And he didn’t make me.
FOUR
Marcus
Tyler wason code red for seventy-two hours, monitored constantly to ensure he wouldn’t hurt himself again. He was attending counseling sessions with Alex, opening up a little more each time, though it was a battle. Yesterday, a week after the roof incident, Tyler had even participated in a group therapy session. I wished Alex would tell me what happened beyond the general code red update to the team because I wanted to know everything—the details, the moments leading up to it, the things Tyler said when he thought no one was listening. But Alex, ever the professional, kept his lips sealed, sticking to procedure despite my pointed questions—a damn wall of protocol that frustrated me.
At first, all Tyler wanted was to be with me. Heclung to me—physically, emotionally—as if I was his anchor, the only thing keeping him grounded. And now, he was pulling away. It was natural. It was healthy. It was great that he didn’t need to cling to me, because it meant he was making progress.
So why did some selfish part of me miss it? The brief, desperate hugs, the way he sought my warmth, my presence. I shouldn’t have wanted that. I shouldn’t have needed it.
I shook my thoughts away as I entered the community center’s back room. The air was thick with the scent of burnt coffee and old wood, and a faint undercurrent of cigarette smoke clung to the coats hanging by the door. A table in the corner held a tray of slightly stale pastries, the kind someone always brought from a nearby bakery, half as an offering and half as an excuse to linger after the meeting. It was a cliché—stale pastries at an AA meeting—but it was familiar, just like every other meeting I’d ever attended.
Familiar faces filled the room; some of us had been coming for years, others for weeks. We all carried the same weight and battle scars, even if they were visible in different ways on each of us.
I sat in the circle, the metal chair cold beneath me, and waited. The meeting started the same wayit always did, with the serenity prayer, shared nods, and the quiet understanding that none of us were there to judge. I wasn’t so big on the religion side, but the open honesty and structure had saved my life and continued to save me every single day. The routine and predictability of these meetings kept me grounded. Knowing that no matter how chaotic my thoughts became, I could sit in this circle, listen, speak, and no one would judge me, kept me coming back. I didn’t have faith in much, but I had faith in that process, in the people who showed up, in the simple act of admitting we were all fighting the same battle, just on different days.
I listened, nodding as others spoke and offering murmured encouragement. When it felt right, I’d comment, sharing a word of understanding and support. And then, as the circle fell silent, as the weight shifted to me, it was my turn.
I stood, clearing my throat.
What do I say? Should I blurt out that I’m terrified my stupid-ass addictive personality is dangerous right now, and my attraction to a broken man scares the hell out of me?
“Hello, my name is Marcus, and I’m an alcoholic.”
A chorus of voices responded in unison. “Hi, Marcus.”
I glanced down at my hands before lifting my head. “I’m also a recovering drug addict. My drug of choice was oxycodone, but honestly? I’m a doctor, and after college, I had the opportunity to get whatever I wanted.”
A pause.
“I’m fifteen years, four months, and three days sober.”
There was a soft ripple of acknowledgment, some nods, some murmured encouragement, but I didn’t linger on it. The numbers mattered—I was proud of myself, but they didn’t change our daily fight.
“This week has been brutal, testing every limit I thought I had. Boundaries keep shifting under my feet, and I’m constantly toeing the line between what’s right and what I want, and I don’t know how to stop myself from crossing it,” I said, forcing myself to keep my tone steady.
I caught a flicker of movement at the back of the room, and my stomach dropped. Of all the meetings, Alex had chosen this one to show up. Fuck my life. I’d picked this meeting precisely because I knew he was on duty. Yet, there he was, standing near the coffee pot, his eyes locked ontome, his expression unreadable, and he inclined his head for me to keep going.
He knows.
My mouth was dry.
“Anyway,” I said, forcing a small smile. “I’m here for support and the reminder that I’m not doing this alone.” I let my gaze sweep the room, taking in the familiar faces and the nods of understanding. “And, you know… maybe for the terrible coffee too.”
People chuckled, and I sat down, the meeting moving on as always. Someone else spoke, another story unfolded, and the weight in my chest shifted, but it didn’t fully lift. It never did.
After the meeting, I headed for the coffee. The room hummed with quiet conversation, and Alex pretended to study the pastries, but it was clear he was waiting for me.
“I thought you were on the schedule this afternoon.”
“I was. I swapped.”
“Everything okay?”
He shrugged. “Just needed a meeting.”
“Same.”
