“I’m fine.”
But I might as well be speaking in Latin. “It’s important that we forgive ourselves and let go of our mistakes.”
“Noted.” I sidle away from her and grab a seat as far from Jude as possible. Not because I’m avoiding him, but rather because I want to actually concentrate. He catches my eye and winks. We have our own, little secret. The shame and trepidation that plagued me when we met is giving way to the fluttering anticipation of new affection. No one knows about us here, which feels a bit dirty—and a lot amazing.
“They were about to call out the FBI,” Sondra informs me as she parks her butt in the chair next to mine. “People were checking the restaurant and driving by your house.”
“So much for anonymity. I was busy.”
She uncaps a tube of glittery lip gloss and smears it over her mouth. “I hope by busy you mean nailing that.”
Her gaze flickers to Jude, who’s engrossed in conversation with Bob. I force myself to shrug like I have no clue what she’s implying.
“That’s what I thought.” She flashes me a gummy smile of approval.
Silence falls over the group when Anne stands up and clears her throat. I wonder how many of them have heard that she fell off the wagon. I trust Jude not to gossip, but there were a lot of people in that bar that night. “I wanted to share that I’ve been sober for a week.”
There’s a pause before the room erupts in cheers. Her head drops, not quite concealing her sad smile, and she raises a hand.
“I know that’s supposed to be an accomplishment, but it doesn’t really feel like it when I threw away five years of sobriety.”
“It is an accomplishment,” Sondra jumps in. “Honey, we’ve all been there. We’re all human. One day at a time.”
The trouble is that it’s easy to take it one day at a time in the beginning. It feels productive to make it through twenty-four hours, but eventually you start keeping track of those days. You build a collection, but it’s actually a house of cards. It doesn’t take much to scatter those days into oblivion. Yeah, we’d all been there. That fact isn’t comforting when it’s your world that’s crumbled around you.
“I’m telling myself that, and I’m starting at the beginning. Obviously I’m not as in control as I thought I was,” she admits. Anne wrings her hands as she looks to Jude. “I also put you in a terrible position, and I’m sorry. Thank you for dragging me away from that bottle.”
Jude nods in acknowledgment of her apology. “No need to be sorry.”
“There is,” she corrects him. “Maybe you’re stronger than I am. I’m pretty certain you are. But forcing you to enter a bar was terrible. That is damaging whether you realize it or not. I’m sorry that I hurt you with my actions.”
It’s one of the steps. She really is starting over, but I’m startled when she turns to me. “The same goes for you, Faith. I know a lot of people here think…”
That explains it. Anne wasn’t the only one spotted in the bar that night. Apparently, unlike Jude, my presence hadn’t been equated with salvation.
“You have to understand, honey,” Sondra says under her breath, “you didn’t come back to group. Jude was the only one here and his lips were sealed.”
Because he’s above the petty gossip of a small town. Despite the best intentions of this congregation of broken souls, people will talk.
“I don’t really care what people think,” I pipe up in response to Anne’s apology. “I’m just glad you’re doing better, and I’m proud of you.”
Considering the last time I saw her she accused me of screwing Jude, I think this qualifies as taking the higher ground in every way. Particularly since her apology places me at the scene with him. So much for our little secret.
The rest of the meeting follows the usual routine. A few people share and Stephanie volunteers others. When I first came here I hung off every story, hoping for the words that would heal me. Now I know we come here because we need to remember our sins. What do they teach you about history? When we forget the past, we’re doomed to repeat it. This isn’t support group, it’s our weekly penance. We’ll pay for the rest of our lives. I guess that’s why we hold it in church. Some of us come seeking reassurances that we can change and absolution for the other six days of the week. Others need to wallow in the guilt in an effort to feed their fanaticism. We don’t escape our addictions, they simply become our religions.
“Can I speak with you?” Stephanie asks in a clipped tone. I tug my jacket on as I follow her into the darkened hallway. Jude shoots me a bemused grin.
“Are we being called into the principal’s office?” I ask.
Only one of them laughs.