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She sighs. “The hair, it’s my fun thing. After I got out of rehab, I was so scared of relapsing that I created this really regimented lifestyle. Routines gave me a sense of stability and kept me focused. The constant structured days didn’t allow much for idle time or thoughts. So dyeing my hair pink, the pink nail polish, it’s like my fun thing I allow myself.”
“You don’t let yourself have other fun things?” I ask, dragging my fork through the berry filling.
“It’s a combination of being too afraid to have pleasurable things, and feeling like I don’t deserve them. I put my brother and his now-wife through hell. He’s the one who got me through rehab—twice. I owe my sobriety to him.”
I clear my throat. “You owe it to yourself. You put in the work, he may have set you up with a center, but you’re the one who maintains your sobriety. Anyone can book a rehab stay.”
“It was a lot of money. I mean, a lot of money.”
“Yeah, well, good thing your brother makes a lot of money playing in the NHL. All I’m saying is, don’t give away the credit you earned on your own. You deserve fun in your life. You deserve pleasurable things.”
Her cheeks flush. “Are you in recovery too?”
Fuck. Time to come clean. “Okay, I have a confession . . . I’m not actually sober.”
She wrinkles her forehead. “Explain.”
“When you told me you were, I kind of panicked and said ‘me too’ because I didn’t want that to deter you from attending the wedding with me. I figured I could be sober around you, but now that we’re swapping stories, it’s probably best that you know I don’t actually have one.”
“Dude.” She barks out a laugh. “It’s okay, you know. I can handle people drinking in my presence. There was an open bar.”
“Like I said, I panicked.” I shrug. “So, is there anything you can’t handle? Triggers, I mean?”
She chuckles. “I guess I’d prefer you don’t rack up a line in front of me.”
“Done. What about cannabis?”
Anna laughs. “Did you think I didn’t know you smoked?”
Yes . . . “Why do you think I smoke?”
“Because you used your own lighter when you lit the candles in my fireplace. Non-smokers usually don’t carry lighters on them. Also, I caught the faint whiff of weed on you the day you did my consultation.”
Fair point.
“Wait, so you didn’t think it was weird I said I was sober after smelling weed on me that day?”
She shakes her head. “There are people in recovery who do the California-sober thing. I attend Narcotics Anonymous, they have a pretty rigid approach, but some circles are beginning to include cannabis. A lot of that depends on the individual and their triggers. Personally, I’m not willing to test that theory, but the smell or being around someone who smokes doesn’t bother me.”
“Noted. So you’re pretty disciplined, then?”
“Yes. However . . . There are times I think I went too far with the routines, and became too strict with myself. It’s something I’m working on with a therapist—taking chances. It’s like . . .” She sighs thoughtfully and absent-mindedly untucks her legs and hangs them over the edge of the platform, causing the corner of my mouth to tilt up at the act of bravery. “It’s like, after a while, everything starts to run together. I plan what I’m going to eat for each meal on any given day, I wake up at the exact same time, I take the same route when I jog, I even schedule when I paint my nails—that’s supposed to be my fun thing—I schedule my fun, Casper!”
I huff a breath of understanding and nod. “You didn’t realize you were cutting your wings off.”
“Yes!” Her fingers brush my thigh. “Ironically, it wasn’t until the other day that I even noticed how bad it had gotten.”
“And look at you now. Skydiving, trespassing onto rooftops . . .” I trace the tattoo on her back from memory. “The strong little moth is growing her wings back.”
She glances up at me and I wink at her. Fuck, I am smooth.
We gaze out at the city, our legs dangling below.
“Funny how this friendship happened by accident,” Anna muses.
My brow knits. “Is it?”
“Kind of. I went to you for a tattoo with every intention to sit silently in the chair, get inked—”
