“No, you don’t need to take that on. It’s only guys in the league, right? They’re normal?”
Brett laughed as he dropped the bag. “Normal is a strong word.”
Penny walked with him back to the driveway and waited for Brett to close the garage. “Do you mind if I schedule appointments when you’re home? Just so . . . you know. If something weird were to happen—”
“Absolutely. I can sit in a lawn chair with a shotgun.”
Penny breathed a laugh as they started back toward the apartment. “Perfect. I’ll add that to my disclaimer.”
_____
Later that afternoon, Brett got in the car with Tyler, and they drove to the AA meeting on Sixteenth Street. They'd been to this one before. Tyler had only started coming with him after his injury, and Brett assumed he'd probably stop once he could drive on his own.
Tyler had been curious about his meetings when they were roommates, but he'd never offered to come with, and Brett had never invited him. He hoped he was getting something out of it because Tyler offering to come meant more to Brett than he would probably ever know.
The scent of stale coffee and the rustling of folding chairs echoed through the basement of St. Mary's Church as Brett and Tyler settled in. They waited for a few minutes while everyone filtered in. At three-thirty, they had seven people in the circle.
The discussion leader, a middle-aged woman with a warm smile, welcomed everybody then started the meeting. "Today, we'll be focusing on the fifth step: admitting to ourselves and others the nature of our wrongs," she began, then continued to read from the book. When she finished, she scanned the group. "What does this step mean to you? And how has it helped you in your recovery?"
A man in his fifties, wearing a worn-out baseball cap, raised his hand. "Hi, I’m Phil, and I’m an alcoholic.” The group welcomed him. “For me, it was finally owning up to the pain I caused my family. My drinking cost me my marriage, but admitting that allowed me to start rebuilding my relationship with my kids."
The group nodded in understanding, and a young woman with tattoos covering her arms chimed in next. "Hi, I’m Mia, and I’m an alcoholic. It's about being honest with yourself, too. My boyfriend told me for three years that I had a problem, but I was always able to make things work, you know? Never lost a job or forgot to pay my bills. But the problem was, I wasn’t living my life. I was floating through it, and that hurt a hell of a lot less, but it also meant I never touched my feet on the ground.”
Brett knew that feeling well. It was terrifying when he’d woken up one morning and realized he hardly remembered anything from the past year. He’d been there, but he hadn’t been there. Even worse, he didn’t know how to be there anymore.
The man who spoke next sat with his arms clamped across his chest, his knee bouncing as he said, “Hi, I’m Jared, and I’m an alcoholic.” The group greeted him, then waited for him to continue. He stared at a spot on the floor, his dark hair falling over his forehead. “I’m working my first step, and I’m going to be honest. This shit is painful.” People nodded around the circle. “I can’t even think about having to admit all this to anyone. Even opening my own eyes to the hole I’m in makes me want to chug a forty.” He gave a sardonic laugh. “I know I shouldn’t. I know it won’t help anything. But I might do it.”
The group leader nodded. “Thanks for sharing, Jared. Would anyone in the group like to respond to that?”
Brett drew a deep breath, then raised his hand. “Hi, I'm Brett. I'm an alcoholic.” Everyone in the circle repeated, “Hi, Brett.” “I know how you feel, bud. I’ve been sober a few years now, and even just this week I had those exact same thoughts.” He motioned to his knee brace. “I injured myself and can’t play hockey or stay active the way I normally do, and every day feels like I’m skating across a pond that just froze over for the winter.”
Jared nodded. “So what do you do with that?”
Brett ran a hand through his hair. “I use every damn skill I learned here at these meetings. Do my step work. Talk to my sponsor to keep my head on straight. Remind myself why the pain is worth it. Give it up to my higher power and tell the truth so I don’t drown in shame like I used to.”
Brett thought of that moment in the kitchen last night with Penny. Sobriety was built on moments like that. Seconds where he chose to give it up instead of holding it tight and letting it fester. Penny knew the truth now, and that meant he didn’t need to think about trying to make something happen. Even when he was feeling more stable. But he’d told her anyway, because hiding the truth wouldn’t avoid that consequence. It never avoided any consequence. They always came sooner or later, and putting it off until later only meant more suffering.
“Thank you for sharing, Brett.” The facilitator continued on down the circle, and eventually landed on Tyler. In the past, he'd stood and said his name and explained that he was there to support a friend and learn, but today, Tyler cleared his throat. “Hi, I'm Tyler.” Everybody welcomed him the same way they had Brett, but Tyler didn’t sit down. “While I'm not an alcoholic, I've realized over the past few weeks that you don't have to be an alcoholic to benefit from these steps. I think we all have negative behaviours in our lives that we wish we could fix. Being here has helped me start to figure that out, so thank you.” Tyler dropped back into his seat, and the introductions continued around the circle.
Brett nudged Tyler's knee and whispered, “Thanks for coming, buddy.”
Tyler nodded. “I meant what I said. This has been a good thing for me, so thanks for letting me tag along.”
As the meeting came to a close, the attendees exchanged hugs and handshakes before filing out of the basement. Brett followed Tyler to his truck, the late afternoon air warm against his unshaven skin.
Tyler pulled the door to his truck open. "You're doing great, you know that? Impressive as hell."
Brett opened the passenger side and gripped the handle to pull himself up. "Thanks, bud.”Doing great.Week after week, his parents had asked if he was doing well, clinging to those words like a prayer. Every time he’d tried to get sober, he’d wanted to make them proud, and every time, he’d failed. It still made him a little nauseous to think that someone cared enough about him to be invested in how he was doing. Because those threads hurt when they were clipped.
As they clicked in their seatbelts, Tyler asked, “So what exactly is step work?”
“It's journaling. There's a book called the Big Book—”
“Was that the one she was reading out of?”
“Yep. There are different sections that I work through and take notes, a lot of self-evaluation, goals, that kind of thing.”
Tyler pulled out onto the road. “Why isn't everyone doing this?”
