“You don’t have to do that.” I’m not sure if people bring others to the meetings or if it’s even acceptable. Then again, I’m not exactly the ideal candidate for an AA meeting either, but it feels like somewhere I need to be.
“I know.” He leans forward and kisses my cheek. “What time is the meeting today?”
“Ten on Saturdays.”
“Okay, then. Eat up. We have somewhere to be.”
My heart feels lighter. My shoulders aren’t tense like usual, and the smile on my face—I’ve missed the sensation of smiling.
“You have a gorgeous smile, August. God almighty, you should never stop smiling, darlin’.”
My face heats up, and I stand from his lap. “With compliments like that ... how could a girl not smile?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chance
I wasn’tsure if I would be allowed inside the AA meeting with August, but from what I’ve heard, they’re open to whatever makes a person feel the most comfortable.
My gaze keeps falling onto August as we make our way over to the church. I didn’t mean to fall so hard, so fast, especially knowing what she’s going through, but I want nothing more than to be a rock for her. She is something else. Her cheeks are rosy this morning, more so than I’ve noticed any night we’ve been together. Maybe it’s from the moments we shared today, or maybe it’s just because she wakes up looking like she just put her makeup on. Whatever the case, I wouldn’t complain about waking up to her beautiful face again—that’s for sure.
We’re almost to the small church down by Main Street, where the AA meetings run. The white-steepled building is old and a bit run down, but somewhat quaint. It could use a fresh coat of paint and a new roof, but that’s not what it’s all about here.
There are several cars in the parking lot, which makes me wonder how many people attend AA meetings every day. I’ve often wondered what it might be like to sit in on one. I guess I’m about to find out. August leads the way up the cement steps, bordered by evergreens and fresh flowers. I haven’t been to church in a long time, and the oversized red door in front of us is mildly daunting. “Are you sure you want to do this with me?” August asks. The look on my face might have led her to think I didn’t want to be here with her, rather than facing the fact that I haven’t walked into a church for so long.
“I’m positive,” I tell her without so much as blinking. “I think I’ve been a bad Christian, though. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been to church,” I tell her quietly.
“I’m not much better, trust me,” she mutters through the side of her mouth.
I take the door from her hand, and she walks in onto the black floor mat, taking an immediate right down a narrow side hallway. The stairwell smells like coffee and sweets mixed with moldy, old wood. The inside of this place needs a renovation just as severely as the outside.
August seems hesitant as we descend the steps. She slows her pace and grips the railing so tightly, the whites of her knuckles show through her fair skin.
I place my hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” I whisper.
We reach the bottom step and walk into a vast open space, four white walls, several wooden exposed beam pillars, a circle of old-school-style chairs, people chatting quietly in small groups, and a coffee station with muffins. Just how I imagined it would look.
A woman approaches August right away. “April, I am so happy to see you here again,” she says. “How have you been?”
April?
August glances down and interlocks her fingers. “Not great,” she says honestly. “But um, this is my—my friend, Chance. He’s just with me for support. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely,” the woman says, sounding like a kindergarten teacher speaking in a soothing tone to induce a sense of calm. “We are happy to accommodate anyone’s needs here. Remember, we are a judgment-free zone. We’re all here to listen, share, and give support. Oh, by the way, It’s so nice to meet you, Chance.” “Alana,” I repeat. “It’s a pleasure.” I reach out and shake her frail hand. She seems as though she has her life together by the way she speaks, but her chipped nail polish and stale coffee breath say another story. I notice a slight scent of body odor accompanying her handshake, as well. I wonder if Alana is an alcoholic, too or if she’s just here to help. I’m also curious about how many people in the room are here for themselves or if they’ve come to support a loved one or a friend. I find it interesting that August thought of AA to be a type of therapy, but it seems well thought out and brilliant … people helping other people with the same addiction.
“April?” I whisper into August’s ear when Alana walks away. “Please don’t tell me you gave me a fake name.” I try to make light of my question, but I’m hoping her name is, in fact, August because I’d hate to start this new relationship/friendship, whatever we are, with a lie.
“No, no, silly. My name is August. I just don’t want anyone to have my real name here,” she says. I wonder how many people here have given fake names.
I can understand, seeing her job could be impacted if word got out.
Alana raises her hands in the air and smiles. “Are we all ready to begin?”
Without commotion, everyone pauses their conversations and takes a seat in the circle.
August and I sit down close to Alana, but in between is a teenage boy wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and a pair of torn jeans that should have hit the garbage can a long time ago. He has tattoos covering his hands, rings on most of his fingers, and a bouncing knee.
On the other side of us is a middle-aged woman with perfectly styled hair, dressed professionally, and seated at a perfect right angle.
