Fall to Pieces: A story about addiction and love Page 5

  “I ain’t got a problem, Auggie.”

  I laughed because his statement was funny. His words were funny. I told myself he was delusional if he thought he didn’t have a problem, but those thoughts were just floating into dead space because it’s common knowledge that someone with a severe problem can’t see their troubles at all. I studied him, waiting to see if he had anything else to say. I hated the way he looked when he had fallen off the wagon.

  Keegan’s head appeared disjointed from his shoulders. His neck protruded with a weakness. His tawny brown eyes had taken on a gray hue in contrast to the scarlet veins webbing throughout the pale-yellow coloring. His stare was emptier than the glass he had just left behind, but his heavy eyelids were covering most of the truth. Those lips I used to love to kiss hung as if someone had beaten him in a boxing ring.

  An unfamiliar person might have thought Keegan was merely tired, but it was the look of reconciliation with a vice that has threatened his life many times before.

  “I’m tired,” he added. “I’m going to bed.”

  “It’s two in the afternoon,” I reminded him.

  “Well, I have a headache.”

  “Of course you do,” I scolded my boyfriend—a grown man, not my child.

  I shook my head with dismay. “I can’t do this anymore, Keegan. I can’t.”

  His eyelids struggled to perk in alertness. “You’re just angry,” he huffed.

  “No, I’m serious. I don’t want to live this kind of life anymore.”

  Keegan ran his fingers through his greasy chin-length waves and puffed his cheeks out like a blowfish, slowly exhaling his self-induced frustration.

  “So, what—you’re just going to leave or kick me out?” His words slurred together as if pauses would steal too much of his energy.

  “No, Keegan. That isn’t the type of person I am. I am going to help you get better first.”

  “Why?”

  I can understand his confusion. A person dealing with as much anger as I was with him might walk right out and never look back, but I had been with Keegan for so long, and I knew he wouldn’t get better on his own. I knew the disease was more than he could handle.

  “I don’t need help,” he argued.

  “Yes, you do. Hate me for it if you like, but this time, you need to get better for you because I’m still leaving at the end.” I realize I took away an incentive to get well, but I don’t want to be his motivation any longer. At the same time, I don’t want to feel guilty knowing I walked away when he needed help.

  The problem with Keegan is, he needs to decide to get better, or he’ll end up in the hospital, jail, or detained for public intoxication. At best, he’ll lose all his landscaping jobs again. It won’t be until one of those things happen that he’ll toy with the idea of temporary sobriety. So, I must stick around until something terrible happens.

  My headache is finally subsiding after a long day, and I’m packing up my belongings to head out. For a moment, I reconsider my recent activities, hanging out at the bar like a drunk. I’m not sure I want to go through another day of headaches or exhaustion, but I won’t have closure until I understand why he did what he did.

  I pull the leather strap of my messenger bag over my neck, letting it hang across my body. I touch the outer pocket, running my fingertips along the zipper before reaching in for my phone.

  I try to avoid calls throughout the day as it can be distracting, but my parents and sister know they can call my office phone if there’s an emergency. I used to keep my phone out on my desk all day because Keegan would send me sweet messages, but over the last year, that slowly ended, like our relationship.

  May’s name appears a few times, so lift my phone and click to read her messages.

  * * *

  May: Sissy, can we meet tonight. I need your advice, and I want to see how you’re doing.

  * * *

  May: We can go wherever you want.

  * * *

  May: I’m free all night in case you’re trying to think of an excuse to avoid me.

  * * *

  My hand falls to my side, and I roll my head back with frustration. Mom has probably set May up to check on me because shutting down and wallowing isn’t acceptable in my family.

  The only saving grace is that May is not judgmental. With her being five years less experienced in life than me and often living with her head in the clouds, some might refer to her as a bit ditzy. But, she’s cute and lovable, which gets her through life.

  * * *

  Me: Want to meet me at Kenny’s in a half-hour?

  * * *

  The three little dots immediately flicker, which isn’t surprising since May rarely places her phone down for longer than it takes for her to go to the bathroom.

  * * *

  May: Why do you want to go there?

  * * *

  Me: Because ... I do.

  * * *

  I imagine she’s shrugging her amber curls off her shoulders and deciding to go with the flow.

  * * *

  May: Sure. Whatever floats your boat.

  * * *

  Me: See you soon, sis. Xo

  Chapter Nine

  Chance

  Since these recurrences have been like clockwork, I had a suspicion she would be back, making this night three of her new routine.

  Today, Miss August is sporting business apparel, form-fitting navy slacks, a pretty white blouse, and a slim feminine blazer. Her previous night’s behavior doesn’t fit the look she’s sporting tonight, which leaves me curious about her intentions. Maybe it’s Luke she’s after. I wouldn’t be surprised. The guy gained a few too many pounds after his wedding, and his ring no longer fits. Therefore, to any single girl Luke encounters, he looks free to mingle.

  August is with a friend tonight. I could be wrong, but they look related. It’s the nose. Both of their noses are turned up just a bit at the end, and their lips have a Cupid’s bow arrow darting down the center. The only real difference is their hair color. The other girl has a burnt sienna hue, bright enough to light up a dark room.

  “Could I have a Smirnoff?” August’s friend requests.

  Luke has perfected the ability to control his inner thoughts from appearing within his facial expressions. I know what’s going through his head, though.

  Who comes into a whiskey bar and orders Smirnoff?

  August, places her hand down gently on the bar top and glances out the corner of her eye, appearing embarrassed by her friend’s order.

  “Could I try a blended whiskey, your suggestion, please?” August asks.

  I think by this point, Luke has learned not to argue with August or question anything she requests. “Sure thing,” he answers, tapping the bar with his hands before pivoting toward the bottles on the back shelf.

  “Whiskey?” her friend squeaks. “You don’t drink whiskey.”

  “I do now,” August replies cordially.

  “Why?” her friend drawls.

  “Because I do,” August counters.

  “This is a lovesick thing, isn’t it?”

  August twists her neck, pinning her eyes to her friend. “Why would you say that?”

  I can’t see the expression on her friend’s face, but I wonder if she will shy away from her statement or offer a rebuttal. “It’s been just over a week, August. You aren’t okay. It’s evident.”

  “I’m fine, May. Lord almighty. Mom sent you to check on me, didn’t she?”

  “No, I was worried about my sister. Forgive me.”

  Makes sense, them being sisters.

  “What did you need advice on, May?” August must be the older sister by more than a few years. She speaks to May with a tone of authority—like she’s previously taken care of her.

  May turns in her seat, refacing the bar where her Smirnoff sits on a cardboard coaster with water droplets bubbling around the glass neck. She takes a cocktail napkin and wraps it around the bottle before taking a small sip. Her cheeks pucker as if t
he taste is unexpected.

  After placing her bottle back down, leaving the condensation-soaked napkin wrapped around the bottle, she holds her hand out to August. “Do you like this color nail polish? It’s called Mahogany Gold. I got an extra bottle for you if you want to try it?”

  “You asked me to go out so you could show me your new nail polish?”

  “I miss you, Auggie, come on, give me a break. You’re my sister, and you’ve been avoiding my calls. I want to help you through this.”

  Auggie. Maybe she’s going through a break-up. It sounds like a sisterly thing to do—meeting up with her for a drink. It would explain a lot, I suppose.

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Uh, with all due respect, Miss August. I don’t know what it is you’re going through, but if this nice young lady is offering you a lending ear, maybe it isn’t the worst—”

  Luke, why ...

  “Excuse me?” August snaps. “Who the hell are you again? Isn’t your job to serve drinks here? I don’t recall hiring you to be a mediator or a therapist.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Luke tries to revive himself. “I was just trying to help.”

  “I don’t need help,” she says, slowly, clearly, loudly. However, every one of those words demanded help.

  “Dude!” Davey calls out from the front door of the bar. “Sorry, it took me so long.”

  I want to sigh because Davey didn’t have to show up on my account tonight. He had to stop home first to prove to Carol-Anne that he wasn’t up to anything shady.

  “No worries, bud.” I hold a finger up to Luke, so he knows to double my drink order.

  “Wow. There are hot chicks in this hole? Who would have thought?” Davey mutters.

  A slight feeling of protectiveness waves over me, but only because I’ve been watching this ongoing train wreck.

  “They’re here for a reason, and it isn’t what you think,” I tell him.

  As August pushes her stool from the bar, a piercing sound like nails against a chalkboard drives into my head. “You need to mind your own business,” August shouts at her sister.

  “You’re making a scene,” May grumbles.

  “Yup, you’re right,” August agrees.

  “Sit down. This guy will call the sheriff.”

  Her cheeks are the color of strawberries, steam is obviously filling her head, and yet I’m surprised to witness the submissive response to her sister as August quietly tucks her stool back to where it was and gently takes a seat.

  “Another, please,” August calls over to Luke.

  “Damn, those girls are here to get plastered, aren’t they?” Davey suggests.

  “One of them is,” I agree.

  “The hot-headed one is already half in the bag, it seems.”

  It does seem so, but she’s only had one drink from what I’ve been watching. Therefore, her anger is likely from natural causes. Now that I know a man might have something to do with this, I suppose it’s understandable.

  Davey is chatting my ear off about Carol-Anne, but I’m doing my best to eavesdrop on the girls’ heated conversation.

  “Why are you drinking like this?” May asks.

  “Why not?” August replies to her question, lacking concern.

  “Look, Auggie, I’m worried about you. People don’t just snap back after going through what you did.”

  August shakes her head as she chugs down the new drink Luke placed in front of her.

  “Another, please.”

  Luke seems annoyed, but August hasn’t caused any issues for him since she started coming here. He can’t say much, I suppose.

  “Give me your keys,” May demands.

  “I didn’t drive.” August replies with haste.

  “You walked?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re acting like a lunatic. I don’t even know what to think right now.”

  “Everyone adjusts to life in their unique way, May. Let me adjust.”

  I’ll regret this. I stand up from my stool, Davey continues talking to his glass about having to do the dishes after supper last night, but I take a few steps down the bar and step behind the sisters. “Ladies,” I greet them.

  “Do you live here or something?” August snaps at me. I hardly got a word out.

  “Do you live here?” I retort. Anytime I’ve been here in the last week, she’s been here too.

  “Obviously not,” she says.

  “Well, it’s obviously not obvious.”

  “You’re cute,” May says, punching her dainty knuckles into my arm.

  “No, he’s not,” August argues. “Go away, Chance.”

  “You know him?” May asks.

  “No,” August answers.

  “Seems like you do,” May mutters, raising her brows and lifting the bottle to her lips.

  “I don’t mean to intrude,” I continue.

  “Well, you are,” August snaps, her lips wide but pressed against each other in a flat line. Her dimples show, making a face like that. She sure is cute when she’s mad. Who knows what she might look like when she doesn’t hate the world?

  “Can I make a recommendation?”

  “No, you cannot,” August says without skipping a beat.

  It’s a good thing because I didn’t have a recommendation. I was checking to see if August might talk to me tonight. She’s in trouble, and it doesn’t seem like anyone can help her. Her sister is too close to the subject, I’m sure.

  “Luke, one more drink before I hit the road, please,” August shouts across the bar.

  “You sure now?” Luke questions. Another mistake on his part.

  “Do you question all your patrons, or just me?”

  “Just the ones that seem like they’re looking for trouble.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble. I just need something to make the pain go away. That’s what alcohol is for, right?”

  Who can argue that comment? Sure, people drink for the taste and to socialize, but most people in this society have a drink or two to take the edge off the day—whatever kind of edge that may be.

  I’m sure it’s with reluctance when Luke brings August her so-called last drink of the night. Four glasses of whiskey. That’s a lot for a small woman. I’d sure as hell be feeling like shit tomorrow if I drank that right now.

  She still has a pinched squint to her eyes as she drinks the whiskey down as fast as her throat will allow.

  “You’re sick, August,” May tells her. “I’m taking you home. Let’s go.”

  “Not yet, I’m not,” she replies.

  Chapter Ten

  August

  I’ve been dreading this moment. I doubt anyone looks forward to a funeral, but sometimes people find closure or comfort in companionship and sympathy.

  I don’t want any of that. But I must be strong in front of Keegan’s family, which I don’t want to do either.

  Selfish or not, I just want it to be over.

  Every Time I’ve attended a funeral the weather has been windy and cold or rainy. Today, though, the sun is shining without so much as a breeze. It seems like an anomaly. I always thought the world was sad when losing a soul, bidding a farewell with a gust of air and teardrops falling from the sky. Now, I must wonder if the world or whatever higher power controls the weather feels any sadness for Keegan. Maybe the world doesn’t respond when someone decides on their demise.

  Lenny, Keegan’s father, offered to have their limo pick me up this morning, but I opted out. I don’t want to show up an hour early to greet people. I don’t want to stand in a receiving line, hugging the necks of strangers, or worse, shaking the hands of silent accusers. I’m not a part of the family; I was Keegan’s lifelong girlfriend, that’s it.

  I take my oversized black tweed clutch from the tufted cushion-top of the entryway storage bench. The checklist of what I need to bring with me is flashing through my head, and I have everything I need except for one item.

  My heels click against the hollow-sounding Pergo wood floor,
echoing loudly between the walls as I make my way into the kitchen. I slide open the silverware drawer and reach behind the compartmentalized containment of utensils, retrieving the silver flask Keegan received for being a groomsman at Lenny’s wedding a few years ago. Lenny had his initials engraved onto the side: K A L. I run my fingertips over the coarse etching, feeling numb. It was the worst gift he could have received, but his dad didn’t know Keegan had a problem. I hid Keegan’s issues from his Dad, stepmom, and brother, but I suspect they might have known. After all, he inherited his problem with alcohol from his mother. It was in her genes, and she graciously handed down to him preceding her untimely death. Losing his precious wife to alcoholism should have been enough of a reason to think of a different gift than a flask for Keegan, but Lenny doesn’t feel too deeply about that kind of stuff.

  Since I didn’t share Keegan’s secrets with everyone, his suicide looks like it was due to unhappiness. There’s an invisible finger pointing at me, one I can sense through every phone call I’ve endured this past week. It wasn’t me who made Keegan unhappy. It was Keegan who made himself sad.

  I just lit the match.

  I told him we, as a couple, would be over when he was all better.

  I didn’t give him a choice.

  The paper bag I set down on the counter last night is still sitting in front of the microwave, waiting for consumption. To notice the liquor bottles that stare at me from every direction is part of the process—a way to numb the pain. This lie is what I force myself to believe while staring at the blinking green numbers on the microwave, remembering I never reset the clock after the power flickered last week. Keegan would have usually taken care of that despite his lack of participating in upkeep around here.

  I remove the Old Crow Reserve from the brown bag and twist the top, waiting to hear the snap of the seal. The scent of spiced pear drifts out of the bottle, tickling the inside of my nose. I twist the cap off the flask and fill it with the amber liquid from the bottle.