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“Oh, so that’s what you had in mind,” Devra said. “You’d really be okay with it, though? You know, if I…when you can’t?”
It took Bradley a second to rip his concentration from the bottle and realize what this looked like to her. Him suggesting they celebrate and then pulling out champagne. It certainly made more sense than an alcoholic reaching for a bottle he could never open for himself, measuring the weight of it in his hand, trying to imagine the crisp, dry flavour on his tongue.
He turned and plunked the bottle in front of her. “Go ahead.”
“You really don’t mind?”
“It’s no problem.” Because it wasn’t. He was one year sober. It was no big deal.
Then it hit him. Yesterday was the day. One year on the dot. A day he’d been looking forward to for so long as a symbol of his accomplishments. And he’d entirely forgotten.
“All right, then, if you’re sure it’s not a problem?”
“Yup.”
“Then I’d love a glass.” Devra picked up the bottle and began fiddling with the foil. “It will certainly do wonders for my aching body.”
She laughed. He gave a tight smile.
She popped the cork and squealed in amusement as it bounced off the ceiling and came, implausibly, shooting directly back at her—with her raising the bottle just in time for it to plunk harmlessly off the glass and onto the floor. Champagne spilling from the jostled bottle. Sweet and refreshing with just the right amount of zest.
Devra stuck out her tongue at the cork. “Haha, you missed me!”
He’d never seen her this light before. This unafraid. As radiant as the golden liquid she was pouring into a long-stemmed glass. The way it splashed and fizzed. Devra took a long sip and sighed happily, and his lungs stretched wide with a breath he couldn’t draw deep enough. He knew if he asked—just the one, he would say—she might grab him a glass too. Why wouldn’t she? He was a grown adult. He could make his own decisions. And if she handed it to him, he would take it, put it to his lips, and drink it all in one unbroken gulp. The bubbles would prickle his nose and hit his bloodstream soon after, sending tingles into his extremities, softening the ache in his muscles. Then he would ask for another pour…
She took another sip.
…and after the second bottle was emptied—or earlier, since surely he’d have lost his tolerance after all these months of running and pushing and willing his cravings away—he’d experience that moment, that perfectly blank mind that was so difficult to achieve any other way. Until that satisfying blankness turned into a pounding headache and weeks of regret and worries about what he’d said, what he’d done. Worries about being a different person. A different kind of boyfriend, one that deserved to be slapped.
He cleared his throat.
“Can I get you anything?” She set her glass down, and he heard the gentle clink as loud as a crash. “Sparkling water, pop?”
“Maybe an ibuprofen?”
She giggled. “Whatever you’d like.”
Whatever he’d like. Memories flashed of him trying to sit in a pub with his buddies during the early days of his sobriety, his hands tapping at his sides, legs jittering under the table, until he had to give those friends up and focus on himself. Abstinence, therapy, upping his appointments from one visit a week to two, to three, until slowly, slowly, the cravings became manageable. They didn’t go away. They would never go away—the invisible entity with the outstretched hand his constant companion. But they gradually became defeatable. With determination and concentration and practice, he learned to recognize the warning signs and stop his thirst before it overwhelmed him.
“I’ll grab myself a glass of water in a sec.” He needed to go for a run. Right now.
Devra dug into her meal. “This is so good.”
“It was cooked in a microwave. It can’t be good.”
She laughed.
He didn’t.
Bradley took a tentative bite. He glanced at the champagne bottle, too many times. It was right there. The thing he loved and hated most. How different this moment would be if he’d asked for some too, his laughter growing more boisterous with each guzzled glass.
Until the laughter turned to tears.
He used to wake up and cry and hate himself. No recollection of where he’d been or what he’d done.
He rubbed his sweaty palm on his pant leg. “Is it hot in here?”
“Not for me,” she said sweetly. “But I can turn down the heat if you’d like?”
