The Art of Losing(73)

“I’ve seen worse,” I told him. Raf hadn’t been a mean drunk, or even a loud drunk. He was just a sad drunk.

“I know it bothered you when Mike drank. More than bothered you. And I never wanted you to worry about that with me. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t relapse again.”

I wouldn’t have believed him if he’d tried to make that promise anyway.

“I know,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “And I’m trying really hard to accept that. I’m pissed off that you blamed me. That was a shitty thing to do. But I know you feel bad about getting drunk. And I know you regret it. And even though I’m angry . . . I miss you, Raf. Even after just a couple of days, I miss you. This space thing sucks.”

He shifted uncomfortably, staring down at the carpet. “I miss you, too,” he said. His eyes flicked up to meet mine again before they were back on the floor. “But I can’t promise that I won’t disappoint you again. That sort of seems to be my thing.”

I rested my hand on the doorframe below where he was gripping it. Not touching, but close enough.

“You have trust issues, Harley. After what Mike did, why wouldn’t you?” Raf said. He crossed his arms across his chest. “And I have problems with breaking people’s trust. Doesn’t this seem like a disaster waiting to happen?”

I didn’t know what to say. He was right, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to kiss him.

“I have to get ready to go to a meeting,” Raf said, stepping back so he could close the door. It was an excuse that he knew I wouldn’t argue with.

“Let me come with you,” I said. I didn’t phrase it as a question.

He thought for a moment, and then he nodded, just once, and opened the door wider.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said. “Why don’t you stay out here?” He pointed to the couches in front of the big flat-screen TV. I got the message that he didn’t trust me in his bedroom when he was about to be naked. I got a small tingle in my belly just thinking about him in a towel.

But Raf didn’t take long, and he didn’t walk past in a towel either. I called him a prude when he came out of the bathroom fully dressed. That, at least, got a smile.

He drove us to the meeting, but he didn’t speak much on the way, aside from asking if I was okay with the music. I nodded, trying to be agreeable, even though I didn’t recognize the band.

Raf didn’t stop to smoke with the gang gathered outside, though they exchanged quick hellos and head nods of recognition as we walked through. I got a knowing look from Cajun that meant he knew about Raf’s relapse. I saw Elaine across the room, and she crossed quickly to embrace Raf and pull him aside. While they talked, I made myself a cup of coffee with non-dairy creamer. I had to pour it out after one sip. Working at the coffee shop had turned me into a snob.

Gradually the room quieted. After Elaine read the preamble, Arjun opened the meeting reading the twelve steps and then asking if anyone wanted to share.

Raf’s hand went up immediately.

“My name is Rafael, and I’m an alcoholic and an addict,” he said.

I held my breath. It was the first time I’d heard him say those words.

“About seven months ago, my parents came home from a nice night out and found me facedown in a puddle of my own vomit. I’d taken enough Oxy to make me completely unresponsive after the fifth of Jack Daniel’s I washed it down with, and I could have choked if I had been on my back.”

My chest squeezed like a fist. But I forced myself to breathe. My eyes began to sting. That was not the story I had heard about how he got sent to rehab.

“While I was in the hospital, they went through my room and found my stashes: bottles of liquor hidden in my sock drawer, Oxy and weed and all its paraphernalia in my closet, plus a few of my mom’s Xanax pills that I’d been stealing for the last six years, ever since my sister died.” He paused for a moment. “I denied that I was an alcoholic when my parents put me in rehab. Truthfully, I’ve been denying it for the last seven months, even though I was sober. But the other night, I drank again, and I realized something when I woke up the next day and felt like shit.”

The crowd around us chuckled knowingly.

“Seriously, not worth it,” Raf reiterated. “But worse than the hangover was the feeling of knowing that I had betrayed the trust of someone who had no obligation to, but seemed to like me anyway.” He finally looked at me then, as if he wanted me to really hear what he was saying. “I’m the one screwing up my life. I am the only one. No one is making me drink. It’s no one else’s fault that I want oblivion so much that I sometimes just want to drink until I can’t function, because it’s easier than being sober. And no one is going to make it better for me.”

A few people in the room murmured in agreement.

“Being an alcoholic can be lonely,” he said, “but being sober can be so much lonelier. Giving up everyone I used with meant I had no one.”

I almost objected, but then he turned to me again and reached for my hand.

“Except that’s not really true,” he added. “Not if I don’t want it to be. All of you being here tonight means we’re not alone. As long as we can find one of these rooms, we will never be alone. And I just wanted to thank you all for that.” He squeezed my hand and then let it go. “Thanks for letting me share.”