“Can we get salad then?” Tati asks, her enunciation always more practiced and refined than her twin’s. “I don’t want veggies on the pizza.”
I nod, tapping my temple. “Now that, my little genius, is an excellent idea. That’s calledcompromise. Yes, we can most definitely order a side salad. We’re still getting the pizza though, because life is about balance.”
They both nod, then Terra states, “Pepperoni, please.”
“Atta girl,” I say, winking at her. “And thank you for using your manners. Your mom told me you were working on using them more. I’m proud of you,” I tell her and am rewarded with a pink flush on her freckle-dabbed cheeks, right before she hugs me.
Man, I want to soak these hugs up forever, because before I know it, they’ll betoo coolto hug their dad.
I flip a movie on for them, and go call in our order. While I wait for the delivery driver to show up, I sit at the table and watch them play in the living room. It occurs to me now that I truly must use alcohol as a crutch to cope with the loneliness. Tonight, though? I have no urge to drink. My heart is so full, just having them here under myroof, knowing that I will wake up to them giggling in their bedroom tomorrow morning.
I spent the rest of the evening reveling in my time with them before getting them tucked into bed with a story. Standing here now, in front of the bathroom mirror, I take a long hard look at my face. Somewhere underneath all this gaudy makeup that I allowed Tati to paint on my face tonight, is a man I hardly recognize anymore. I scrub and scrub, and while the glitter and color fades, the subtle lines formed by aging and years out in the sun don’t. Neither does the slightly yellow tinge in the whites of my eyes. Neither does the puffiness and rosiness in my cheeks.
That’s probably from the alcohol.
I’ve been slowly killing myself, without fully even realizing it.
Guilt clenches my heart. I don’t want that. I want to live long enough to see my girls get their licenses, start jobs, and graduate high school. Fuck, maybe even watch them fall in love and get married someday. Have them grant me a few grandkids, if that’s what they decide to do.
Hell, there I go, putting them into stereotypical little boxes. I swore, since Evan’s coming out, I would be less narrow-minded. My girls can be whomever they want to be, and live whatever life they want—as long as I’m not bailing them out of jail for something stupid. I just want to see them grow up healthy and happy, whatever their definition of happiness is.
I’ve let this addiction to drowning my feelings in alcohol spiral out of control. I can’t do this to them, living a life that could potentially leave them bailingmeout of jail. That’s not the type of example I want to set. I’ve got to do better, and I’ve got to adhere to that promise this time. No more flaking off. And, for the life of me, I need to sober the fuck up.
So, on that, I slip my clothes off and slide into bed, hell-bent on doing some internet research about how to kick the habit on my own. There are resources out there that I could reach out to, for sure, but I don’t know how I feel about asking for help. For starters, I got myself into this mess, and I don’t need to drag anyone else into it with me. I should be able to tackle this on my own, to prove that I am more than capable of climbing out of the very holes I myself dug.
I don’t need chips to reward me for reaching milestones; being fully present to be able to engage in parenting my daughters—something Wagner rarely ever did with his sons—should be validation enough. If I can’t handle this without outside help, what measure of a man am I? If I want this badly enough, I should be able to conquer it by myself.
Alone.
I roll over, spreading myself out in the middle of the bed rather than taking up just the edge. The coolness of the sheets against my bare skin only serves to amplify that word "alone" that keeps getting pinballed around in my head. I squeeze a pillow to my chest, hoping that action will somehow ease the physical strain on my heart right now.
My girls are tucked in bed in the next room over. This pathetic feeling of loneliness shouldn’t feel this profound, but I’d be lying if I thought I didn’t crave a warm body next to me. Not just for sex, but forintimacy. Something I’d once had with Sarah, before I pissed it all away by letting myself fall into the stagnancy of our familiarity.
I took for granted her being there.
I thought it was just default that she’d always stay.
I went through all the motions of a picture perfect life: giving her the marriage, the house, the children… but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t emotionally invested, just like she said. And, as sleep starts to claim me, I start to wonder if perhaps she’d ever find herself falling back in love with me.
Chapter Four
I’d like to proudly say that I am taking time away from Portside so I can focus more on being mature. I could proclaim that the fact that I have successfully avoided the place for over a week has everything to do with me sobering up so that I can focus on knocking shit off of my to-do list, but that would be a lie. On the evenings when the silence gets to be too much, I’ve just been drinking from the comfort of my own recliner instead. Nothing harder than a couple beers, though, and not to excess. I read somewhere that quitting cold turkey could cause severe withdrawals. So, I’m carefully weaning.
It’s a start, right? Rome wasn’t built in a day.
No, see, the thing is—that stuff Marcus and Caleb said, about me flirting with Gordy? Well, so, that’s the biggest reason I’ve been scarce at the pub. That’s not what he and I are about, I’m sure of it. I just needed some time away to think. He and I–we have a mentor-mentee type of friendship—if you can even call this one-sided thing afriendship. I turn to him for advice, and he delivers in the most brusque way possible.
Seriously, what I need to do is try to fix things with Sarah. For real this time. What I lacked before was effort. Now, I’m ready to try, and all this questioning my sexuality has done is detour my efforts.
My time away from the pub hasn’t all been spent trying not to get shitfaced at home, though. I did manage to procure myself a new shower curtain. It’s a cutesy one with little seagulls all over it—verynautical. So, I guess I did check off another thing on the to-do list after all.
Want evenmoreproof that I’m getting shit done? I gotsomegroceries: a few bags of Pizza Bites for myself, along with some dino nugs, boxed mac and cheese, and broccoli for when the girls come over again. No big haul, but once the girls report back to her, my ex-wife should be impressed that it’s better than empty cupboards nonetheless.
Oh, and since I spent some extra time in the produce section, I got apples too. They say one of those a day keeps the doctor away, so we’ll see. I’m doubtful that the tote of apples I bought are all actually Cortlands. Some seem like Mac’s, and isn’t that a damn disappointment to bite into, lemme tell you what. They’re mushier.
Christ, listen to me getting all persnickety about apples. You’d think I was half in the bag already tonight, but I’m not. Tonight, I haven’t had a drop to drink, actually, and I feel completely fine—no harsh feelings of withdrawal. Woohoo! Look at me go. The girls have some Christmas play they’re doing for school before break. It’ll be my last chance to squeeze ‘em before they head down to Massachusetts for Christmas with the Babcocks, and I want to see them off while completely sober.
It’s Sarah’s year to get them for the holiday, and, as much as it kills me, I have to take turns. Last year, I had ‘em, and it was epic. I hadthe apartment all done up like the North Pole. I wrestled the biggest, fattest balsam I could fit into the living room. Christmas Eve night, I let them sleep out on the couch to watch for Santa. After they were out cold, I doused Tati and Terra with Silly String, and on Christmas morning, I blamed it all on their silly elf, Squiddles.
