His voice is calm like it’s been since he sat down. “Are you sure?” It’s the calm, not the words, that lures me back into the seat without giving it further thought. I like listening to him.
Once seated, I stare at the scratches in the wooden tabletop under the glass covering it. I fixate on the ones that readFrank was herewhile he asks, “When’s the last time you ate anything, Stephanie?”
I shrug. “This morning, I think.” I can’t say with one-hundred-percent certainty that’s true, but I think it is.
“I’ll be right back.” I don’t know how long he’s gone because time races and creeps at the same time and my perception of it is unreliable. “Here, eat these.” He slides a bowl of peanuts in front of me, and even though they aren’t my favorite I dig in, because bar peanuts always taste better than regular peanuts.
“What’s your dream?” he asks.
For a minute I think he’s psychic because I’ve been thinking about it nonstop all day, but then I remember that I basically shared every secret thought with him not so long ago.
“I want to work with animals. Like at a vet’s office. Or an animal shelter. I’ve always loved dogs.” My stare pries from the tabletop to him. “They’re easier than people,” I admit. People cause pain. It feels weird to tell him all of this because I’ve never told anyone.
He nods. “I’ve never had a dog, but I can relate to people being difficult. I’m not so great with people either.”
But you are, I want to say, but for some reason this is the one thought I don’t let escape. He’s listening. To me. People don’t do that. They usually ignore me, especially my family. They used to listen. But then I started using and for a while all they wanted to do was talk at me. Not to me,at me. They told me all the things I already knew. All the things I was doing wrong. And when I didn’t change—I didn’t do the things they wanted me to do—they gave up, discouraged and angry. It took a surprisingly short amount of time for that to happen. You think your family is there no matter what. Butno matter whatis conditional and it has a time limit. It’s like a messed up version ofcry wolf—now that I want the help, their exhausted compassion won’t let them hear it. So I don’t bother.
“Have you applied for jobs at vet offices or animal shelters? You could even volunteer to get your foot in the door.”
I shake my head. “I know they’ll take one look at me and turn me away. That’s what most people do.” I didn’t mean to say that out loud either, but I can’t hold back.
“Don’t give up on yourself.”
People have said a variation on this sentiment many times before, but it’s always been more about them than me.Do you know what you giving up on yourself is doing to your father and me?OrIt’s killing me watching you give up on yourself.That always made me feel worse, not better, because then it was crystal clear that I was hurting them more than I was hurting me. Which, by the way, is arguable because I feel like shit all the time.
My eyes are pulled back to him again, I think just to see if the look on his face matches the sincerity in his voice. It does. “I need to get clean.”
He nods. It’s merciful agreement that lacks pity. I like that. I like him. He’s quiet and compassionate. Not at all what I came in here looking for tonight. I came into Dan’s Tavern looking for a diversion, looking for someone who could help me forget who I am for a few hours. Instead, he found me and made me face who I am for a few hours.
“There are a few free programs in the city, or you can always go to Denver General Hospital—they can’t turn anyone away.”
I huff. It’s not unkind; it’s reflexive, ingrained doubt.
He tilts his head like he’s trying to figure me out. “What? You don’t think you can do it?”
I start to shake my head, but my dream screams at me from within to remind me it’s still there and wants to be in charge. I shrug instead. “I don’t know. I’ve been like this for so long it’s hard to remember what I was like when I didn’t need it.”
He nods. “I understand.” And it looks like he does. “But the thing is, you don’t have to go back to who you were before. Time passes. People change. You just have to decide who you want to be today, and if you’re not sure who that is, time and sobriety will help you decide.”
It makes sense. This guy makes sense. “That kind of takes the pressure off,” I say more to myself than to him.
He doesn’t react, he understands.
From somewhere in the distance I hear, “Last call!”
“I should go,” I say again, but it sounds different than it did before.
“Cab?” he asks.
I stall on the thought because my mind is still looping his words,People change, over and over in my mind. Distractedly, I answer, “No, I don’t live far. I can walk from here.”
“I’ll walk with you. You shouldn’t be walking around after dark by yourself in this neighborhood.”
Normally I would be skeptical, guys only want to go home with girls for one reason. In fact, that’s what I thought I was looking for tonight, so it’s ironic that this is playing out the way it is.
He stands and offers his hand for me to take. I hesitate, not because I don’t want to take it, but because no one’s ever done this for me. Guys like him don’t acknowledge girls like me. And they sure as hell don’t walk down the street holding my hand.
When I take his hand, he must be able to tell I’m freaked out because he squeezes it once gently.
