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“Because it’s healthy. Nachos aren’t exactly known for their shelf life. Also, I have a recipe rotation every six weeks,” I argue. “So get off my nuts.”
“Whatever. I’m calling to see if you’re coming to the game on Thursday. It would be good for you to get out and socialize.”
“I do socialize,” I groan.
I retrieve the chicken and vegetables from the fridge. I always do my grocery shopping Friday nights; that’s when the store aisles are the least congested.
“With who?”
“Micky,” I say smugly.
“That’s my wife—that’s family—it doesn’t count.”
I snort. “Dude, you act like I never leave my apartment. I go for a run every morning. Tuesdays I attend NA. Thursdays I have my dance class. I get out just fine, thank you very much.”
“Ah shit, I forgot about dance. Well, we play at home on Saturday. Take my tickets? You can bring a friend if you don’t want to sit with Micky.”
My brow scrunches. “Why wouldn’t I want to sit with Micky?”
“I just mean if you want to give the ticket to someone else.”
“I can’t go Saturday. But if you need somebody to take the seats, there are a couple people at work who would happily take them off your hands.”
“Why can’t you take them?”
My shoulders rise and drop. “I’m just busy.”
“With what?” he presses.
I don’t have a good excuse, other than it will get in the way of my schedule. It’s self-care Saturday—and sure, it mostly consists of giving myself a manicure and pedicure—which I could postpone, but then it would impact the order of things. I enjoy having that day to myself. You have most days to yourself, my thoughts echo.
Rhys makes fun of the strict routine I keep, but deep down I believe he’s proud of me. He’s seen me at my lowest, when everything was chaos. My brother saved my life, and I owe it to him, and myself, to stay sober. He wants me to go to his games, but consistency is important. My routine is important.
“I just have plans,” I say, plucking a knife from the wood block and slicing the red pepper in front of me.
“Yeah? Like what?”
“I’m building a rocket ship,” I answer, exasperated with the third degree.
“Good luck with that. Be honest, no judgment regardless of how you answer . . . Are you happy living this way?”
I sigh, considering his question. “I mean . . .” Dead air hums on the line and my knife pauses. No. “Maintaining my sobriety makes me happy.”
“And you think if you change your schedule, and go to your brother’s game, that it will cause you to fall off the wagon?”
“No, probably not, but why chance it?”
“What does your therapist say?”
“That’s private. But hey, remember when I only left the house for NA?”
He groans. “Yes.”
“See?” I reply smugly. “Look how much progress I’m making! Congratulate me.”
“Uh-huh. Congratulations. Well I’m still saving the tickets for you in case you change your mind.”
“Thank you. I’ll let you know if I can make it.”
