Inside, the faint scent of coffee mingled with the aged wood of the tiny sanctuary. She nodded to a few familiar faces in the hallway before making her way down the narrow staircase to the basement, the soft hum of muted conversations and the clinking of coffee cups growing louder with each step.
The room was simple—folding chairs arranged in a circle, a table against the wall holding a coffee urn and a stack of cookies on a paper plate. But to Reva, this was sacred ground. This place had seen her at her worst, and, over the years, at her best. Tonight, though, she felt like she was back at the starting line.
The familiar creak of the old wooden floor announced Reva’s arrival as she stepped into the room. A few heads turned, and friendly smiles greeted her. “Evening, Reva,” said Jim, a wiry man in his sixties who always arrived early to set up the chairs. He lifted his coffee cup in a small salute.
“Evening, Jim,” Reva replied, offering him a tired smile as she hung her coat on the hook by the door. “How’s that grandbaby of yours?”
“Keeping us on our toes,” he said with a chuckle. “You’d think I’d forgotten how much energy toddlers have.”
“You probably did,” called out Dot Montgomery from the coffee table, her bangles clinking as she poured herself a cup. “But they’re good for keeping you young.”
Reva nodded in agreement as she moved toward her usual seat. “Lord knows Lucan has enough energy for three toddlers. I could use some of that stamina,” she said, settling into the chair and taking a deep breath. “Feels like it’s been a week and a half since Monday.”
A few chuckles rippled through the group, and the warm, familiar hum of conversation continued as more people filtered into the room.
Reva glanced around the circle, the familiar faces of the group giving her a sense of solace. She was not alone here, but the ache in her chest felt isolating. She hadn’t felt this fragile in years—not since the early days, when the pull of alcohol felt like an unstoppable tide.
She folded her hands tightly in her lap. Her pulse raced as she replayed the scene of Capri’s accident in her mind—the sharp edge of panic in her friends’ voices as sirens approached. The memory refused to leave her, swirling with the guilt she couldn’t shake.
She knew how dangerous that mountain could be. She should have done more to stop Capri from taking such a reckless risk. As mayor of Thunder Mountain, she might have even used her official capacity to pull rank and convince the organizers to shut down the race. Lives would not have been lost. Capri would not be laid up in a hospital bed in traction.
When the time came, Reva stood. Her chair creaked softly as she pushed it back, and the room fell quiet. She gripped the back of the chair in front of her, her knuckles white, as she searched for the right words.
“I’ve been sober for a lot of years,” she began, her voice steady at first. “And in all that time, I’ve rarely felt the kind of pull I felt in the past day or so.”
She paused, swallowing hard. Her eyes flicked to the faces of her group, kind and patient, before lowering to her hands. “As many of you are aware, Capri—one of my most cherished friends—was in an accident. It shook me to my core. She’s okay now, but for a moment, I thought...” Her voice cracked, and she struggled to breathe. “I thought I was going to lose her.”
The words came tumbling out, faster now. “And I kept thinking, if I could just do something, if I could just control the situation, maybe I could stop bad things from happening. But I couldn’t. It made me feel...powerless. Scared. And for the first time in years, I thought about having a drink.”
The room was silent, the weight of her words settling over the group. Reva felt tears prick her eyes. She didn’t bother brushing them away.
“But I know...” Her voice softened, trembling. “I know that I am powerless—not just over alcohol, but over life. Over the people I love. And I have to remind myself every day that it’s not my job to protect everyone. That’s in God’s hands.”
Reva quietly recited the mantra they had all learned to cling to. “God, grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
She inhaled deeply, her tears spilling freely now. “One day at a time,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “That’s all I can do.”
She sat down slowly, her hands shaking as she wiped her face. A gentle murmur of encouragement and understanding rose around her, and someone placed a hand on her shoulder. It was a small gesture, but it was enough.
12
Capri woke to the steady beep of a monitor and the antiseptic smell of a hospital room. Her eyelids felt heavy, the kind of weight that came with too many painkillers. As she blinked, the white ceiling tiles came into focus, their repetitive patterns suddenly maddening. She shifted, and a sharp pain shot through her side, causing her to gasp.
A nurse in scrubs the color of a summer sky appeared at her side. “Easy there, Miss Jacobs,” the nurse said with a soothing tone. “Don’t try to move too much. Remember, you’ve got a few broken ribs and a leg trying to heal.” She pointed to the traction apparatus.
Capri blinked up at her. “How could I forget?” Her voice came out raspy, foreign to her own ears—her memory blurry and indistinct.
“That was quite the accident on that mountain,” the nurse noted, checking the IV attached to Capri’s arm. “Do you remember anything?”
Memories flooded back with a sickening clarity: the roar of the snowslide, the jarring impact, the desperate struggle to keep control. Capri closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I remember.”
The nurse’s kind eyes softened. “You gave us all quite a scare. But you’re lucky—it could’ve been much worse.”
Lucky. The word stung. Capri didn’t feel lucky. She felt stupid. Reckless. Her body ached all over, and the weight of what could have happened pressed down on her. What did happen to other racers. She nodded absently; her throat too dry to say anything more.
The nurse adjusted Capri’s blankets and fussed with a machine beside her bed. “On a scale of one to ten, how’s your pain?”
Capri leaned against the stark white pillowcase. “A four, I guess.”
