"Huh, cool." She looks around. "Are we just taking a break?"
"Yeah, a little spot to refuel before we ride back. C'mon."
I nod to her bike and lock it up next to mine. I hold open the door for her as we step inside.
"Hey man!" Tony, the owner of Deja Brew, calls out as we enter.
"Hey. Can I get my usual?"
"Of course, and what do you want?" He turns to Laney.
"Oh, me, nothing, I'm fine." She clasps her hands in front of her and gives a tight lipped smile.
I follow her eyes to where they're studying the piece of carrot cake in the display case.
"She'll have the carrot cake." I tell Tony and then I turn to find Laney looking at me with wider eyes than she was giving the cake.
Focusing on our ride helped me to recenter. To recalibrate.
Getting blood to flow throughout my body instead of just to my cock helped me gain perspective.
I recognize Laney is doing the work I’m asking her to do. She can improve her punctuality so she isn’t too early or late, but she’s showing up.
And yet, I get the sense she doesn’t think she’s doing enough.
Who told her she wasn’t perfect exactly as she is?
Why can’t she see what I see?
Instead of wringing her neck to knock some sense into her, I reach out and slide my hand along the back of it. My fingers brush the braid I dream about and awareness travels through my body.
Not for the first time I’m reminded she needs someone to take care of her.
I keep my grip firm and lean closer to her. The sweat from her effort smells indecent and I want to taste it on her skin. "If you don't order the coffee you want I'm getting you one of everything off the menu so I can learn your coffee order."
"Miguel." She chastises breathlessly but I keep my expression firm. She stares at me for a moment and I don't flinch.
I get the sense no one takes care of Laney but herself.
And I've learned the hard way you need people in your corner who will back you up.
And buy you the occasional coffee.
She sighs. "An iced Americano please."
"Good girl." I give her neck a little squeeze before trailing my fingers lightly down her spine to the small of her back. She arches away from the sensation but I flatten my palm against the curve right above her ass, reveling in the perfect fit of my hand on her, because I clearly don’t know how to control myself around her, and her little submission has me wanting to treat her like the princess she is.
"Ew," she turns to face me. "I'm all sweaty."
"Doesn't bother me one bit." I say as I tap my card on the reader. "Let's grab a seat outside under the awning, they'll bring our order to us." I keep my hand on her back as we step out the door.
Loneliness plagued my twenties. Ashamed of my addiction but feeling unable to change it was the lowest feeling in the world.
A feeling I thought could only be fixed by getting high.
The years of my long-term recovery have taught me so much about my former misuse. My brain is simply wired differently. Just like how people are left or right handed. It’s a genetic disposition.
Now I understand my chemistry and channel it into training and exercise. And I haven’t done it alone. I have my sponsor, Jeff, who got me started running. My family has welcomed me back after witnessing my lowest moments. But they've been on my team, behind me, supporting my journey back from the brink of ruin.
