Bess
Two months later
It was a cold and brisk Sunday. Small snowflakes flitted through the air before sticking to the almost bare branches and settling to rest on Brooks’s block-shaped head as we took a walk down the hill.
I bet it’s warm and sunny in Florida.
Christmas was upon us!Yippee! The entire resort was fully decorated and in full-on happy-holidays mode, churning out cookies and hot chocolate, building a different gingerbread replica daily and touting the benefits of the eggnog facial for women and peppermint back scrub for men.
I found myself feeling more alone than usual, taking solace in thirty or forty too many cookies, and avoiding May’s constant nagging about whether I’d heard fromhim.
Why would I hear from Lane? He’d been a man doing his job, securing another million-dollar client for his company. He wasn’t a living, breathing human being interested in me.
And why should he be? I was just a reformed druggie—although currently clean and sober—a waitress who survived by living each day in the same boring, compartmentalized way.
But I wanted him to be. Something about the way Lane reached for my hand that night to greet me, or placed the gentle kiss above my fingers the next day, it felt familiar somehow, as if we’d done that before.
It didn’t feel electric or like blazing fireworks, but more like milk and cookies after a long day at school. Comforting and homey, which was all a little hokey considering my mom wasn’t waiting with a snack when I got home from school.
I grew up in a two-bedroom on the second floor of our apartment building. After my mom left, the neighbor watched me after school. When I got older, I let myself in to be greeted by my pet—a purple-ish beta fish—and made instant noodles for my dinner.
So the idea that some man’s hand felt like home was absolutely ridiculous, and I shoved the whole concept to the back of my mind while I swept snow off my face and coat.
It was only mid-afternoon and I was already miserable. I hated my days off with a passion. If I could, I’d work every day. The monotonous routine of work kept me sane, despite my solo existence. The dull routine of waiting tables clung to my soul, embedding a sense of security in its predictability and ordinariness, and left me with a false confidence that I actually had a life. Other than just me and my Lab. Waitressing gave me a concrete purpose, a task to perform, like taking a pet out to relieve himself.
I stared down at the red leather leash in my hands. I didn’t even put it on my damn dog, but brought it with me on each and every walk since I received it two months ago in that ridiculous gift box—from him.
It had been an informal large box from the hotel’s gift shop, a bunch of stuff picked out at the last minute, yet nothing was haphazard. Each item demonstrated that he’d heard every word I’d said the night before. In addition to the leash for my dog, there were cashmere gloves for cold mornings, a package of Pitt decals, and a lemon juicer, presumably for my lemon water.
Not sure of what to make of the presents, I shoved any hope of Lane like-liking me to the back of my head and filed the dinner as an odd but good memory.
The thought of gifts brought me back to the present and the looming holidays. I was so desolate this year, I’d even considered a visit to my dad on Christmas Day, but then quickly signed myself up to work for double pay. Ernesto had invited me to join his family, and of course, there was May with her open invitation to join her anytime, any day, anywhere she went.
But I would probably work a double and come home and eat by the fire with Brooks.
My negative energy swirled around me like the weather settling in the area, an isolated numbness traveling my veins and old desires surfacing, trying to bubble to the top.
Deciding it was time to do something about it, I pushed the temptations down as I trekked up the hill in my boots, then let my dog back in the house, changed my shoes, and jumped in my SUV.
I pulled into the church parking lot and parked quickly, not hesitating to get out of my car. I hoofed it to the door that led to the basement, covering my mouth with my fleece scarf as I braced against the wind. As usual, the door slapped open faster and harder than I wanted, but I hadn’t been as much of a stranger since last time, so no one paid me any mind.
I’d been coming to AA meetings twice a week or more since I fell back into the fold a couple of months back, after my dinner with Lane. My recent regular attendance was less about the temptation of watching Lane enjoy a beer during our meal, and more about what he symbolized.
Living.
Which was something I wasn’t really doing, and didn’t feel was mine to expect.
Except AJ kept trying to make me think I should. It felt dirty to me—both the suggestion of living and AJ saying it. But I tossed it aside because what the hell did I know?
Taking my seat, sandwiched between my sponsor and a relatively new girl who worked at the bank, I sat on my hands and looked at my feet. Conversations swirled around me and I listened, passively enjoying the camaraderie of the people who were closer to me than family. As I took it all in, it occurred to me that what these people were doing—the nodding, encouraging, smiling, being brave for someone else, and drinking coffee—all of it helped the mind and body thaw.
But with the warmth came wants, desires, and deeply stashed dreams. No wonder I chose to spend my life in the middle of the mountains where the cold seeps through you at least eight months of the year.
I fidgeted in my seat, twisting my ankles in my athletic shoes, squirming on top of my hands as they called the meeting to order. And that was when AJ nudged me.
“Go, speak, share. It’ll be good for you,” he whispered in my ear.
“Shh,” I hissed, but my body betrayed me and lifted me from my seat, then walked me toward the front.
