“You didn’t ruin anything,” I say, stepping closer. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well,” Mrs. Miller says mildly, “maybe he shouldn’t have broken Pierce Jamison’s nose. That wasn’t good.” Brody winces.
“His nose isn’t broken,” I tell her. “I heard the trainer who went with him tell Coach he’s barely bruised.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “You wouldn’t know that from the way Mrs. Jamison was screaming about it. She said it was broken and that he might need surgery.”
“Sounds familiar,” Davis mutters. “He’ll probably get away with it. Again.”
A hot flare of anger spikes through me. “Not if I can help it,” I say, surprising myself with how steady it comes out. “The team is putting together a plan. I’m not sure how much we can do yet, but no one is happy with Pierce’s bullshit. And no one wants to see Brody go.” I look at the man in question. “I don’t want to see you go.”
Brody blinks rapidly, like his eyes might be burning, too. Maybe we’re allergic to the grass, because I can’t imagine Brody tearing up.
Davis eyes me. “If you’re not opposed to shitty coffee and listening to a bunch of strangers talk about all the ways they ruined their own lives, you’re welcome to come along.”
“Really?” Brody asks incredulously.
Davis shrugs. “It’s Christmas Eve. Might as well drag the new boyfriend into the fun.”
Boyfriend.
My heart does something stupid and painful behind my ribs. I think the grin on my face must be manic, because Brody looks at me funny.
I glance at Brody. He’s watching me with something like hope and terror twisted together. “Yeah. I’d like that. If that’s okay?”
Brody swallows. “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with Davis,” he says, voice thick. “And if you want to come.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure exactly what we’re going to, but from the context clues, I’m guessing it’s a family AA meeting or something? I hope I’m not intruding by accepting the invitation, but I really don’t want to leave Brody.
Davis stares at me for a long second, then nods, satisfied. “Alright then, fancy pants. Let’s go.” Then he pauses and eyes his brother. “Speaking of pants…”
We eventually make it to the meeting, and I’m kind of blown away by my life right now. If someone had asked me two weeks ago how I’d be spending Christmas Eve, I probably would’ve said something about a formal dinner, uncomfortable small talk with my father’s colleagues, and pretending not to notice my mom drinking too much wine while my father whispers subtle barbs about everyone’s net worth.
Instead, I’m sitting in a church basement on a metal folding chair that wobbles, drinking truly atrocious coffee and listening to people tell the worst stories of their lives.
And I am in awe.
People stand and sit and stand again, sharing. Some are older than my parents, hands shaking as they speak. Some are barely older than me. They talk about jail and DUIs, and lost jobs and marriages that survived anyway and kids they’re trying to rebuild bridges with. They talk about days marked one at a time. About calling their sponsors instead of dealers, or heading to a diner for coffee instead of the closest liquor store.
No one flinches, or laughs, or judges. They just listen and affirm every feeling and every story. Tears aren’t a weakness here, they’re strength.
When Davis gets up, I feel strangely anxious for him. I didn’t realize this was a milestone meeting for him until I heard it mentioned when we first arrived.
He walks to the front holding nothing but his foam cup. He clears his throat, looks around the room, then zeroes in on a point just above everyone’s heads like he’s trying not to make eye contact with any one person in particular.
“I’m Davis,” he says. “I’m an alcoholic.”
The chorus ofHi, Davisis warm, familiar, and free of judgment.
He talks about the night he almost died. About how he woke up in the hospital with tubes in his arms and his family around him, worried and crying and remembering the worst day of their lives. He talks about shame, and fear, and the bone-deep exhaustion of wanting everything to stop.Everything.
Then he talks about six months. Six months of boredom and rage and cravings and tiny victories like going to the store by himself and not staring too hard at the person in front of him buying wine or beer. Six months without taking any kind of pill at all, even ibuprofen. Six months of watching his mom and brother worry about every sigh, headache, bad day, or mood swing. Six months of his mother’s tired optimism and unrelenting patience, and six months of useless texts from his annoying little brother. Six months of them showing up for him when he didn’t feel like he deserved it.
“I’ve done a lot of shit I’m not proud of,” Davis says, his voice cracking. “But my little brother still looks at me like I can be somebody again. He moved back home when he was thriving somewhere else, just so I wouldn’t be so far away if… if something happened.” He swallows hard, knuckles going whitearound the cup. “And that was my moment. My rock-bottom, when I knew I needed to do better. For my mother and myself, but mostly for him. Because I can’t bear the thought of him waiting by the phone to hear if I’m dead. Because he deserves better.”
He looks directly at Brody then, and I feel the breath Brody takes as much as I can hear it.
“You’re the strongest person I know,” Davis says. “You’re my inspiration to see this through. I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of loyalty, but I’m trying every day to be the man you think I am under all of this mess.”
