Other Broken Things (12 page)

“Ah.”

“Yeah. So I thought maybe I could make that go away.”

“The fight?”

“Yeah. It was stupid. But my mom . . . Well, she's had a lot of disappointments lately. She doesn't need to be pummeled when she's already against the ropes.”

“And you went running instead of drinking?”

I nod.

“But that didn't help?”

I shake my head and take another drag of my cigarette. “I used to box.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. I was actually pretty fucking good at it. I started when I was young. Beginning of sixth grade. I went to this gym with my dad. Dad's really into competitive things. And he thought it would be fun bonding. But I don't think he thought I'd get so good or it would be something I was really into.”

“Huh. So when did you stop?”

“Almost two years ago. My parents weren't on board for it. And it got to the point where I sort of had to decide if I was going to go all in.”

“You started drinking then?”

I shrug. “I drank before that. But not that much. A little bit socially. Boxing training is intense and doing it hungover is fucking awful. And the guy who owns the gym, Jerry, he's a huge hard-ass and pretty unforgiving.”

Joe nods. “Did you ever consider it?”

“What?”

“Going all in with boxing.”

I swallow. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I did. I mean, I quit fighting for a while after my dad told me I needed to find something else. Then I started drinking. Like, really drinking. But there was a time when I thought I'd give up booze and go back to it. Fuck my parents and whoever else said it's not for girls.”

“And?”

And I don't want to say anything else, so I shrug. “Shit happens. I never made it back. Well, that's not true, I went back when I was drunk once. Jerry freaked, told me I was pissing away natural talent, that I was a coward.”

“There's more to this, isn't there?”

I shake my head. “Not that you need to know. It's just all complicated, is the point. My parents, school, my friends, boxing, drinking, all of it. And when my parents fight, when Mom feels like shit because my dad is a huge asshole, I don't have a lot of options to get rid of the noise. Not anymore anyway.”

He gets off the highway and pulls into the Red Lobster parking lot. “There's always going to be noise, Natalie.”

“Well, then there's always going to be a reason to drink.”

He nods. “Yes. Always. Did you think that would go away? When the physical addiction stuff was over you'd be all set? It doesn't work like that.”

I want to rub my eyes. I want to squeeze them shut until they don't sting so much with tears anymore. “Then what is the fucking point? If there's always going to be a reason to drink, why not just drink?”

“The point is you need to learn to deal with noise in a way that doesn't hurt you or other people. You can't make it go away by drinking or shutting off. Because it doesn't go away for good. Just for a little while. And you wake up feeling like crap, not remembering what you did, where you were, what you said, and eventually you destroy everything good in your life just to get rid of noise that will always be there.”

He sounds like Kathy and her assurances that things would always be mostly crappy. It's strange how the honesty of this actually makes me feel a bit better. I light another cigarette and slip out of his truck. It's fucking freezing, but I need a little space from this conversation. Joe leans against the pickup on his side and waits. His silence is so annoying I want to flick my cigarette at him to see if that might get a reaction.

“There's no magic pill, Natalie. People who succeed in AA, they know that. It's work. It's a constant struggle. It sucks that it's always going to be that way, but it is. You get comfortable being sober and some new shit happens and you don't want to be sober anymore. But you don't have a choice. You aren't allowed to use the good china anymore. It's paper plates for you from here on out. For all of us.”

I blow out a long stream of smoke and put out my cigarette. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I bend over and pick it up and tuck the butt in my box. “And you're fine with that? Fine with using paper plates for the rest of your fucking life when everyone else gets to use the good stuff?”

He nods. “Yes. Because it's not about the plates for me anymore. It's about who I'm having dinner with.”

His smile almost breaks me. Almost cracks open the shell and makes everything want to spill out right there on the sidewalk in front of the POS Red Lobster sign. I want to tell him about boxing, about how it really made me feel, about how maybe I wouldn't want to drink if I could have something else. I want to tell him about everything I lost, but I can't say the words. I shake my head and my brain fuses back together. I wasn't supposed to let this guy get to me. And here I am with a thousand questions and way too much hope.

“Let's go. You promised me biscuits,” I say, and nudge him toward the front door.

*  *  *

Three biscuits and a plate of shrimp scampi in and the itch to drink has dulled a bit. It's not gone completely, but the shake in my hands is less, and the desire to slam back tequila shots until every part of me goes numb is subsiding.

I'm about to ask Joe about his time in prison when I hear loud voices by the door. Amanda and Amy. Crap. They're laughing and Amy is leaning against the hostess station, and yeah, they're way drunk.

“Oh my God,” Amanda says loud enough that several tables turn toward her. Then she grabs Amy and tugs her toward us. “Nattie, what are you doing here? It's soooo good to see you.”

We haven't spoken. At all. Not since the afternoon I followed them home. I can feel Joe's gaze on me, but I can't look at him. I'm not up for the reprimand. Amy and Amanda slide into the two empty chairs at our table and I release a loud sigh.

“Amy, Amanda, this is my friend Joe.”

Amy leans forward and her eyes are so glazed I think maybe she's on more than just booze.

“Nattie's dating an older guy? Is this why you stopped talking to us?” Amy says, her blond hair falling forward into the basket of biscuits, which . . . gross.

“We're not dating,” I say.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Joe says to me in a low voice.

Amanda bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, seriously? You're going to rescue her from us? We're her best friends.”

The two of them snort-laugh and I'm sure my face is tomato red. Normally I would be right there with them. Normally I wouldn't sense all the stares or hear the mumbling from the tables around us. But now I do. And I'm embarrassed for them, and for me for having been this way once.

I think again about Camille and the time before I started drinking, when I had normal friends. Friends who cared about me. And I think about how I let them go because I got so into boxing. So obsessed with it. And then I let my boxing friends go because it hurt too much to see them. And for a second I realize that I have always let go of things that are too hard, too much to emotionally deal with. And it has nothing to do with drinking and everything to do with who I am.

My head droops in utter defeat. This is all too hard. I've fucked up almost everything in my life, and the energy required to repair it is too much.

“Hey,” Joe says, tapping his fingers on my wrist. “You okay?”

I swallow the lump in my too-dry throat. Now is not the time for revelations. I turn to the A's. “Did you guys drive here?”

Amy shakes her head, then apparently finds it so entertaining she does it over and over until she tilts to the side and starts laughing again. “Brent dropped us off. He's going to meet us here later. I was craving those biscuits.” She picks one out of the basket, but doesn't take a bite of it. Just sort of examines it.

“Should I call your parents?” Joe asks, and they both burst out laughing again. Times like this I feel Joe's age. Even sober I would never suggest calling their parents. No one in high school would. It breaks all sorts of unspoken codes of silence.

Plus it wouldn't do any good. Amanda's parents are probably skiing in Aspen—they leave every year after Christmas, and for the past three, they've left her home with her brother. Amy's mom is probably with her latest boyfriend. The only reason she'd care if we called her would be because it interfered with her date. She and Amy are besties of a sort, sharing clothes and gossip and even once a boyfriend, though Amy didn't find out about that until after she'd broken up with him.

“I'll take care of this,” I mumble to Joe, and stand up. “Come with me to the bathroom,” I tell the A's.

They both stand up, teetering a bit, and stumble after me to the ladies' restroom.

“That guy is so hot. I mean, he probably has an old dick, but he looks like Bradley Cooper,” Amy says as soon as we shut the door behind us.

“I know,” Amanda says. “Are you on that?”

I shake my head. “No. Of course not. We're friends.”

“Oh, come on. The old Nattie would've done him the first night,” Amy says. And the thing is, she's probably right. I wouldn't have been sober, but I would've hooked up with him.

I pull out my phone and text Brent.

You need to come pick the girls up now. Are you sober enough to drive?

Thirty seconds later he texts back.

What the hell? I just dropped them off.

Someone's going to call the cops soon. Come get them.

Fine. I'll be there in ten.

I tuck my phone in my back pocket and cross my arms. “The Red Lobster? Really? You show up wasted at the Red Lobster? There are a shitload of families here. You know someone is going to call the cops.”

Amy shakes her head. “We're not that wasted. And those biscuits are really good.”

Amanda is staring at herself in the mirror. She's leaning forward and back like she's in a fun house.

“Are you on something else?”

Amy giggles. “We might've had a few mushrooms. But only a few.”

I roll my eyes. “Jesus, you all are train wrecks.”

“Shut up, Nattie. They were your mushrooms. The ones you gave me over the summer that I never took. Stop acting all high-and-mighty.”

Amanda snorts. “She can't act all high. Because she can't be high anymore. All the fun has been sucked out of her. And now she's a fun sponge, sucking it out of everyone else.”

Amy cackles and the two of them lean against each other as they laugh even harder. This is ridiculous. There's no talking to them. I pull out my phone and text Brent again.

Ping me when you pull up front.

Amy moves next to me and tugs on my hair. She twists her finger around one of the curls and does it for long enough that I realize it's the mushrooms. I bat her hand away.

“We miss you, Nattie,” Amy says. “It's not the same when it's just us. We need our third.”

“I can't. You know this. My parents would kill me. And I'm on probation.”

Amy's lip sticks out. “Will you ever come back to us?”

Her question freezes the breath in my lungs for a second. Because the answer pops in my head so quickly. No hesitation. I'll let go of them like everything else, because it's too hard to be with them. When I was in rehab, I thought it was about waiting. Doing my time until I was eighteen, off probation, in college. It wasn't about quitting, it was about putting off drinking and partying until I could take it up again. But somehow now, with Joe, with Kathy, with all the old alkies at SFC, it's different.

“No,” I say. “I won't.”

And even as I say it, the itchiness seeps out of me. Because letting go of this is the right thing to do. The need to shut off the noise dissipates and all I want now is to go sit back down with Joe and eat biscuits and talk about stupid things and important things and know that for some reason, he's decided I'm worth this.

There's a knock at the door just as my phone pings with Brent's
I'm here
text.

“Everything okay, Natalie?”

I pull the door open and nod at Joe. “Their ride is here. Sorry I left you alone like that.”

He searches my face and looks past me to the A's. Then he nods. “No problem. Need help?”

Amy waves her hand. “We've got it, Romeo. Thanks for the concern, but we can manage all on our own.”

Then she and Amanda push past me and teeter toward the door. We should probably follow Brent's car, make sure they make it home, but I'm so tired.

“You can't save everyone,” Joe says, and steers me back to the table. “Especially when they have no interest in being saved.”

“I didn't have any interest in being saved.”

He shrugs. “Yes, you did.”

I shake my head. “No. I didn't.”

He plucks a fresh biscuit out of the basket and puts it on my plate. “Of course you did. You wouldn't have come back otherwise. You wouldn't have called me an hour and a half ago. You wouldn't be here right now.”

“I had to come back. Court ordered.”

He pauses then and taps my wrist again. “What happened? Something's wrong. Something more than your drunk friends.”

I gnaw at my lip for a second, then say, “How do you know the difference between letting go of something because it's too hard and letting go of something because it's the right thing to do?”

“Are we talking about them?” He waves in the direction of the door.

“Yes. No. Sort of. I don't know. I just think that I always walk away when things get to be too much and maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should live with it.”

He nods. “Well, that's true. If you bail because it's getting tough, then you'll never learn to deal with anything. But sometimes we have to walk away because it's the best thing for us. And maybe it's hard and maybe it's easy, but in the end, it's still the best thing for us.”