"I know you are. That's why I'm telling you all this." He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a worn business card, the edges soft and bent from years of being carried. "There's a meeting every night at the community center on Fifth Street. Seven o'clock, rain or shine. Basement room, follow the signs. You don't have to talk if you don't want to, you don't have to share your story or introduce yourself. You can just show up and listen. Nobody will force you to do anything."
I take the card with shaking hands. It's creased and faded, the print barely legible, like he's been carrying it for years. Maybe decades.
"I'm not saying you have to go," Mick continues, his tone gentle. "I'm just saying it's there if you need it. If you want it. And if you ever want to talk, about any of this, about drinking or sobriety or whatever—I'm here. I've been sober twenty years and I still go to meetings twice a week. So I'm not going to judge you, and I'm not going to bullshit you either."
"Thanks, Mick. Really. Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with that."
He nods once, gruff again, the moment of vulnerability already passing. Back to business. "Now get out of here before you start charging me overtime. I'll see you tomorrow morning."
I grab my jacket and head out into the evening air, blinking against the orange light of the setting sun. I stand in the parking lot for a minute, just breathing, looking at the card in my hand. The paper is soft, worn smooth from being handled.
AA meeting. Every night at seven. Fifth Street community center.
I tuck the card carefully into my wallet, into the slot behind my expired driver's license. Not tonight. I'm not ready tonight. But maybe someday. It's good to know it's there. Good to know I have options.
I start walking toward the motel, following my usual route. But my feet take a detour before I think about it. Before I can talk myself out of it. Suddenly I'm standing outside Betty's diner, looking at my reflection in the glass door.
The dinner rush is winding down. Through the window, I can see Betty moving efficiently between tables, refilling coffee cups with practiced ease, chatting with the regulars who come in every night. A younger waitress I don't recognize—maybe early twenties, blonde ponytail—is handling the other side of the room.
I push open the door before I can chicken out.
"Jay!" Betty looks up from pouring coffee with a surprised smile. "Little late for your usual coffee, isn't it? You doing okay, hon?"
"I'm not here for coffee actually." I walk up to the counter, trying to look confident even though my heart is pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. "I'm here to ask if you're hiring. If you need help."
Her eyebrows go up, surprise clear on her face. "Hiring? You looking for work?"
"For evening shifts specifically. Kitchen work, dishes, cleanup, whatever you need doing." I force myself to meet her eyes instead of staring at the counter. "I'm looking for a second job. Something to keep me busy at night, fill the empty hours."
Betty studies me for a long moment. I can see her taking me in—the grease still under my fingernails from the shop, the worn jacket that's seen better days, the dark circles under my eyes that no amount of sleep seems to fix. I brace myself for the polite rejection, for her to say thanks but no thanks.
"You ever worked in a kitchen before?" she asks finally.
"No ma'am. Never. But I'm a fast learner, and I'm not afraid of hard work. I can follow instructions and I show up on time."
"I can see that. You've been coming in here for two years now, regular as clockwork. Never late, never cause trouble." She taps her fingers on the counter, thinking. "I've been needing someone for the evening shift, actually. My dishwasher quit last week out of nowhere—said the hours were too late for him, he wanted to be home by eight. You okay working until close? That's ten o'clock most nights, eleven on Friday and Saturday."
"I'm only available weeknights right now. I have a standing commitment on weekends." I don't elaborate, don't explain that my weekends belong to Ivan.
Betty raises an eyebrow but doesn't pry, doesn't ask questions. "Weeknights only, huh? Monday through Thursday?" She pauses, thinking. "You know what, that actually works out perfect. Weekends I've got my nephew helping out—high school kid saving for college. It's the weekday evenings I'm really short-staffed on. When people call out, I'm the one washing dishes."
"Then it sounds like we both need each other."
"Looks that way, doesn't it?" She smiles, her face crinkling with warmth. "Pay's not great, I'll be honest with you. Minimum wage plus a share of tips if the waitresses feel generous that night. Some nights it's good, some nights it's not much."
"That's more than I'm making at my other job. Anything is more than cash under the table."
She laughs at that, the sound genuine. "Alright, Jay. You've got yourself a job if you want it. Can you start tomorrow? Wednesday?"
"Tomorrow's perfect. What time should I come in?"
"Come in at five. I'll show you around the kitchen, introduce you to the equipment and the other staff, show you where everything is." She reaches across the counter and shakes my hand firmly, her grip strong. "Welcome to Betty's. Don't make me regret this."
"Thank you. Really, Betty. You won't regret this. I'll work hard."
"I better not." But she's smiling warmly as she says it, her eyes kind.
I walk out of the diner feeling lighter than I have in weeks. Maybe months. Two jobs. A plan that's actually taking shape. Mick's card in my wallet if I need it. Betty's handshake still warm in my memory.
