My name is Echo, and I’m an addict.”

In a room of Saint Francis of Assisi Church on Thirty-First Street, a room like a dozen others I’ve seen, I stand up from the metal folding chair. Beside me, Ethan watches, silent, concealing any reaction to me or the nine other people sipping coffee and eating doughnuts.

“I’ve been clean for eight years, and I still think about using every day. I miss it like you miss sleep when you’re working a twelve-hour shift and it feels like you haven’t seen your bed in days. I miss it the way people talk about their childhoods, the good old days, all golden hues.”

Then again, that’s the thing about the good old days: they were never so pretty as we remember. Even the memories we regret, the ones that keep us up at night when our mind wanders and we relive our mistakes over and over in the dark—they’re a little less painful than the real thing. The sounds have muted. The sting of embarrassment has all but faded, and only the red, swollen mark remains.

“Today someone asked me why I don’t drink, and I didn’t know how to answer. How do you explain that you’re a toy Mom took the batteries out of because the first time the kid played with you, you nearly burned the house down? That you have to stay broken because what you are is destructive. I know we’re not supposed to think of ourselves that way, but let’s face it, we were built for chaos. Not because we want to destroy—we’re not malicious—it’s just the way we were made. I don’t drink not because I’m afraid of what might happen, but because I know what can happen. And I might like it. That’s the sword we live under. Denying our nature. Withholding from ourselves the one thing we want most. Because our true selves aren’t meant for this world. We’d swallow it hole if we could—stick it in a needle and straight in our veins.”

They’re all looking at me. The gangly woman, all tendons and bone, flesh like socks after the elastic’s worn out. Big, bald, beach ball man with sweat stains under his arms and a second doughnut on his lap. Sweet, blonde yogi in a long-sleeved silk cardigan, no doubt covering her track marks. They’re all me. They’re some of you. They’re anyone at all.

“Anyway…”

I needed Ethan to see this. There’s no other way to understand it.

“Today makes it eight years, five months, and twenty-three days. I miss it, but it gets a little easier every day.”

As I sit, Ethan takes my hand, clasping it tight in his. He never lets go as we stay through another hour, listening to the stories and confessions, the readings and recitations. I think about nothing. Let my mind clear and wander into empty space. It’s been weeks trapped under this clutter, the layers thickening, hardening above my head. Tonight, it’s cracked, crumbling around my shoulders. Whatever Ethan sees of me now, at least it’s the truth.

When the meeting ends and we emerge from the bowels of the church, I tell Ethan about Jenny. About getting kicked out of school and my first shrink with the glass eye. He says nothing. To the sidewalk, the end of the block. Waiting at the corner for the cars to pass and the light to change. Then we just keep walking, his jacket over my shoulders and my hand in his. Back to his truck while I tell him about rehab and Maureen. His silence persists, impassive shadows across his face, to my apartment and upstairs to my front door. Every step, every minute, dread soaking into my bones.

I wouldn’t blame him now, as I put my key in the door, if this were the end. A cold good night and uncomfortable glances at the office. Stilted conversation as we both try to forget. I slide his jacket off my shoulders and hold it out to him.

“Invite me in,” he says.

“You don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry if I made this awkward.”

Ethan takes the jacket and drapes it over his arm.

“Invite me in.”

Intensity flares behind his eyes, in the tight restraint of his voice. His entire body radiating tension. I unlock the door and let us inside. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove. Kumi’s in bed already and left me a night light. I turn to lock up and hear Ethan go straight to my room.

I’m not ready for the talk. Maybe he’s too noble, too kind to let this end without an explanation, but I’m not ready to hear it. I’d prefer the unspoken agreement to avoid each other and understand that when “everyone” is going out for lunch or to catch Navid’s next show, that doesn’t mean me. So I let him wait while I go to the bathroom to hang up the dress and slip back into my pajamas. I wash the makeup from my face and pull down my hair. Brush my teeth and sit on the edge of the tub, hoping he might give up and leave. But there isn’t a sound. Just the two of us on separate sides of the same wall, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Fine. Let’s get this over with.

Ethan stands in the middle of my bedroom, his back to me, among the piles of clothes and unpacked boxes. Some of the flowers are still where he left them, others are scattered around the apartment, and a few that didn’t last are gone. I watch him until I can’t stand it any longer.

“Ethan.”

He turns, and in two strides he’s caught me in his arms. His body, his lips, press to mine. Deep, desperate. Holding me to him as if I might be ripped away. Sudden fever engulfs me as my hands find their way into his hair and tug, my feet pushing him toward the bed. Ethan sits on the edge, pulling me to stand between his legs. Hands slide to my ribs, up and down, skimming his thumbs over my stomach.

Inhaling, he breaks away. In his eyes I see the same fury and desire heating my blood, teasing my nerves like touching live wires.

“Christ, Avery.” Ethan licks his lips and looks me up and down. “What are you wearing?”

“Umm…pajamas?”

A tank top and lounge pants, to be precise. The same ones I slept in last night, and the night before. Because I hate going to the laundry and it’s impossible to find anything when all my clothes are strewn across the floor or stuffed in garbage bags. I’m lucky I find underwear in the mornings.

“You don’t even know,” he says, shaking his head.

“What?”

“How fucking sexy you are.”

Gripping my ribs, his hands slide up, just below my breasts, and I have to stop myself from shivering.

“I thought…”

“You were hiding in the bathroom because you thought I was dumping you.”

“Pretty much.”

“No. Not even a little.” He slides back onto the bed. “Come here.” And brings me with him to sit propped up against my pillows. “I’m glad you brought me there. I just needed some time to process, that’s all. And I wanted you to have space to decompress.”

“You’re not, I don’t know, mad at me or freaked out?”

“No.” Ethan wraps his arm behind my back and encourages me to rest my head on his chest.

Idly, my fingers trace the buttons on his shirt, up and over the tiny valleys of the fabric.

“I think you’re extraordinary. You don’t understand how rare it is to have that kind of willpower and persevere through the kind of shit you’ve been through. Fuck, Avery. I couldn’t do it. I’d have given up and shot myself a long time ago.

My hand fists his shirt. “Don’t say things like that.”

He places a kiss on my forehead and lays his hand over mine. “I’m sorry. But my point’s the same. Everything I learn about you makes me more convinced that you’re my hero.”

“Wow, that is depressing.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“I give the minimal amount of credit for being alive. There are people out there who have it much worse. I’m not under any illusions that my circumstances approach anything nearing extreme.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “But that changes nothing. I’m still a fan.”

“I do feel better, now that you know.”

“Great, because I feel like a jackass. I promise to stop dragging you to bars and—”

“No,” I say, looking up at him. “That’s exactly why I don’t tell people. I got clean before I was ever old enough to drink, so it isn’t like I know what I’m missing. It’s precautionary. And anyway, I don’t want to change your life.”

“You already have.” Soft and tender, he brushes the back of his hand across my cheek and weaves his hand into my hair. “You’ve been changing me since the moment we met. I’m not the same person I was, and I never will be.”

And that’s the moment it happens.

Ethan hooks the back of my knee to drape my leg across his and reaches for the lamp on my nightstand, plunging us into night.

“Are you staying?”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The moment I fall in love with him.