“What movie were you thinking?” She asks as she settles onto the couch, tucking her feet under her legs.
I stare as she removes the towel from her hair and drapes it over her shoulders. I clear my throat and look back at the DVD player.
“21 Jump Street. It’s a buddy cop comedy.”
“Sounds good.”
I settle on the other side of the couch, and we watch in silence for about 15 minutes. I cannot focus. Her nearness and the sweet smell of her shampoo are too distracting.
“Can I ask you something?” Her voice breaks the silence. She looks pensive. “It’s actually been on my mind for a long time.”
A sudden sense of dread invades my insides. “Sure”
“Are all cops bastards?” She asks with a mischievous smile and, relieved, I laugh out loud.
“Many of them are,” I admit. “The saying is not for nothing. My ex-wife would definitely say yes. I like to think that I joined the force when I was a wide-eyed, naive boy. Unfortunately, many join it looking for an outlet for their sadistic tendencies. I still remember the first time I saw the DV statistics for cops.” I shudder.
“That bad, huh?”
I nod.
“I didn’t know you used to be married,” she says after a few minutes, and I hope I’m not imagining the tension around her mouth.
“For three whole years. Over ten years ago.”
“Why did you get divorced?” Marissa asks, clearly pretending to be captivated by what’s on the screen.
I interlock my fingers on the back of my head and stretch my torso as I think about the question.
“Unsurprisingly, it turned out that being a high-functioning alcoholic with a demanding and stressful job isn’t conducive to long-term relationships. Towards the end, we were fighting, andmy ex yelled, Why don’t you save me for once? I still cringe when I remember that, but it’s a good summary of what happened.”
She nods thoughtfully, then reaches for the popcorn. “Would you choose the same job again, knowing what you know now? Seeing how it kind of caused you to drink and contributed to the breakup of your marriage?”
I put my leg on the coffee table and rub my thigh. Her eyes briefly fly to what my hand is doing.
“It’s easy to exhaust yourself with what-ifs, but I can’t blame my job for any of that. I’ve looked myself in the mirror that recovery and therapy have held up to me, and I know it’s always been me who was the issue. But, to answer your question, even if given the choice, I wouldn’t change a thing. You know why? I think if I changed anything, it would change everything, and I quite like where I ended up.”
She turns back to the screen. We never turned on the living room light, so all we have is the glow of the TV. It’s almost like we’re back in the room where I first saw her, trading confessions in the dark.
“How long after your divorce did you get sober?”
“Not for another three years,” I say, not daring to look at her.
I feel her either nod or shake her head.
“A big flaw of mine is that I tend to think I know everything. Hopefully, not as much nowadays, but it was a major obstacle in my recovery. Luckily, I was involved in a particularly gruesome incident while on the job, and I got mandatory counselling for it. Saved my life. When my case against the city was settled, I decided to take the money and quit.”
“How did counselling change things for you?”
“The therapist was a genius. Saw right through my bullshit and called me on it. He didn’t let me minimize my PTSD. Eventually, I started being honest about my drinking, and he helped me get sober the first time.”
“How many times were there?”
I roll my lips. “A few.”
“Do you still talk to your ex? What’s her name?”
“Jodi, and nah. I ran into her uncle a few years ago; he told me that she had moved to Texas, gotten remarried, and had kids, most likely in an attempt to rub it in my face, but I was relieved that I hadn’t robbed her of that chance. The last time I talked to her was when I was on step nine of the twelve-step program, making amends and taking responsibility. It didn’t go well.”
