“Thanks.”
“Listen, Fe, the reason I tried to call you was to apologize. For the way I acted when you went into recovery.”
Her sincerity eases my tension. I see her kindness, the openheartedness I once fell in love with. And I know that I hurt her. An apology is long overdue.
“I’m sorry too. For everything,” I say. “We were both such messes back then.”
We have a long conversation. She apologizes to me for her lack of support when I went to rehab. She said it felt like an indictment, like if I was declaring myself an addict then she must be one too. She felt defensive and scared that our engagement would not survive such a profound change in my lifestyle.
Which, of course, it didn’t.
“I’m sorry it felt like I was abandoning you,” I tell her. “It wasn’t my intention, but I know it still hurt. And it was very painful for me to lose you.”
“You had to save yourself,” she says. “Put your own oxygen mask on first, and all that. But it did break my heart. I still miss you.” She gives me a wry smile. “Sometimes.”
“Same,” I say.
“I do have some news, though. I’m engaged.” She holds up her left ring finger, which is adorned with a beautiful opal.
“Wow!” I say. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Yeah, it happened fast. We met in AA. He’s been sober for six years.”
Conventional wisdom says that you should spend a year or two in recovery before venturing into a serious relationship, so this news makes me nervous for her.
“I know, I know,” she says, reading what I’m thinking in the way she was always so good at. “But I figure, in recovery I have to be strong in myself whatever life brings me—good or bad. And this man—his name is Amar—has brought me so much love. So why not take it?”
This philosophy resonates with me. It’s what haunts me every time I think about Hope.
Which is every day. Sometimes every hour.
“I’m delighted for you,” I say.
“Are you seeing anyone?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “I haven’t dated since I got sober.”
“Why not?”
“Scared to, I guess.”
“That’s too bad, Fe,” she says.
The genuine compassion in her tone moves me to say more.
“I actually did meet a woman recently. On holiday. I fucked it up though. Freaked out.”
“Why?”
“I was worried a relationship would make me relapse,” I say bluntly.
She widens her eyes. “Do you still feel that way?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Maybe it’s like you said. Anything can be a trigger. You have to take care of yourself, but you can’t let fear be an excuse not to live. I regret it a bit, if I’m honest.”
“What happened to the girl?” she asks.
“I don’t know. We’re not in touch. She lives in the US.”
