I think it had been five whole days.
Not that I was counting. I definitely wasn’t. This wasn’t some life-changing spiritual awakening kind of thing. I hadn’t woken up one morning and dramatically dumped every bottle of Grey Goose down the drain, vowing never again. It had just sort of ... happened.
One night I skipped my usual glass. And then I skipped another, and another, until suddenly, I realized I wasn’t even missing it.
And honestly, that realization freaked me out a little.
Alcohol and I were long-term partners. Comfortable companions. Loyal to a fault. It wasn’t about getting drunk, despite what Max liked to think. It was about quiet. It was about control—or at least the illusion of it. I liked how it dulled the noise. Made the mess in my head feel like background static instead of a blaring siren. Just a little easier to swallow.
But now it had been a week. I hadn’t even poured a glass. Hadn’t reached for the bottle. Hadn’t even thought about it.
Okay, maybe I’dthoughtabout it, but not in the way I used to. Not like a craving. More like a ghost I kept expecting to see in the mirror, only to realize it hadn’t followed me.
And I didn’t know what to do with that. With the absence. With the quiet.
If I wasn’t drinking to cope, then what the hell was I doing? Who was I without it? And worse,whyhad I stopped? I hadn’t woken up one morning full of enlightenment and self-love. Ihadn’t had a breakdown or a breakthrough or whatever else made people quit for good. I’d just ... stopped.
And I hated that I couldn’t figure out why.
Okay. No. That was a lie.
I knewexactlywhy.
Marco.
It was the look he’d given me in the courthouse, and then later on that night. That one glance—that stupid,stupidjudgmental glance. The one that said he expected better of me. Or worse,he didn’t.
I slid into the seat beside Greg, mostly because watching him tense up whenever I came near him was the only real entertainment this place had to offer.
I wasn’t like the people in these meetings—the ones who clutched their coffee cups like lifelines and counted their sober days as if they were tally marks on a prison wall.
And yet here I was. At another AA meeting. Another hour of my life I wasn’t getting back.
“Hey, Greg,” I said with a smile. “How’s the wife?”
His jaw twitched, shoulders tightening just slightly. Poor guy.
“She’s fine,” he said stiffly, still refusing to look at me.
“Glad to hear it. Keeping out of trouble, I hope?”
“I signed your damn slip already. What more do you want?”
“Just checking in,” I said, giving him a smile I knew irritated the hell out of him. “It’s called being supportive, Greg.”
He muttered something I didn’t catch—though it definitely wasn’t “Thanks, Valentina. You’re the best.”
Around us, the usual stories dragged on. Lost jobs, ruined marriages, apologies made too late. I leaned back, studying the worn linoleum beneath my shoes, wondering if this was actually helping anyone. Because it wasn’t helping me. Or maybe it was, and that was why I was so restless.
Either way, sitting here watching people bare their souls for an audience of strangers, I felt more out of place than ever. Like I’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s confessional and wasn’t sure how to gracefully back out.
I should’ve felt bad for them. I should’ve felt something, anything, other than mild annoyance at being forced to listen to yet another sob story about rock bottom and redemption.
But all I could think was,Jesus, at least you have an excuse.
What was my reason? What was my grand excuse for being here?
Why did I drink anyway? Because I liked it? Because it felt good to have something easy and predictable, even if only temporarily? Because it was just easier than dealing with reality head-on?
