2
Jen sat in her car, tapping her thumbs on the steering wheel and staring through the windshield at the coffee shop. It would be so easy to leave. In fact, it would be so easy to track down some drugs, get high, and fall back into the arms of her old lover, oblivion. So, so easy. And so, so tempting.
But she wasn’t about easy anymore. She was about surviving, and surviving was hard and sweaty and bloody. It hurt. But it was a pain worth living for. Fighting for. She didn’t want to give up. She wanted to dig the demons out of her chest so she could finally breathe. And, while she wasn’t breathing deep just yet, she was wheezing, and that was something.
Shoving her hand into her pocket, she pulled out her ninety-days-clean sobriety coin and held it in her fist. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and let out a breath, whispering the serenity prayer. She wasn’t a religious woman, but she had recited the prayer so many times during her stay at Healing Hearts that it had become a comfort just to say the words. As her mind calmed, she focused her thoughts on her higher power. Most folks who completed the program found their solace in God or some other deity. Jen found hers in the past. Her sole reason for staying clean was to become the mother her daughter would’ve looked up to. Would’ve been proud of. And Jen couldn’t do that if she was a junkie.
She returned the coin to her pocket, took a deep breath, grabbed her keys, and got out. Adjusting her sunglasses, she glanced down at her outfit, wondering if she was underdressed. She wore her lucky T-shirt and a pair of cutoffs. The T-shirt had been her dad’s and was older than she was. It was so thin, it was practically see-through, and the faded Led Zeppelin emblem on the front was so battered now that it was barely legible. There was also a stain on the top right shoulder from where she’d spilled Tabasco sauce on it during a cookout in 1999. The beloved T-shirt was a lot like her—tired and comfortable. The thought renewed her confidence, and she raised her chin, giving her blonde hair a watch-out-boys shake. For all she knew, Ashley was the type of girl who wore ancient, stained T-shirts, too. And if she wasn’t? Well, Jen’s give-a-damn had given up the ghost years ago. She’d lost it around the time she’d lost herself, and it would take more than a disdainful look from a fellow addict to get her down.
With her coin in her pocket and her jaw set, Jen headed for the coffee shop. There was every possibility that Ashley would be a down-to-earth chick she could relate to. An idea that intrigued Jen. As much as she loved her best friend, Amy just couldn’t relate. For which, Jen was grateful. Despite Amy’s own sister being an addict, she had always had her own head on straight. She’d had her fair share of ups and downs, of course, but she’d kept her nose clean, and she’d never followed Jen down the path of self-destruction. It was why Jen had always looked up to her. Wanted to be her. Even in Jen’s darkest days, she had seen Amy as a source of inspiration, and it gave her hope that she could someday be right, too. Even still, there would always be a disconnect between her and Amy when it came to addiction. Though Amy’s friendship meant the world to her, Jen couldn’t deny that it would be nice to talk to someone who knew. Who understood. Who’d been there. Someone who was just as much of a royal disappointment as she was.
Inside Roust, the holy grail of air conditioning greeted her, along with the delicious smell of roasting coffee beans. Stark white walls, live-edge wood-slab tables, and exposed industrial piping gave it a modern yet welcoming feel. The day’s specials and newest blends were scrawled on a giant chalkboard behind the counter, and she eyed them as she approached.
A young man in a snappy black apron waited with a harried expression. “What can I get you?”
Jen considered the options and settled on the Golden Cream Bitter, which promised a blend of homemade caramel sauce, fresh cream, and Colombia Nariño coffee. She pointed to it. “That one, please. On ice. Small.”
When he began ringing it up, she interrupted, “Make that a large.”
He nodded and adjusted the order while she got out her wallet. She’d need more than a swallow of caffeine to get through this meeting.
After paying and stepping aside to wait on the seven-dollar glorified coffee, she gazed around the space. Patron chatter and the whir, splash, and foam of baristas creating drinkable art met her ears. Renowned for the best brew on the block, it was no surprise that the place was hopping. On a Saturday afternoon, girlfriends were meeting for iced coffees, and strolling couples were stopping in to grab a pick-me-up. She scanned the tables for Ashley without having any idea what the other woman looked like. The day Jen had left Healing Hearts, her mind had been on starting her new life, not getting a play-by-play of her sponsor’s mugshot. All she knew about her was that she had a no-nonsense approach to sponsoring.
By the left wall of windows facing Main Street, Jen spotted a woman about her age sitting alone, her hands clasped around a coffee mug while she gazed out the window. She had long auburn hair and a sweet face, and a Nicholas Sparks book lay before her, a pink-tasseled bookmark sticking out of it. She didn’t look like a whip-cracker, but looks could be deceiving.
The barista called Jen’s name and handed her the Golden Cream Bitter. She thanked him, then cleared her throat, walking over to the woman’s table. “Ashley?”
The woman looked up with a semi-startled expression as if her daydream had been interrupted. “Sorry?”
“Are you Ashley?” Jen asked.
“I think you must be looking for someone else,” the woman said with a polite smile.
“Oh,” Jen said, returning her smile. “Sorry.”
When the woman returned her gaze to Main Street, Jen glanced around with a frown. Maybe Ashley was late. Every other woman in the building was either with a friend or a boyfriend. When they’d arranged the meeting, Ashley had indicated that she’d be alone. Jen retrieved her phone from her pocket and scrolled through their text.
Roust Coffee on Main. Eleven o’clock. I’ll be by myself. Blue shirt.
Who typed out o’clock when texting? Jen shook her head and glanced at the woman she’d first approached. The pretty redhead wore a lavender floral blouse. Gazing around the coffee shop, Jen didn’t see any woman wearing a blue shirt. The closest was a brunette wearing a blue-gray crop top, but she couldn’t be more than sixteen and was sitting with a group of other girls, all glued to their phones. When Jen’s gaze landed on a man in the back corner, her heart sank. And sank. And sank some more. He wasn’t facing her, but she could see that he was tall and broad-shouldered.
And that he wore a blue T-shirt.
Ashley.
Jen blinked. It couldn’t be. Ashley was not a man. But as she stared at his dark, tousled hair, she knew that her sponsor, her potential BFF in addiction, was a dude. She stood frozen, holding her coffee and debating whether to meet him or run and never look back. She didn’t have anything against men, but her experience with them had been less than charmed. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Amy she was giving up on the opposite sex. Jen was a recovering addict and, frankly, a poor decision maker. Aside from her friendship with Wayne, Jen’s forays into dating had inevitably resulted in drugs, sex, or worse—none of which she was currently interested in dabbling in. Not that the man sitting across the room from her was looking for love—probably the opposite. But she was in a state of limbo at the moment. Tough as nails and weak as a wet paper towel. Throwing a man into the mix, strictly business or not, was dangerous. She had walked in prepared to face-to-face it with a woman, which had been intimidating enough. That Ashley turned out to be a he only added to her anxiety. She was far from a delicate flower, God knew, and she sure as hell wasn’t afraid of him, but Jen and men had always spelled trouble, and trouble was the last thing she needed. Still, walking out felt cheap. Like giving up. And she didn’t need that, either. She was a grown-ass woman, and being a functional adult meant dealing with potentially uncomfortable situations without running for the hills of cocaine.
Wishing her Golden Cream Bitter was bourbon, she drank deep and walked over.