Honestly, it was probably all of the above and none of it at the same time. Maybe it had nothing to do with feeling good at all, and everything to do with feeling less.
Less angry. Less afraid. Lessalone.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, staring at my chipped nail polish instead of the faces around me, because the second I started making eye contact, these people might think we were friends. They might start asking what had given me the urge to start drinking in the first place.
Did it start after Mama got sick, when the thought of losing her became so overwhelming that reality just wasn’t enough anymore? Or was it after Cillian died, leaving me in the wreckage of a life I’d never actually chosen for myself?
The chair beside me squeaked loudly, snapping me back to the present. The woman across from me dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, mascara smudged beneath her lashes.
“... and every night, I tell myself, just one drink. Just one.” She laughed weakly, her voice breaking. “But we all know howthat goes. It’s never just one. Now here I am, back in my mom’s basement at thirty-six.”
A few solemn nods around the circle, a few quiet murmurs of understanding.
I glanced around. The same faces I saw every time. The guy who’d lost custody of his kids and still couldn’t talk about it without choking up. The woman who’d lost her job, her house, and everything in between. The quiet man in the corner who never said a word but always showed up like clockwork, probably waiting for the courage to finally speak.
And then there was me.
Me, who hadn’t lost anything—not really. Not anything tangible anyway. Unless pride counted as a legitimate loss. And maybe dignity. Could you lose dignity if you willingly threw it away? I wasn’t sure.
“Valentina,” Greg, said from across the circle. “Would you like to share today?”
I arched a brow. “I think we all know the answer to that.”
Greg didn’t answer. He gave me a nod and let the quiet stretch awkwardly through the room.
I shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair. “I don’t have a story like that.” I gestured vaguely at the group. “No rock bottom. No dramatic moment of realization where I woke up in a ditch or got arrested for public indecency.”
A few people chuckled softly, but Greg just smiled, annoyingly patient.
“I just . . . drink.”
A woman to my right,Janine, gave a soft hum. “But you’re here.”
No shit, Janine.
“Why?” Greg asked.
I sighed, pushing my hair away from my face. “Because someone else thinks I should be.”
“Do you agree with them?”
“I have no idea.” I shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t have anything better to do.”
More gentle laughter from the circle, more understanding nods, and more of those sympathetic smiles that made me want to scream.
Greg leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Maybe you haven’t found your reason yet,” he said softly. “But sometimes, just showing up is enough.”
It hadn’t been enough when I’d needed those damn signatures, but it was enough now?
He said it like it meant something profound, and maybe it did to everyone else in the room. But to me, it felt like another hollow line. Another empty promise.
Because what happened if I never found my reason?
What happened if showing up was all I could manage, and even that was only because someone else was pulling my strings?
What then, Greg?
CHAPTER 25
