m proud of.
Avery bites down on her bottom lip as if stopping herself from asking more.
“Go ahead. If you want to know, I want to tell you.”
“I never got why you started. It was like one moment you never touched a drop and then it was so casual for you.” Her eyes say the rest, the green taking over her hazel eyes the way it does when her emotions are close to the surface.Was that when things changed? What was I missing?
“Because it was a quick fix for numbing whatever I didn’t want to feel in the moment instead of working through those emotions. And it’s not just that. I want to remember this time. I want to be present and here with you without any of it being clouded. Now, instead, I’ve been reaching for my guitar or headphones like we used to.”
Avery’s brows dip and she opens her mouth. “Wes, I don’t—”
My pulse races. This is it. The moment she tells me she doesn’t want me here at all. Fuck. I should have waited.
Red plastic cups with faded logos thud in front of us, cherries bobbing on the surface. “Two Shirleys for you.”
I fish a hundred-dollar bill from my pocket and hand it over. “I think this will settle everything up. Keep the change.”
She beams as she walks away.
Avery takes a sip, her eyes fluttering closed. Her lips curl into a soft smile, shoulders relaxing on a sigh. A single tear rolls down her cheek, carrying flecks of dark makeup down her face.
She sniffs, sitting up and wiping the back of her hand against her watering eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s happening. It’s just the last time I had one of these…” She swallows and blinks, trying to reign in her emotions.
“I remember,” I say, for whatever it’s worth. “It was a good night, wasn’t it?”
That shitty bar in Caper with Mom and Hudson. And we were bursting with the type of hope that cut like the first ray ofsunlight after a storm. The sweetness coated our tongues, but we sucked it down, thinking we could always come back for more.
Now it tastes artificial. A nearly perfect replica of something we’ll never have back.
“Can we just play? Like we promised Dad we would back then. Together.” Her voice is thick with the tears she’s holding back.
“Let’s not keep him waiting any longer.”
Avery sits on a stool near the back of the stage tuning the ancient maple Fender, cocking her head with her hair cascading down her shoulders as she delicately plucks the strings then turns the tuning pegs.
If only it were that easy with us. Picking at a string and knowing what direction we need to go to get us back in tune.
In some ways, it feels exactly like what we’re doing, but my hands are clumsy, like they used to be when I first picked up a guitar and it would take me an hour to tune before I could start practicing. Sometimes I’d get frustrated and start before it was perfect, leaving whatever song I was playing sounding sour.
“I think I’m ready to go.”
“I’ve got the mics set,” I say, letting go of the stand I’ve been adjusting as an excuse to linger nearby as she works.
“What are we singing?”
“I’m not picky.” My lips tug into a smirk. “I know all your songs are about me.”
