Ollie: Are you okay? Can we talk? I’m freaking out.
Don’t blame him.
Not every alcoholic has a singular, defining, rock-bottom moment. But I did. And Ollie was by my side when shit went down.
Me: I’m not drinking.
Ollie: So what are you doing there?
Good fucking question.
I guess I’m challenging myself. Seeing if after six months of sobriety, I’m strong enough to not succumb to having a drink. I stare down at the whiskey, and there’s zero temptation, absolutely no desire to take a sip.
There’s something worse instead. A feeling that has haunted me my whole damn life.
Numbness.
Me: Testing out the theory that one way of overcoming trauma is by tackling it head-on.
I snap a photo of my untouched drink and send it to him.
Me: Been nursing this for close to an hour. Not even tempted.
Bouncy dots appear, then disappear at least three times.
Ollie: Are you sure you’re okay?
Me: I’m sure.
Ollie: Pinkie swear?
Me: You’re a lawyer. You’d be out of a career if people did ‘pinkie swears.’
Ollie: Just shut up and reassure me please.
Me: I’M OKAY. DON’T STRESS.
Ollie: I’ll take it…for now. I have to go, I have a meeting. Call me later?
Me: Of course.
Ollie: Love you, man. Stay safe.
Me: Love you, too.
I flag Bunny down.
“What can I get you, hon?”
“A sparkling water, please.”
“Coming right up.”
When she returns with the water, I slip another bill across the counter, a fifty this time, and insist, “Please. I want to.”
She smiles, and there’s a soft look in her eyes when she says, “We share tips ’round here, so thank you.”
I take a sip. “No problem.”
