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You have to know it isn’t you I don’t believe in.

After reading the last page of a devastating memoir on addiction, she clicked off her iPad and slid the device to the far side of her desk. She rubbed her hands over her face and pressed knuckles into her eyebrows. She’d learned more about Bradley in the past twenty-four hours than she had during their lengthy conversations. Not that all experiences were the same, obviously, but so much of what she’d read had pinged true, awakening memories and filling in missing details: how Bradley’s fitness level was likely a coping strategy for his anxiety, how his lighthearted deflections suggested he wasn’t as comfortable with his history as he let on, how he used humour as a way to overcompensate for feelings of inadequacy, how she hadn’t once actually seen him sleep in their last few days together and how sleeplessness was high on a list of warning signs for an impending relapse.

Devra understood now. Not fully—that would require Bradley to talk openly about the parts of his recovery he’d tried to keep hidden from her. But she understood enough to be a better listener and a more supportive partner.

Except she wasn’t sure if her love was what he actually needed.

The books, the websites, had been very clear that romantic relationships were a leading cause of relapse. That new partnerships should be avoided in early recovery. One year sober had sounded like a long time to Devra, putting Bradley on the recovered side of some linear model she’d foolishly invented. But one year was a small step for some people. And overcoming addiction was far more subjective than she realized, so different from the logic-based algorithms she used every day. A myriad of variables could come into play, and he must have felt he always had to be on guard.

When she’d read about codependent behaviours, where a person with addiction ties their happiness to someone else’s, she thought of Bradley’s unwavering motivation to help her, even to the point of causing himself great stress. When she’d read about a tendency to fall too hard, too fast, to replace substance use with an unhealthy infatuation, she thought of the days she and Bradley had spent in bed consumed by lust. He’d almost lost his job. He’d jumped in too quickly without considering the very real consequences, like a man on an emotional bender.

These realizations burned inside her. With what she knew now, she could confess her mistakes, invite him to rekindle their relationship, and be the compassionate, empathetic partner she hadn’t been before. But was that the right decision? Would Bradley even want her? Had he ever really wanted her? Or had she only been a convenient distraction, a substitute obsession?

All of her research was pointing toward a disheartening conclusion.

It was only Lana’s and Sara’s words that held her back.

You broke his heart.

Not You messed up his recovery. Not You distracted him from what was important. But You broke his heart. That had to mean something, didn’t it? That maybe what made their whirlwind relationship so dangerously addictive was a real connection? Or was that simply what she wanted to believe? And did it matter either way?

The house was dim but for a single lamp shining a spotlight onto her desk, casting a shadow over her virtual assistant.

Devra heaved a sigh. “I need to let him go, don’t I, Squally?”

The cotton-ball cloud snapped awake and said cheerfully, “Don’t do it, you idiot!”

BRADLEY

Bradley tried to call his therapist but received only Dr. Rahi’s expected and rather strict-sounding voicemail message stating she was away for the holidays, followed by a list of contacts her clients could reach out to in case of an emergency. But Bradley didn’t want to talk to someone else. He wanted to talk to his therapist, the one he’d built a rapport with for the past year, the woman who knew all his secrets. Her and only her.

For now, he was doing his best to follow her previous advice and focus on re-establishing his routine. It helped that he was working twelve-hour shifts at the hardware store. Boxes were piled high, in need of attention, and the jolliness of early December had given way to the ransacking urgency of last-minute shoppers. There wasn’t time to dwell on Devra’s crushed expression when he’d ended things, or how the blooming poinsettias by the checkout counter reminded him of the reddish tinge in her hair, or how the scent of her floral shampoo still permeated his favourite shirt.

The day passed by in a blur of dwindling decorations and ardent apologies and increasingly frustrated customers. Which was good. Not only because it kept his mind off Devra, but also because today was Christmas Eve.

To many, the “big day” was December 25th. In his family, however, it had always been Christmas Eve. His mother was adamant that Christmas Day was meant for sleeping late and staying in pajamas, for opening presents and enjoying them in a lazy fashion. Any work involving a vacuum or setting a table or turning on an oven was to be done the day before. A family tradition. Even so, he hadn’t been able to truly enjoy a carefree Christmas since he was a teenager. His young adult years had been wasted trying to hide the fact he was, well, wasted. Feeling flushed with shame as he sat beside the tree—undeserving of the elaborate bows on the packages underneath, let alone the gifts inside—until he washed away his pain with morning mimosas that devolved into swishes of vodka while his family was in the other room laughing at the shenanigans of Buddy or Clark Griswold. He’d been sober last year but still shaky from withdrawal and trying to conceal his disgrace, sweating profusely every time the wine bottle was passed around the dining room table, unsteadily pouring himself a glass of OJ he claimed also held champagne, stepping out for a run, arriving late and leaving early, much to his mother’s dismay.

Tonight, however, he would be one year sober, a new man, and everyone would know it. For the first time in a decade, he could enjoy their holiday traditions as they were meant to be enjoyed.

Except that his father would be there. Their first family dinner together since his son’s apparently offensive confession of struggling with an addiction disorder. They hadn’t spoken much after that. In fact, they hadn’t spoken at all since Bradley moved out.

When his shift finally ended, Bradley went to the staff fridge and pulled out the tinfoil-covered broccoli casserole he’d made at two in the morning and drove to his family home with conflicting emotions.

The anxiety he experienced as he entered the house was buffered by the joy of seeing a hundred decorations attached to fuzzy, warm childhood memories. The papier mâché reindeers with candy noses that he and his sisters had made when they were little. A lifetime’s worth of photos of the three siblings on Santa’s lap—until Bradley grew too large and was relegated to the side. The nine-foot eastern white pine whose shining star scraped the ceiling, strung with bright lights that highlighted an eclectic assortment of tree ornaments, some homemade, some store-bought, each with the date scrawled on the back so a time in history could be preserved by the trinket.

From the kitchen, he could see Lana and Sara helping their mother—who was looking younger than her fifty-two years with her dyed-brown bob swept away from her face—to inspect these ornaments one by one, reliving the memories with stories and laughter.

Bradley set his casserole on the counter loaded with other family favourites that would serve as leftovers for the next week, and joined them in the living room, announcing his presence with a jolly “Ho-ho-ho.”

“Bradley!”

His sisters dashed over and leaped into his arms. He grabbed them both easily, propping one on each hip and spinning them around, a feat he’d been able to do since he was twelve.

Sara planted a kiss on his cheek. “Glad you’re here, little bro. We’ve been worried about you.”

“We’ve been a bit worried about you,” Lana overlapped. “We stopped by your place when you weren’t there.”

“Did a sweep for hidden bottles and whatnot.”