Felix
I wake up with the light at six a.m. and immediately look over at Hope, who’s sleeping peacefully in the other bed. I have an overwhelming longing to crawl in next to her and take her in my arms.
If I was infatuated with her on the cruise ship, last night shifted my feelings into something more solid. I can talk to her about real, painful things. I can trust her in a moment of crisis. I can lie in bed beside her watching a children’s movie and feel utterly safe.
But I need to take care not to confuse her kindness to me last night with a rekindling of something romantic. Even if she welcomed my affection, my breakdown yesterday was a blaring siren urging me to be cautious. I need to take care of myself. I need to get steady.
That doesn’t make it easy to walk past her without brushing my hand on her arm. Without tucking the covers up around her. Without placing a kiss on her forehead.
It doesn’t mean I don’t want more. It just means this last day will be bittersweet. A farewell to something that might have been so good, were only the circumstances—and me—different.
I go out on the balcony and ring my sponsor, an Irish guy in his fifties named Nick who’s been sober for twenty years.
He answers on the first ring. “Felix, lad.”
It’s reassuring to hear his voice—both gruff and lilting.
“Heya, Nick,” I say.
“And how’s the holiday treating you?”
“Oh, I’ve had better.”
“Uh-oh. What’s happened?”
I tell him about being stranded, my near slip, breaking down. He tells me to remember to accept what I can’t control, to surrender to a higher power. And to do what I can to ground myself in my recovery plan even amidst the chaos: take it a minute at a time. Exercise today. Go to a meeting.
“And Felix,” he adds. “You’ve done well. Remember to take pride in that. You’re strong, boyo.”
I thank him, then hesitate. “There’s something else.”
“What is it?” he asks.
“The woman I’m here with—the one I met on the ship. Before we got stranded, we were sleeping together. I think I have feelings for her.”
There’s a pause as he considers this. He’s aware of my fears around dating. How I associate love with ruin. “Is she a drinker?” he asks.
“Well, she’s not sober. But she doesn’t drink… problematically.”
“And are you comfortable with that? Take a moment. Think about it.”
I do.
“Yeah, that’s not the problem,” I say. “It’s just I haven’t felt like this since before—maybe ever. And I know it’s too soon for me. And it’s devastating, to meet this person and not be able to pursue it.”
“Are you certain that you’re not being too hard on yourself?” he asks. “You met the girl a few days ago. You could take it slow. You don’t have to marry her tomorrow.”
I get a wave of anxiety at the idea of marrying anyone and have to take a deep breath. I blow it out slowly. “Well, it’s over anyway,” I say. “I fucked it up. And even if it wasn’t, she’s American. Lives in New York.”
“You know, Felix,” he says, “it’s healthy of you to be cautious. To know your patterns. But it would be a shame to see you deny yourself love forever.”
“I’m not saying I’m inlove.”
“Nor am I, lad. You may well never see this girl again, or maybe you will.Not for me to say. The important bit is to figure out what you really want—not just what you’re afraid of.”
“Right,” I say. I don’t add that what I actually want has led me to destruction in my past so many times that I don’t fully trust myself to know what’s healthy from what’s reckless.
That’s not something Nick can solve for me.
