Beautiful Failure (13 page)

I hear him getting out of the car and within seconds he’s standing outside my door with an umbrella.

Opening the door, he reaches for my hand. He slips an arm around my waist and pulls me close to his side, walking me down the driveway and up to the porch.

I look down into my purse—searching for my keys, but he tilts my chin up.

“What happened to your car?”

“It’s...I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you need a ride to work tomorrow?”

“
What
?”

“Do you need a ride?”

“You know I work at a strip club, right? One that’s
two hours
away from where we’re currently standing?”

He grins. “I’m well aware.”

“I’m actually off tomorrow but...” I look into my purse again.

“But
what
?” He cups my face in his hands, brushing his thumbs across my cheeks.

“If your offer is on the table for two days from now, I might take you up on it.”

“It is.” He slips his phone into my hand. “Give me your number.”

I save the digits into his phone and hand it back to him.

“Not Your Cinderella?” He reads what I saved my number under and rolls his eyes. He calls it and my phone rings inside my bag. “Feel free to save it under Not Your Prince Charming.”

I smile and finally find my keys.

He stands on my porch until I’m safely inside, looking me over one last time. 

I say thank you and shut the door in a rush, but I peer out the window and watch him walk out into the rain, smiling as he looks over his shoulder.

“E
merald?” Tim snaps me out of my latest dream, forcing me to see that I’m not in Carter’s car kissing him anymore. I’m in a room full of drunks.

“
What
?”

“How often did you used to drink?”

I sigh. “Almost every day.”

“And
how much
did you drink?”

“Is that really relevant?”

He nods and everyone turns their eyes towards me.

“As much as I could handle,” I say. “It depended on what type of day it was.”

“Did you ever tell your mom or your dad about your drinking problem?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I’ve never had a fucking
drinking problem
?” I really don’t feel like being here today and I’m seconds away from leaving. “I never had a father to talk to and my mom was drinking right there with me.
All the time
. So I’m pretty sure if I had a
problem
, she would’ve been the first person to point that out.”

“Your mom was your
enabler
?” He sounds shocked.

“
Fuck you
.” I stand up and grab my purse. “I don’t need this.”

“Emerald...”

“Call the judge. Tell her I’d rather do the jail time.” I ignore the “Don’t go” and “Come back” pleas of my classmates and storm out of the room.

I head straight for the parking lot. Then I remember that I don’t have a car anymore.

Sighing, I consider going back and apologizing, but I’m too angry right now and I don’t need him or anyone else judging me.

I start walking down the side streets, deciding that I’ll go to the fire department and wait for Henry to get off and take me home.

I feel my phone vibrating in my purse the entire way there and know it’s Tim trying to figure out where I’ve gone, but I ignore it.

The second I arrive at the fire station, the recruits who are sitting outside smile and wave at me.

Any other day, I would smile and wave back, but I simply nod and head inside.

“Good afternoon, Emerald.” The station’s receptionist beams as soon as she sees me. “How are you today?”

“Good. Is Henry in?”

“Not right now. He took a team out for lunch. Do you need me to call him?”

“No, that’s okay. You think it’d be okay if I waited in his office?”

“Of course it would.” She smiles and points down the hall. “You know the way.”

I return her smile and lock myself into his office, opening all the blinds. I need to get a good look at the sunshine every chance I can get over the next few days since I’ll be confined to a jail cell soon.

Pulling out my phone, I prepare to erase all of my missed calls, but there aren’t any. Just text messages:

“Emerald, I’m so sorry for offending you at today’s meeting, but I think you’re on the verge of having your breakthrough moment. Thank you for opening up. I’ll tell the judge we’re finally making progress. I expect to see you at the next session (early) so we can dig deeper...”
Tim.

Ugh...I was actually looking forward to tasting prison Jell-O...

I save his message and notice there’s another one. Carter.

“Do you own a swimsuit? Not Your Prince Charming would like to know.”

“Tell him he needs to ask my evil stepmother.”
I text back.

“Yes or no, Emerald?”

“Or.”

“In that case, it’s a date. I’ll come pick you up later. Wear jeans.”

“Can’t you tell that I’m trying to blow you off?”

“I look forward to you doing that in person someday. Six o’ clock.”

I don’t text him back. I just smile.

As I mentally go through which swimsuit I should wear, Henry unlocks his office door and steps inside.

“What happened today, Emerald?” He sits at his desk, looking concerned. “Your counselor called me half an hour ago and told me you walked out of a session.”

“He pissed me off.” I shrug. “I’m
not
an alcoholic and I don’t belong in there. I was just drunk that night and got out of hand. You have to believe me...”

He sighs and clasps his hands. “Do you remember the first week that Virginia brought you here to Blythe? Back when you were seventeen?”

“Yeah,” I say, but it’s a lie. I can’t remember anything about the first
month
I came here, except for Leah’s funeral, and a few months after that I was at NYU. 

“You slept the first few days, which we figured was pretty normal.” There’s worry in his eyes. “But then you...You would pass out every night in the middle of your dinner. You screamed at either of us if we asked you something as simple as how you were feeling, but then you slowly shaped up. For the next few months you seemed okay, so we figured it was just a phase and sent you all the way up to NYU...”

“Me being upset about my mother’s death proves I’m a
drunk
?”

“After Virginia brought you home from NYU—the very next day, we had to call the medics to pump your stomach. One of my recruits found you passed out in the backyard.”

I shake my head, refusing to believe that. “That’s not true. I would’ve never drank
that
much and you didn’t have to call the medics. I would’ve woken up. I was just depressed.”

“There were empty beer and vodka bottles in all of your drawers. I started to count them as we threw them away, but I stopped at fifty...” He’s on the verge of tears. “We’ve been lenient and hands-off because we love you and don’t want you to leave us like Leah did, but... You have a
problem
, Emerald. You have to stop denying it.”

He averts his gaze from me and looks out the window. I notice him wincing and wonder if he’s waiting for me to storm out of his office in anger, but I don’t.

I look out the window too, trying my hardest to remember those blacked out months, but I can’t. I want to tell him that there’s no way I can be an alcoholic because I don’t
need
alcohol to function. I can live without it.

Furthermore, I don’t always drink when I’m sad or angry. My first thought when I’m pissed isn’t to grab a drink and sleep the day away, and I don’t depend on liquor to help me cope with my feelings. There have been days when I haven’t had any alcohol (the past few weeks to be exact) and I haven’t woken up craving it, wanting,
needing
it.

I’ve served it to men at The Phoenix without yearning for a sip, without wishing I could slip into the bathroom and sneak just one gulp. Even yesterday, when the other girls finally started talking to me and ended my silent treatment with a toast (they gave me a bottle of water), I didn’t want any of the top shelf champagne that was in their glasses; I was completely happy with my water.

That last lie hits me like a wrecking ball.

I
am
an alcoholic...

In complete shock, I sit silently for several seconds—playing back the parts of the last few months that I do remember.

Rejection letters. Shots. Rejection emails. Shots.

Rainy morning. Half a cup of vodka. Sunny morning. Half a cup of gin.

My heart hurts like hell. “Why didn’t you say something to me about the drinking before, Henry?”

“You’d started working and you were a little more upbeat.” He turns around, looking surprised that I’m still here. “At least you were until you got into that accident. I just couldn’t say anything because I
really
didn’t want you to...” His voice trails off and I can tell he still harbors guilt for letting Leah run away. “Promise me you’ll keep going to rehab and no matter what any of those people say, you won’t storm out again?”

I nod slowly. “I promise.”

“And you’ll try and come to church with us sometime?”

I give him a blank stare and he laughs.

“I thought so.” He laughs even harder and walks around his desk, hugging me as if he doesn’t want to let me go. “Are you sure you want to keep working at that diner all the way out there? Is the pay really worth all those bus rides?”

“
Absolutely
.”

––––––––

H
enry pulls into our driveway hours later and tells me he’ll be at the church shut-in for the night.

“I love you, Emerald,” he calls out to me before putting his car in reverse.

Numb, I think about the past two hours that I spent in his office, the hours when he hugged me and didn’t let me go, when I didn’t want him to let me go.

It’s five thirty, and as much as I want to see Carter, I send him a text:
“I don’t feel like going out today... Can I have a rain check? Let me know if you’re still willing to take me to work tomorrow...”

There’s a sudden knock at my door and I roll my eyes. If it’s Carter I’m going to threaten to call the cops—after I stare at him for a while.

Annoyed, I open it and see my probation officer. He’s six foot five, at least three hundred pounds, and his low buzz cut and usual USMC shirt boast the fact that he’s a former Marine.

“How are you today,
Future Convict
?” he asks.

“Does the judge know you call me that?”

“Of course she does.” He pushes his way past me. “Who do you think named you?”

“Beautiful.”

He walks towards the bathroom and pushes the door open, holding out an empty cup. “Let’s get this over with shall we?”

I sigh and take the cup, allowing him to pat underneath my arms and between my thighs before letting me step inside.

“Don’t flush. Don’t turn on the tub or the sink, and if you take more than sixty seconds—”

“It’s an automatic negative test.” I roll my eyes. “I’m aware. Although, aren’t those rules pretty pointless since you keep the door open? Wouldn’t you
hear
me flush or turn the water on?”

“Hurry up and piss, future convict.” He turns so his back is to me.

I pull my skirt up and position the cup right under my pee stream, deciding that these random intrusions will always be humiliating.

Once I’m done, I set the cup on the counter and screw the cap onto it. “I’m done.”

He turns around and grabs my sample, saying, “You can wash your hands now,” before walking down the hall.

I take my time washing my hands, staring at myself in the mirror.

Today I look exactly like Leah—from my hair, to my lips, to the uneasiness that hides behind my dark green eyes. Sad, I yank the band from around my bun and make a makeshift side ponytail, but that still doesn’t make the woman in the mirror look any different.

I shake my head as a lump starts to crawl up my throat. Before it can send a signal to my tear ducts, I open the cabinet and pull out a tube of ultra-thick mascara.

Carefully applying pressure to each row of my lashes, I blink a few times to make sure it won’t smudge.

“Future Convict!” The officer calls from the kitchen. “Get out here right now!”

I take a deep breath and walk out to join him. “Yes?”

“Anything you want to tell me before I test it? Anything you want to get off your chest?”

“White shirts don’t look good on you.”

He laughs and puts on a pair of plastic gloves, opening the cup before sticking five separate strips inside of it. As usual, he keeps his eyes on the strips, humming the refrain of Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” until three minutes have passed.

“All clean!” He closes the cup and sticks it into a red biomedical bag with what I can only assume are other urine samples.

“Does it bother you that you literally get paid to carry piss around all day?”

“It bothers me that I have yet to arrest you and send you to jail, where you
belong
.” He pops his gum. “You’ll slip up one day. It’ll be the happiest day of my life.”

He’s lying. Even though he’s a jerk, I saw how proud he looked for a split second when the strips remained white.

“Could you give me a heads up on the next time you’ll be coming?” I ask. “It would make my life a lot easier if you gave me advance notice. I
promise
I’m not going to drink anymore.”

He holds his stomach, laughing as he walks to the front door. “Just when I think I’ve heard it all! An alcoholic saying ‘I
promise
I’m not going to drink anymore’? I’ll be sure to tell the judge that one! I’ll see you when I see you.” And with that, he heads out and hops into his car—off to administer more random tests.

The second I shut the door, there’s another loud knock against it.

Ugh...A DOUBLE test? Really?!

This happened two weeks ago and it almost broke me. 

Shaking my head, I sigh and hide my disappointment before opening the door.