Restoration 01 - Getting It Right (28 page)

“Things aren’t the same now that we’re a couple,” James said.

“Well, duh.” Elliott reached out and patted his foot. “Things change when you’re in a relationship. That’s kind of the point.”

“I don’t mean sex. That’s all fine. Great, actually.” Even if they still weren’t fucking—a topic Nathan hadn’t broached yet, and James didn’t know how. He didn’t want to push Nathan into it, or make him feel obligated to go there until he was ready.

“Great sex is fantastic. At least one of us is having great sex. Even before Doug’s accident, it had been a while. Which doesn’t really surprise me, since he was getting it somewhere else.”

“Ell,” Boxer said. “Focus.”

“So we didn’t have sex at your party?” James asked, unable to stop the words once the question was in his mind. He wanted clarification.

Elliott rolled his eyes. “I wish. Honey, you’d had so much to drink you passed out between the appetizers and the main course.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not a bad thing, right? Just means you saved yourself for Nathan.”

“Speaking of Nathan,” Boxer said, getting them back on track, “What exactly is the problem?”

“His job never used to make me this crazy. He was over an hour late because of work, and he didn’t call, and then he had to go back to work, and his fucking job is what got him hurt in the first place.”

Boxer scratched at the tree tattoo on the back of his neck. “I hate to break it to you, pal, but one of your crazypants patients could pull a knife on you one day out of the blue and slice an artery. I bet Nate’s thought about that more than once.”

“Or we could all die tomorrow when an asteroid hits the earth.” James rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I know, we can’t predict the future or how long we’re going to live.”

Elliott’s head ducked low, and James’s heart kicked when he realized how callous he’d sounded. “Shit, Ell, I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Elliott said to his lap.

“Point is,” Boxer said, “Nate’s a cop. He always has been, and that’s not gonna change just because you’re fucking him.”

“It’s not just his job.” James tried to get his muddled thoughts to make sense, so he could express them to his friends. Maybe they’d have some good advice. “He was late and he didn’t care.”

“Oh, I get it. He treated your plans tonight like he would have six months ago.”

“Exactly. I mean, yes, we’re having sex now but the peri—parime—prem—”

“Parameters?”

“Yes. The parameters of our relationship have changed. We’re a couple, or at least I think we are. I was really looking forward to cooking for him tonight and he blew it off like I’d heated up a frozen pizza.”

Boxer nodded at the ceiling for a while, coming to some conclusion of his own while Elliott kept his head down. James squirmed, the urge to pee growing stronger the longer he waited for someone to say something.

“Here’s how I see it, so take this for what it’s worth,” Boxer said. “You and Nate, you’re a couple of lone wolves who’ve been circling each other forever. Finally you both stop pretending, you admit how you feel and fuck it out, but you don’t know how to make it work as a pair because you’ve been solo so long. With me so far?”

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

“Now take Nate. He’s been through hell and back these last few months. Work is

familiar. Your friendship is familiar. He needs that, and he needs routines. Comfortable stuff so he can get through what he’s going through. Falling back on old habits, forgetting what’s new, is gonna happen, Jay.”

Everything Boxer said fell at James’s feet like manna, exactly right and exactly what he’d needed. It made perfect sense, looking at things from Nathan’s perspective. “You should have been a shrink.”

Boxer snorted. “Fuck that, I’m not a people person. Why do you think I plant flowers for a living?”

“Not much longer,” Elliott said.

“What?” James glanced between them. “Did you find another job, Box?”

“Not exactly.” Boxer glared at the back of Elliott’s head, then rolled up his sleeve to reveal a white bandage on his left biceps. “Had a mole removed yesterday. Doc said it was pre-cancerous.”

“Fuck.” Alarmed, James moved to sit next to Boxer on the sofa. He grabbed a big, work-rough hand and held tight. “Did they get it all?”

“Yeah, and they got it early. Hasn’t spread so I don’t need to do chemo or any of that shit.”

“That’s good, that’s really good.” James yanked Boxer into a hug, grateful for the solid heartbeat beneath his. Boxer thumped him on the back with his meaty paws.

“Problem with work is I do most of it outdoors, right? Landscaping isn’t exactly rainy-day friendly. And I’ve got a bunch of moles and freckles on my back and arms, so the doctor thinks I should switch to an indoors job.”

“Do you have a family history of cancer?”

“Not on my mother’s side, but I don’t know shit about my father. Don’t even know his name.” Boxer’s mother had an unfortunately long history with drug abuse and sleeping with any guy who would feed her habit or show her a sliver of affection. If his mother even knew who his father was, she’d never owned up.

“That really sucks,” James said. “About your job.”

Boxer shrugged. “I’d rather take a desk job than end up one giant block of cancer, you know? I’ve seen a few people die from that shit. I want to go fast. Car crash. Boom, done.” His eyebrows shot up. “Shit, Ell.”

“Will you guys stop treating me like I’m going to break every time you talk about death or dying? Jesus Christ, I’m okay. Fuck.” Elliott scrambled to his feet. “And for the record, I agree with you. I ever end up a vegetable like Doug? Pull the fucking plug.”

He stalked into the guest bathroom and slammed the door, the exclamation point to his declaration. And proof that he wasn’t fine.

“I think he’s on something, but he won’t tell me what he took,” Boxer said softly. “Louis is pissed that Ell’s been around my house so much, but I don’t like him alone right now.”

“Good call. If you need a break, he can stay here tonight.”

“That’s up to him.” Boxer knuckled his shoulder. “You got yourself straight on Nate now? What you need to say to him?”

“I think so.”
I have no idea, but maybe the words will come between now and whenever.

“I need to apologize.”

“Always a good place to start.”

“Hey, Box?”

“Yeah?”

Looking into his friend’s dark blue eyes, James summoned up the courage he needed to ask, “Any ideas on where I can find an AA meeting?”

Boxer, God bless him, only smiled and simply said, “Sure do.”

Nate had a small moment of déjà vu as he walked down the hallway to James’s apartment on another early Saturday morning. His trek there two weeks ago had been the cause of a different sort of anxiety than what he felt today. That had been about apologizing and making things right with James, his best friend. Today it was about making sure last night’s fight hadn’t ruined what they were trying to build together.

He pressed the bell and waited. A few minutes after nine, James might still be in bed sleeping off his beer, so he counted to thirty, then rang again.

The door opened. Cold blasted through him at the sight of Elliott clutching the jamb, dressed in boxers and a T-shirt too big for him. James’s clothes. He gaped at the mirage, hoping it would go away.

“Hey, honey. Good morning,” Elliott said cheerfully. “Come on in. I think Jay’s still asleep, but you can go jump on him if you want.”

Nate couldn’t move. One fight and that was it. James had run right back to Elliott.

“Nate? Anybody home?”

Something heavy and dark settled deep in Nate’s gut. “Don’t wake him, it’s not

important.” He didn’t like the edge in his voice, the anger. “See you, Ell.”

Elliott didn’t call him back or protest his leaving. Probably too eager to crawl back into bed with James.

Nate took the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the physical action to stop the stinging in his eyes from turning into something worse.

It’s your own fault. You called Elliott and told him you and Jay were having problems.

He probably pounced on the chance to get Jay back.

The unkind thoughts only fueled his frustration. He’d woken up early this morning after being up until nearly dawn—a cruel mix of work and not being able to sleep alone in his own home—hoping to clear the air with James. To ask James about his day and what he’d been so eager to talk to Nate about. To hug him, kiss him and drag him off to bed so he could show James how he felt.

Maybe he couldn’t say it out loud but actions had always spoken louder for Nate.

James’s actions are speaking loud and clear.

Nate sat in his pickup for a few minutes, contemplating where to go next. Not home again, and not to the station. They were trying to keep their routines as normal as possible, despite the undercover op in progress. Only a handful of officers in both Investigations and Vice knew what was going on. The fewer who knew, the fewer who could let details slip.

He started driving, unconcerned with his route until the city was behind him and he spotted signs for Route 1 South. His hometown had never felt so far away.

His cell rang once about forty minutes into the trek back to Oak Orchard. He ignored the ringtone, the beep of a voice mail and the buzz of four subsequent text messages. He ignored everything about the scene he’d left behind and focused on the road.

All of his stereotypes about musty church basements and shifty-eyed, nervous attendees evaporated the moment James walked into the meeting room at St. Michael’s church for the 4:00

p.m. Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

The room had familiar brown paneling and several watercolors of nature scenes on the walls. Posters of both the Serenity Prayer and Footsteps poem were tacked on one wall behind a podium. Rows of padded folding chairs faced the podium. A table of coffee, water and assorted pastries was set up in the rear.

Most of the chairs were full, and a handful of attendees lingered in clusters on the periphery. The faces surprised him with their blandness. Men and woman, all ages and ethnicities. No one’s appearance screamed alcoholic or addict.

Do you think yours does?

A middle-aged woman with red hair broke away from a cluster of people and moved to stand behind the podium. She clapped her hands and the stragglers found chairs. James slid into an empty one in the back row, close to the exit.

“Good evening, all,” the woman said.

An automatic reply of “Good evening” rang out like a Greek chorus.

“My name is Christa and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Christa,” went the chorus.

James hunched into his seat.

“I’ve been sober for three years, one month and four days.”

He listened to Christa’s story with mild interest. He understood addictions far too well, both personally and professionally. Christa was classic—twice-divorced single mom who found comfort in vodka until it threatened her health and her relationships with her two teenage daughters. She spoke with confidence in her recovery, and she made James believe in her continued success.

Until the next tragedy sends her racing back into the bottom of a bottle.

Cynical, sure, but he’d dealt with enough drunks and addicts—mostly parents of his clients—to know the real chances of staying sober.

“I see at least two new faces tonight,” Christa said when her personal testimony petered out. “You are more than welcome to share if you choose, but first we have an anniversary to celebrate. One of our members is receiving their five-year chip. Wally?”

A familiar shape lumbered from the second row to the podium. James blinked hard, but Wallace Carey remained, casually dressed in jeans and a blue button-down.

“Hello,” he said mildly. “My name is Wally, and I’m an alcoholic.”

Holy shit, does Nate know?

“I’ve been sober for five years and two days. I’d been a casual drinker for a long time, mostly due to the stress of my job. I can’t put a date on when it went from a few times a week to several drinks a night, every night, but I know it was about twelve years ago. One night my wife and two sons were in a bad car wreck, and my youngest boy died. He was only six months old.

Losing someone you love is no excuse—it’s only a fact—and I know for a fact I fell deeper and deeper into the bottle after my baby boy died.

“I’m ashamed of the man I became when I drank. I was mean. I did a lot of things I regret, including how much I hurt my wife and other boy. The two people in the world who still loved me. Seven years ago, my beautiful wife died of liver cancer. Five months from diagnosis to death, it was that fast. And I hated that she’d died afraid of me. I hated that my only boy looked at me like I was the devil himself, but I couldn’t stop drinking. I didn’t want to.”

Carey glanced out over the crowd. His gaze stopped briefly on James. James inched down in his seat, embarrassed at being noticed by someone he actually knew. And also intrigued by the story about to be told.

At last Carey took a deep breath and continued. “Two years after my wife died, I got into a horrible fight with my son. He’d just turned eighteen. He grew up so fast. I remember some of the circumstances, if not the specifics, but the end result was that I hit him. More than once. I told him I wouldn’t have him under my roof anymore. And the next day he was gone.

“I haven’t had a drop since that night. I regret it every single day because in the last five years, I’ve not heard from my son. I don’t know where he lives now, or if he’s safe or scared. I don’t know if he’s happy or in love, or if he’s even alive. I hear about young John Does on the news, and it terrifies me every time, because I wonder if that’s him.

“He may not be part of my life, but he’s why I’m sober. Sobriety, for me, is about success. I failed my boy in so many ways, but I won’t fail him in this. If ever our paths do cross again, I want to be able to look him in the eye and say in all honesty that I’m a changed man.”

Wally held up what looked like a shiny poker chip. “This means everything to me. Five years took a lot of work, but it’s worth it. Believe me.”