“Good observation. I feel ridiculous. But I’m heading to a job fair, and I’ve got to look the part.”
“A job fair?” I asked weakly, feeling vaguely like the world had just spun off its axis.
“Well, yeah.” Sam beamed. “There’s one down at Valley College today. If I hurry, I’ll make it there before it ends.”
She was referring to Los Angeles Valley College in Valley Glen. It was about ten minutes away by car.
“Are you feeling okay?”
She shrugged. “A little tired, still. But mostly fine. Why?”
I stared at her. “Do you want me to drive you?”
“I should probably get used to taking the bus. I can’t depend on you to get me to work every day, right?”
“Work,” I repeated, stunned. I scrambled off the couch. “Sam, wait. Can you tell me what’s—”
But she’d already given me a small wave and slipped out the door, a smile on her lips. I stared at the door for a long time, trying to wrap my head around what had just happened. Because something had.
The following evening, before going to work, I took the trash and recycling out.
That’s when I saw a half-dozen bottles of wine neatly stacked in the recycling bin. Sam’s stash. All of it. The bottles were empty.
With shaking hands, I closed the lid.
It didn’t stop there. Sam struck out at the first job fair, but she went to several more over the next two weeks. At the last one, held in a downtown hotel lobby, she landed a job as an overnight front desk agent.
“It’s only part-time to start,” she told me, her dark eyes serious. “But it’ll get me out of the house. And I’ll be able to help out with some of the bills.” She paused. “The hiring manager was really cool about the gaps in my employment—”
She broke off, watching my expression. I realized I was staring at her in total disbelief.
“Aren’t you rushing into this?”
“I feel good, Eli. I feel different.”
“And what happens when you get thirsty again?” I demanded. “Just like you always do?”
The instant the words left my mouth, I regretted them. They felt ugly and naked.
A flurry of emotions flew across Sam’s face—and I had no trouble recognizing any of them: shame. Anger. Hurt.
“I can’t promise anything about what tomorrow looks like, but I feel really good about today,” she said tightly. “And as long as I feel this way, I’m going to do my best to take advantage of it.”
“You’re—what? You’re going to quit drinking? And get a job? Just like that?”
She drew in a deep breath, hurt in her eyes. “Why are you being like this? I thought you’d be happy.”
“I am happy!” I snapped. “But it doesn’t work like this. You don’t just wake up one day and decide you’re not an alcoholic anymore!”
“How else am I supposed to do it?” she shot back. “I’m sorry if I’m not following the rules for how this is supposed to go, but I haven’t had a single drink in over two weeks. That might not seem like a long time, but it’s the longest I’ve gone since Dad died.”
“You should’ve been in withdrawals,” I said weakly. “You can’t just quit drinking with no side effects.”
She stared me down, eyebrows raised, and waited.
Then it clicked—belatedly—that shehadbeen in withdrawals. And I’d barely noticed. I’d chalked it up to a bad hangover.
Guilt swept through me. How the hell hadn’t I realized what was happening?
