Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Hands on his desk, he pushes to his feet. His face is tight with anger. “My loyalty isn’t with you? Right, so it wasn’t me who pulled you out of the mess you’d gotten yourself into. Got you in rehab. Got you cleaned up. Gave you this job. News flash: all me, Ari, whether you like it or not.”
“Yeah, you saved my ass! Well done, you. But where the hell were you when I needed you after Mom died? Before she even died, when things were bad at home?” I slam my hand to my chest. My face is hot. I shouldn’t be saying these things, but I can’t seem to stop. “On the football field! That’s where you were. Where you always are! So, let’s not pretend like you didn’t do it out of anything but obligation and to get a handle on the bad press it could bring to you. Not because you actually give a shit.”
His eyes darken. “I give a shit, Ari.”
“Like you did with Mom.”
He looks like I just slapped him.
It was a low blow, and I know it, but I’m angry and hurt, and I don’t care right now.
I grab my bag from the floor and walk out of his office, slamming the door behind me.
My eyes are stinging as I descend the stairs.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I don’t stop when I reach the bottom step. I walk straight through the lobby and past the reception desk where Marissa, the receptionist, is talking on the phone. I hide my face behind my curtain of hair, and I walk out of the building.
Fortunately, Patrick isn’t at the security gate, so I don’t have to stop and talk to him about why I’m leaving early.
And I keep walking as it starts to rain, and the irony isn’t lost on me right now. And I guess it won’t matter if I cry. No one will be able to tell the difference. So, I let the tears fall.
I intend to stop at the bus stop, but when I reach it, I keep walking.
And I keep on walking right into town.
And straight into the first bar I see.
“How’s it going?” Luke takes the stool next to me, resting his arms on the bar top.
“I’ve been better,” I answer quietly.
My arms are on the bar, chin resting on them, my eyes fixed on the glass of wine sitting on the bar in front of me.
I called Luke five minutes after I ordered the wine. He told me to sit tight, and he’d be there soon. He wasn’t kidding. That was twenty minutes ago, and he lives in the city. He must’ve broken all the speed laws to get here.
“I haven’t drunk any,” I tell him, my eyes still fixed on the wine glass, seeing the distorted reflection of my face in it.
My real face.
“I know,” he says gently.
“I want to though.”
“I know that, too.”
I let out a sad-sounding sigh.
“Do you want me to get rid of it?” he asks.
“Not…yet.” My eyes slide to his. “I’m not going to drink it, but…” I trail off. I’m not ready to let go yet.
“I know,” he says in understanding. “If you were going to drink that wine, you would have done it by now, and you definitely wouldn’t have called me. Trust me; I know.”
Luke is eight years sober—drugs and drink. He’s in his early thirties. A self-made millionaire. He owns a tech company. Nearly lost it all on drugs, alcohol, and women. It took an overdose that nearly killed him to wake him up.
“I’m sorry to have dragged you here.”
“Don’t be. You know the rules. Never be sorry for asking for help. I’m your sponsor. This is what I’m here to do—help you when you need it. And, Ari, you’re seven months clean, and this is my first call to a bar from you. I’d say, you’re doing great.”
I snort out a dry laugh. “Only you would say I’m doing great when I’m sitting in a bar with a glass of wine in front of me.”
“I see the positive in everything. I’m a ray of sunshine. What can I say?”
I laugh again; there’s still no humor in it.
“So”—he props his chin on his hand—“you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
“Okay. So, what do you want to do?”
“Drink.” I throw him a wry grin.
“You’re a comedian.”
“I do try.”
“Just don’t give up your day job.”
The bartender appears, asking Luke, “What can I get you?”
“Diet Coke, for me, and one for her, too. And, if you could get rid of the wine, it’d be appreciated.”
“Killjoy,” I mutter as the wine is moved from my line of sight by the bartender.
“I know. I’m sensible and boring.”
We don’t speak for a while. Our Diet Cokes are placed in front of us. Luke pays for them.
He’s waiting me out. Waiting for me to talk.