We walk a few blocks in silence and when I get my bearings, I stop in front of an apartment building and point with my thumb over my shoulder. “This is me.”
He nods. “Good luck, Stephanie.”
“Thank you.” I don’t even remember his name. But guarantee I will never forget him.
I walk toward the front door and he continues on in the opposite direction.
When he turns the corner, I backtrack down the sidewalk and don’t stop walking until I step through the ER doors of Denver General Hospital.
And I tell them I need help.
* * *
Thirty days later,I walk out of a rehab facility. Clean. Program complete.
* * *
Six months later,I start a veterinarian technician program.
Forever thankful thatI walked into Dan’s Tavern that night looking for an escape.
Because I finally did.
Escape.
All thanks to a stranger who will never know what his words helped me find.
Chapter Forty-One
Past,1987
Cliff
There arethings in life that have changed me.
Things I don’t talk to anybody about.
Because I can’t.
“Toughen up, boy,” my pops would tell me.
My friends would laugh. And call me a pussy. Or a loser. Or both.
When I was ten, my mom died. She’d been sick for a while and didn’t go to the doctor because she thought she would get better. She didn’t. Cancer doesn’t get better on its own. She was the nicest person I’ve ever known. I wish I would’ve told her that when she was alive. I wish I would’ve thanked her for making me grilled cheese every Friday night because it was my favorite; and holding me when I was little and scared but trying to pretend like I wasn’t; and asking how my day was when she got home from her job at the dry cleaners every night, even though I only ever told her, “It was fine.” She knew that was usually a lie. My mom always knew.
Losing her changed me. I was always kind of a brat when I was a kid, but losing her turned me into a dickhead. It’s not her fault. She was the best part of our family. It’s like taking the referee off the football field—the game turns into a free-for-all. My pops and I never got along, deep down I was a momma’s boy, but I looked up to him. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do and I thought I had to. I didn’t know I had a choice. He was the flashy one, the smooth talker, the tough guy. He hustled—begged, borrowed, and stole—while she prayed for him to change. Literally prayed on her knees every Wednesday night and Sunday morning at Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception near our apartment. I know because I went with her sometimes. Not because I thought he could be saved, or I could be saved, or even to confess my sins, I went because being close to her and her faith made me feel like maybe her good would rub off on me a little.
All the praying didn’t help. She died and my pops didn’t change. He stole a car at gunpoint, got caught, and went to jail instead. And I never stepped inside a church again. What’s the point? There’s no way her good can rub off now. It’s gone.
Losing my pops changed me too. It’s not like he died, but sometimes I think he may as well have. He doesn’t want me to visit him. The first few months I wrote him letters. Dozens of letters. He didn’t write back. I went from being a dick to being a reckless dick. My pops made me live with my mom’s drunk brother because there was nowhere else for me to go. I drank. I did drugs. I picked the worst kids at my new school to hang out with. I shoplifted. I vandalized. Basically, I did everything I could to try to forget how alone I was.
Here’s something I’ll never admit out loud—I’m scared. Of a lot of stuff. I’m scared that I’ll always be alone. I’m scared that this is as good as it gets. Hanging around with friends who aren’t really friends and make fun of me behind my back. And sometimes to my face. I pretend not to let it bother me when they make cracks about my weight, but the fat jokes get old. I’ve heard them all because kids started telling them in kindergarten. That was alongtime ago. It feels even longer when you’re the butt of the joke.Every joke. I’ve never had a girlfriend, never kissed a girl, never even had a girl look at me and smile the way they do when they have a crush.
On someone.
Who will never be me.
Being alone sucks.
