“Good,” I told her, and stared at the floor for a long time, which is always superconvincing.
Charlotte is my friend Stephanie’s younger sister. As teenagers, we met on back porches with domestic beer in our hands and shared the frustration of standing in Stephanie’s shadow. As adults, we met at smoking windows with purple mouths to complain about the ways the world still placed us second. She was one of my best friends in New York. We used to share rooms on girls’ weekends—two days of binge drinking and sisterly bonding—and I would go home feeling so understood, my stomach sore from laughing.
Now we sat at the table with nothing but awkwardness and salted butter between us. My glass of Perrier was such flimsy compensation—all the fizz of champagne and none of its deliverance.
Why couldn’t I tell Charlotte the truth that I was miserable without drinking? Isn’t that what friends provide—a soft landing for your complicated pain?
But I relied on the alcohol to loosen my tongue. Actually, I would say, leaning in after the second glass, I’m a wreck.
I’m a wreck, too! the woman would say, because every female was hoarding some secret misery.
I couldn’t achieve such pliability at noon on a Saturday, though. And I didn’t want to bore Charlotte with lame stories of 12-step meetings and day counts. (One of the many downsides of my snarky attitude toward “recovery people” was the mortifying discovery I was one of them.) I felt sorry for Charlotte, confined to sit across from such a wretch. Sobriety could be so isolating. Sometimes I felt like I was living on an island, where all I did was hope a friend would float by, and when they finally arrived, I began to wonder when they’d go away.
I was a fire starter once. I could talk to anyone when I was drinking. I played therapist, devil’s advocate, clown. I actually used to brag I could be friends with Stalin. And it never occurred to me to ask: Who the hell would want to be friends with Stalin?
But the woman who threw open her arms to despots had become the woman who couldn’t meet the eyes of an old friend. I felt judged and evaluated by Charlotte. Not because of anything she said, or any look she’d given me, but because judging and evaluating is what the old me would have done in her place.
I used to hate it when a friend wasn’t drinking. Good for you! I’d say, but inside, I was steaming. Drinking was a shared activity, and one person’s abstinence was a violation of protocol. I measured a friend’s loyalty by her ability to stay by my side. Could she go another round? Would she take a shot for me? My friends didn’t necessarily drink as much as I did, but they were often the women who stuck around till the lights came up. We remained in the foxhole as long as our comrades needed us.
Lisa and I used to joke that we couldn’t leave the bar till at least one of us cried. What were we crying about? It’s hard to say. We were both editors, and we got tired and worn down. Our napkins would be smudgy with mascara by last call, and I’d pat her on the back as we left. I think we did some good work today.
A few months after I quit drinking, I went out with Lisa, and she didn’t even order a beer. I hated that my sobriety had become her punishment.
My therapist didn’t understand my objection. “Is it possible Lisa likes supporting you?”
Maybe. But the arrangement didn’t seem right. I had a lot of vegetarian friends, and none of them took away my bacon.
I think some part of me felt guilty for quitting. Drinking was central to our connections. A necessary prop of companionship and commiseration. As a friend, I considered myself clutch. Forever willing to split a bottle (or three) and play midwife to your sorrows.
But my drinking had not brought me closer to these women. In fact, the opposite happened. The last time Charlotte and I drank together, I met her and some friends at a nice restaurant. I arrived late, and the waitress was slow to bring my wineglass, so I grabbed the bottle from the middle of the table and took a slug. My dress was on inside out. (“I got dressed in the dark,” I explained to Charlotte, though I neglected to add, after three margaritas.) At a bar later, we started talking about female orgasms, and nobody was listening to me, so I kept having to yell. Charlotte gave me $20 for the cab ride home, and I wrote her an email the next day to thank her profusely. It took her two days to respond, which was probably my first sign she was choosing her words.
I love you so much, she wrote me. But sometimes when you are drinking you act irrationally. You were a little hostile on Friday, and it was extremely uncomfortable for the group.