Her voice lowered to just above a whisper, and Donna leaned forward to catch the last word, her heart breaking. She wanted to reach out and take the woman’s hand, to let her know she wasn’t alone. Everything Irene described—the shame, fear, and helplessness—she’d experienced them all. The substance might be different, but the vicious cycle was the same.
“Because of my addiction, I lost my leg and almost lost my life.” Irene’s gaze flitted to her right pant leg that was hemmed below the knee. “But you know what hurts the most?” Her voice wavered with emotion. “I watched it tear apart the people I love. People I would willingly die for. And I still couldn’t stop. My husband left, and my son took it upon himself to fight my battle for me. A regret I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully reconcile in my heart.” Her eyes glistened with tears, and yet she managed to smile. “It took moving here, and meeting people who offered love and friendship in a way I’d never experienced before, to find the courage I needed. The courage to admit I couldn’t do it on my own, that my own willpower would never be enough. Now, I take my addiction to the Lord in daily prayer, I have friends to lean on, and—” She blushed, adding, “A good man who reminds me that I’m so much more than my worst moment.”
Irene caught Donna’s eye, and a look of instant, unquestioned camaraderie passed between them. To her own bewilderment, Donna actually wanted to befriend this woman. A genuine, unguarded, two-way-street kind of friendship. The kind of friendship she’d never had.
“Thank you for sharing, Irene,” Rhett said, drawing her attention back to the meeting. “Would someone else like to go next?”
Before she knew what she was doing, Donna raised her hand.
Rhett blinked, mirroring her own surprise. He nodded, giving her the go-ahead, and suddenly all eyes turned in her direction.
She shrank back into her chair, immediately regretting her impulsivity.
Irene offered an encouraging smile, and Donna inhaled deeply, summoning the calming effects of yogic breathing.
“Hi, I’m Donna and I’m an alcoholic.” She picked a point on the opposite wall to focus on, letting their faces blur into the background. She’d given this speech countless times before, but this time she felt more vulnerable and exposed, as if being back in the place where it all began heightened every excruciating detail. “I’ve always been a bit rebellious,” she admitted, trying to separate her words from her emotions. “A wild child, people used to say. I never really fit in. I was more my father’s daughter, preferring to go fishing or tinker with engines. I wasn’t like the other girls my age.” An invisible rope around her chest tightened as she recalled all the times her mother had tried to pressure her into “normal” girl activities like baking, dolls, and tea parties. At the time, she’d resented her mother, upset that she couldn’t accept her for who she was. Now, she wondered if her mother’s attempts were purely to spend time with her, to bond over a similar interest.
She cleared her throat, trying to concentrate on the present. “I’d acted out a few times, getting involved in school pranks, skipping classes, and I tried a cigarette once. I had my first drink when I was seventeen. The night of my father’s funeral.” An icy chill slithered up her spine at the memory, and she involuntarily shuddered. “A boy from school invited me to a late-night wake that was supposedly in my dad’s honor. Normally, I wouldn’t have gone. I was more of a loner, but—” She hesitated, briefly closing her eyes. She could still hear her mother sobbing in the kitchen as she lay in bed, huddled beneath the covers, trying to muffle the sound. The deep, bone-racking wails had frightened her, solidifying in her heart what she already knew to be true: her father—her best friend and the only person who understood her—was gone forever, and her life would never be the same. “I wanted an excuse to leave the house,” she continued, recalling the cool metal of the drainpipe as she’d climbed out her window.
“The wake was held at an abandoned hunting blind in the woods a group of seniors regularly used as a hangout. The boy who’d invited me handed me a red plastic cup. I never asked what was in it.” The familiar flush of shame crept up her neck, but she pressed on, blocking out the haunting images crowding her mind. “I remember it burned my throat, and the sharp, unpleasant odor reminded me of my mother’s nail polish remover, but that didn’t deter me from guzzling every last drop. He handed me another drink. And another. And for a while, the bleary, dizzy, drunken haze became a refuge, a place to hide. But the very thing I thought would rescue me became a prison I couldn’t escape. That was the night I gave my life over to alcohol. The night everything changed.”
Donna paused. Her mouth felt dry, and she took a sip of lukewarm coffee. The room had become unbearably silent, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet anyone’s gaze. Especially Frida’s, who must be regarding her with a cold, disdainful glare. “From that moment on,” she said, digging deep for her last ounce of courage, “I turned into someone I didn’t recognize. Someone I didn’t like. And no matter how desperate I became to stop drinking, to keep the addiction from destroying everything that ever mattered to me—” An image of her daughter darted into her mind, dragging unwelcome tears to the surface. She concentrated on her breathing again, determined to get through her story without a messy display of emotion. “I couldn’t quit. Apart from the months during pregnancy when I couldn’t stomach alcohol, even if I’d wanted to, the overpowering urge usurped every semblance of control. Until a letter from my late mother gave me the wake-up call I needed.” She still kept the letter neatly folded in a thin slot in her phone case. It never left her side. “That was two years ago, and I’ve been sober ever since.”
At the conclusion of her introduction, Donna held her breath, suddenly feeling ill-prepared to face their reaction. Would they be appalled? Disapproving? In AA, they were told not to compare their journey to someone else’s, but she couldn’t help feeling like the biggest failure in the room. Like her secrets were too dark, too unseemly. That she hadn’t come far enough in her recovery to warrant anyone’s respect. Deep down, she feared she never would.
At the unexpected sound of applause, her gaze jolted toward Irene. The woman’s kind smile radiated warmth and admiration, and Donna blushed as Mac and Rhett joined in.
“Please, you don’t need to do that.” She shrugged away their plaudits, not sure how to handle the praise. It didn’t feel deserved. “In the grand scheme of things, two years is nothing.”
“Don’t be silly!” Irene insisted. “It’s a big deal and an impressive accomplishment. You should be proud.”
“Thank you,” Donna mumbled, eager to hand over the spotlight. She made the mistake of catching Frida’s eye. The woman’s penetrating gaze tore right through her, but she couldn’t read her expression.
Thankfully, Rhett rescued her from Frida’s scrutiny by reading a quote from a well-known recovery handbook, which prompted several minutes of open discussion. Afterward, everyone except for Frida—who’d excused herself the second Rhett had concluded the meeting—milled about over coffee and the fancy charcuterie board Irene had brought. Donna sampled the colorful array of cured meats, expensive cheeses, and caviar, wishing Stephanie were there to enjoy it with her. Once again, Steph had missed their scheduled phone call, and Donna had sent a text, imploring her to at least call before she turned in for the night.
“I really appreciated what you shared tonight.” Irene popped a kalamata olive stuffed with feta cheese into her mouth, grinning as she said, “It made me feel less exposed after I shared, like we’d both forgotten to put pants on this morning instead of just me.”
Donna laughed. “I know what you mean. It’s intimidating to be the first one to share.”
“You know,” Irene said thoughtfully. “I didn’t realize how much I needed something like this until I heard about it this morning. But the second I did, I knew I had to come. Therapy has been a huge help, but there’s nothing quite like talking to other people who can relate to what you’re going through.”
“I completely agree.”
Irene tilted her head to the side, studying her for a moment. “Would you care to come over for some pie? The night is still young and my boyfriend—is that what we call it at our age?” She chuckled before adding, “Bill makes the best rhubarb pie.”
She must have looked confused because Irene quickly clarified. “Don’t worry. He made a sugar-free pie for me. And it’s almost as good as the real thing.Almost.” She flashed a playful grin, and Donna found herself smiling, too.
Despite her deep-rooted struggles, Irene had the kind of easy, lighthearted attitude Donna found infectious. And refreshing. She was the kind of person who made you feel better about life simply by being in their presence.
The creaking door caught her attention, and Irene’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Speaking of Bill, my chivalrous chauffeur is here. Please say you’ll join us. You can follow us back to Bill’s place right now, if you don’t have plans.”
Unbidden, Donna’s gaze flew to Rhett at the other side of the room. He smiled at something Mac said, and she couldn’t help noticing how it illuminated his entire face. Why did the man have to be so distractingly handsome? She shifted so he disappeared from her sightline. “Thank you. I’d like that very much.”
Besides wanting to get to know Irene better, she hoped to put as much distance between herself and Rhett as possible.
CHAPTER17
RHETT
