It has been a week since the nasty clean up duty in the women’s locker room, and it has been one hell of a week. Weirdly enough, I’m actually looking forward to my AA meeting tonight. So much, in fact, I rush to clean up the gym and almost speed there. I had had a few close calls this past week –the cookout at Marty’s had been my first of many. I can’t tell you how much I wanted that beer those two were drinking; if they hadn’t been watching me, I probably would have drunk myself into a coma.

I am cutting it close, so I park and don’t waste any time in the parking lot before heading into the high school and into the gym where our meeting will be held. I smile, seeing that I haven’t missed everything and that everyone is just now sitting down in the circle of chairs. “Jonathan!” June waves me on over, “we were worried you weren’t going to be back. We missed you last week.” I smile and grab myself a seat next to Bobby. I’m still a little flustered after running through the parking lot, so I don’t even get my bearings about me before June points across the circles of chairs and says, “You two haven’t met yet, have you? Laurel wasn’t here that week you came.”

Laurel? I look across the circle, and there she is –staring at me with this big “Fuck You” look on her face. “Um…” I say, not really sure what else to say.

“No,” Laurel says, “we haven’t met.”

She’s a damn alcoholic –probably a recovering alcoholic. “No,” I say, “we haven’t.”

June does a quick introduction before the meeting gets underway; Laurel and I are both dead silent –staring at one another with these hateful glances. Bobby nudges me slightly –silently asking me what the hell is up. June doesn’t notice though, and she just keeps on talking. A couple of people share their testimonies. I’m not even sure what tonight’s topic is because I’m too busy shooting dirty looks Laurel’s way.

“So Laurel,” someone interrupts our stare down, “I’ve been waiting to hear about how the new therapist is going? Is he helping with your PTSD?”

“I don’t feel like sharing tonight,” she snaps, her eyes finally breaking away from me just long enough to shoot the poor guy who had dared to bring up something private in front of me. It’s not like he had any idea she hates my guts.

“Okay, well then,” June sings slightly, trying to draw everyone’s attention off of Laurel’s outburst. I snort slightly, knowing she only lost her cool because of me. PTSD? That’s pretty serious stuff; I shake my head at myself for laughing. June heard my snort; she gives me a judgmental look and then asks, “Why don’t you share tonight, Jonathan?”

“Oh, I… I don’t think so,” I say, “I’m honestly not sure what it is we were even supposed to be discussing.”

“Our triggers,” June said, “What we think made us start drinking in the first place.”

Everyone is staring at me. I really rather not talk about this in front of Laurel, but I already came off looking like an asshole after laughing right after the whole PTSD thing came out. Everyone probably thinks I was laughing about that. I talk, but I don’t say much. “I guess when I stopped performing well at my job. I lost my dream job, but I was able to cope with it then. Not long after that my best friend… my best friend was killed right in front of me, and I think that’s really what did it. That’s when it got worse. I had been drinking the night he died. I wasn’t drunk, but sometimes I wonder if maybe if I hadn’t been drinking if things would have turned out differently. My wife left me the day of the funeral. I guess it was a combination of things, really, that got me into the habit.”

I didn’t say much, but I still got the awkward AA group round of applause that happens every time someone shares something personal. I sink into myself; it’s not like Laurel didn’t know all of that already from watching the news, but I still didn’t want to say it.

“Thank you for sharing, Jonathan. Remember, this is a safe place. We’re all here for you if you ever need to talk,” June reminds me.

“Yeah,” I say, “thanks.”

I can still feel Laurel staring at me, but I don’t look up at her. I can still tell, though, that it’s not an angry stare anymore.