Charlie paused. A few weeks ago, she’d have said a point-blank no—the biscuits were her idea. But we are working together now. We are an actual team. And I didn’t want to say it, but we both knew Galoshes has much more of a problem with Charlie than she does with me.
Charlie’s shoulders slumped. “Ugh. That would actually be great. Thank you.”
She smiled at me—a quick, tantalizing flash—then headed off to meet with Rosie about harvest festival events, which was next on our list of activities to bring tourists to the shop. On rolled the day, same old new life. Except…that coffee feeling hung around.
When you’re sad, you think sadness is what you need. Youwant to sink into it, let it cover you—the sadness is bad, but it’s familiar, and it disguises itself as something right, as though feeling anything else would be a lie.
For a long time, I’ve thought that the only thing that can help me surface from the misery is a drink. When I’m drunk, I’m not exactly happy, but I’m free from the awful grip of that sadness, and that’s such a fucking relief.
But the coffee this morning reminded me what actual contentment feels like. And it was better than drunk haseverfelt.
So yeah. Same old new life. But…different.
So long,
Charlie Jones
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day forty-two sober
I’ve not written about this yet—what does that say, I wonder—but Marly and I have started going for bike rides.
If Marly had said to me when I arrived here, “Let’s go for a bike ride before work every Thursday,” I would have shut that idea down immediately for several reasons. 1) Planned bonding activities make me want to jump off cliffs. 2) I didn’t want to make friends. 3) I don’t ride bikes.
But she didn’t suggest it. One day I was walking up to the farm shop from the post office, and Marly was out on the tandem bike she shares with Rosie.
She asked me if I wanted a lift. “Just dropped Rosie up at Pipit Spinney,” she said. “Got a spare seat.”
I told her no, thanks.
“You sure? It’s at least a twenty-minute walk from here, if you’re heading to the farm shop.”
“Anywhere else on this planet, that would be considered close.”
Marly laughed. She was doing her best to cycle beside me at walking pace—not easy on a tandem. She tilted, and I lurched to catch her.
“Jeez, savior complex much? I can handle my bike, Jones.”
I apologized, obviously, and kept my hands fisted by my sides after that.
“Come on. Hop on. I’ll do all the legwork, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m used to it with Rosie—she always gets distracted by the scenery and forgets to pedal.”
“You don’t want me on there. I’m a terrible backseat driver.”
“I can really see that. But go on. I won’t take no for an answer. Rain’s on the way, and I don’t want you serving in my shop looking like a wet rat. No, not a rat. That’s not right. A”—she examined my face as she wobbled along on the tandem—“badger. A wet blond badger.”
I climbed on. I told myself it was mostly to end this particular line of conversation, but as soon as my feet were on the pedals, I knew it was more than that.
I’ve taken everything so slowly since I quit drinking. Walking pace, literally. But feeling the wind in my hair, even on a tandem, wassogood. I’ve not been exercising, apart from walks; I forgot the absolute rush that comes when your heart beats in your chest and the air catches in your throat. There are so many things I’ve not trusted myself to do since realizing I was an alcoholic. But it was time to get myself moving again.
I rented a bike, a battered, rattled old thing that I immediatelyfell in love with. And next time I saw Marly on my way to the shop, she was on her mountain bike instead of the tandem, and I ended up joining her for a bit of a loop—I was early, we were chatting anyway. Then it happened the following Thursday, too, and the one after that. Before I knew it, I was waking at half past five on a Thursday specifically to meet Marly by the signpost on the corner of the Rue.
This morning’s ride was a particularly good one. Marly and I paused midway, spread-eagling ourselves in the ferns on the side of the track, our bikes propped up against two giant pine trees. The woods are one of my favorite spots on Ormer—less obvious than the beaches and cliff tops, but they get better the more you get to know them. Like most things.
Marly was querying the idea that I came to start a new life here with no plans to make friends, fall in love or really interact with anybody. I explained that, yeah, I wanted to be alone, which is why I loved the sound of a farm job on a remote island in the middle of the Channel.
