to Jessi, he was stopped by Russell.
"How's everything?" Russell asks. Then without giving Sam a chance to answer, he notices Sam's cut lip. "What happened to your mouth?"
"What were you thinking?" Sam asks, ignoring Russell's question.
"What?"
"Why did you pick that topic? Were you intentionally calling attention to me and Jessi?"
"What? No."
"Well, then why—?"
"Sam, I organize these meetings well in advance. I don't pick a topic right before a meeting. When I chose this discussion topic there was no Jessi."
"It seemed a little too convenient to me. Plus, I could tell it made Jessi uncomfortable."
"Why should she feel uncomfortable? There's nothing romantic going on between the two of you. Is there?"
"No, it's just—"
"Lighten up, Sam. It's not as if—"
"But people are talking, aren't they?"
"Sure. People always talk. All I can tell you is that my choosing that topic was in no way informed by what you've told me about you and Jessi," Russell says. "So, what happened to your mouth? Looks like you caught a punch."
"I did."
"What? I was joking. I didn't really… What happened?"
"I called Kelly a little while after she and I had lunch this afternoon. Our meeting, the way we left things, obviously wasn't sitting right with me. So, I decided, or Jessi helped me decide—"
"Jessi?"
"Yeah, I was with Jessi."
"Sam, what are you doing?"
"One thing at a time, Russell."
"Okay. Go ahead."
"So, I called Kelly and tried to calm things down between us. I apologized for the way I acted, not only at lunch but just in general at the way I'd been toward the end of our relationship. I told her that I hoped that she could forgive me, that I was ready to forgive her, and she flew off the handle."
"Had she been drinking?"
"Sure she had. She's a drunk."
"Hmm."
"So, then she told me that the baby wasn't even mine. It was my friend Chris'. You know, my boss."
"No. Please tell me you didn't—?"
"I did."
"You got in a fight with your boss?"
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you call me? I could've at least tried to talk you down."
"I don't think anybody was talking me down."
"But what about your job?"
"Yeah, that's clearly over."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'll be fine. I've got plenty of stuff going on."
"And Jessi was there for the whole thing?"
"Yeah."
"How did this happen? How did you and Jessi end up hanging out?"
"She called me. She was lonely. And she was afraid she couldn't keep herself from drinking. So, I convinced her to meet me for coffee."
"You convinced her?"
"Yeah, she needed my help."
"What are you going to do about this?"
"Don't worry. I already told her that I can't be her sponsor. I told her it was dangerous, and that I had already developed feelings that could, theoretically, endanger both our chances at sobriety."
"How did she take it?"
"Not sure. She still seems to want to lean on me. It's clear that she trusts me, that she feels she can talk to me, and I don't want to let her down."
"But you're playing with fire if you go on this way."
"I know."
Russell looks over at Jessi. She's talking to Ellyn, but she's clearly preoccupied with Sam and Russell.
"She's engaged, you say?"
"Yeah."
"She doesn't act like it."
"What do you mean?"
"She looks like her mind's on you."
"She's new. She's still just nervous. That's all."
"That's why this kind of thing is discouraged. She's already attached herself to you. Her sobriety is anchored to you, and now, I'm afraid, it may be too late to separate you guys without endangering her chances in the program."
"No. But we talked."
"It sounds to me like you talked, but she persisted."
"Yeah, I guess that's fair."
"How do you feel about this girl?"
"I don't know. I'm just—"
"Sam, seriously."
"I want to be with her—"
"Sam—"
"All the time."
"This isn't good."
"I can't help it, Russell. It's not like I chose her. It's not like I actively pursued her. She came here. She sat next to me. She confided in me, asked me to go for coffee. I didn't initiate any of this."
"But you're not discouraging it, either."
"But I am. I've tried."
"You've suggested."
"No, I've pushed. I've told her that I can't do it. I've told her that it could damage my sobriety."
"And she didn't seem concerned?"
"She did. But she's comfortable with me," Sam says. "Look at her over there. She's uncomfortable as hell talking to Ellyn."
"Everyone's uncomfortable talking to Ellyn."
"But she just wants to be able to lean on me until she feels comfortable with someone else, and then we'll create some space."
"Do you think that'll happen?"
"I don't know."
"Do you want that to happen?"
"No. But I understand that it has to."
"My suggestion is that, after the meeting, you tell her you can't continue seeing her outside of meetings, that she can always call you in an emergency, of course, but that she should start a relationship with one of the women in the group. She doesn't have to call Ellyn."
"I've already—"
"Then say it again," Russell says. "You're doing the right thing. You're doing what you can. Just do it better, more forcefully."
"I'll keep pushing."
"Do that. It'll help her in the long run," Russell says, looking back over at Jessi. "And call me. Seriously, Sam. I wish you had called me earlier when all of this Kelly nonsense went down. That is precisely the kind of stuff you should be calling me about. What if your boss had called the police?"
"I know."
"Okay, well, I'm going to…," Russell says gesturing toward another part of the room.
"Okay."
"Take care."
"You, too," Sam says, as he moves toward Jessi and Ellyn.
As he gets near them, he keeps a little distance, not wanting to interrupt their conversation. But Jessi keeps peering over at him, giving him the look of someone who's desperately in need of a rescue.
So, after a few minutes, Jessi sneaks away on her own—without Sam's help. Ellyn turns toward Sam, and he could swear she visibly sneered at him. He's sure that the rumors have already started. They probably all think that he's taking advantage of Jessi, manipulating her vulnerability with motivated kindnesses.
"For someone with nothing to say, she sure can talk," Jessi says.
"No one's ever accused her of being shy."
"She was asking me about you."
"Yeah? In what context?"
"In the 'you should look out for him' context."
"Really?"
"Not so explicitly, but I was getting that impression."
"I told you. The murmurs have started. And the worst part is that I'm being portrayed as the bad guy."
"But you play the part so well," she says, smiling at him. He doesn't seem to take the joke. "I'm kidding. How could anyone see you as the bad guy?"
"I don't know. Ask Ellyn."
"God, no. That would require me talking to her again," she says.
"What are you going to do now? Are you going home?"
"I don't know. I thought we could go back to that neon nightmare for some coffee. Not that you need anymore coffee. You have the shakes almost as bad as I do."
"We could do that, I suppose."
"What? Are you worried about what it'll look like if we leave together?"
"If I w
ere, I wouldn't be standing here talking to you. In some ways, I think, if we're out in the open about it, then people will trust that, if we had something to hide, we'd be trying harder to hide it."
As they meander toward the door, there's no question that there are looks, accusing looks. He thinks about the conversation the group will have when his name comes up when they go for their after-meeting pie. And he's not just being paranoid. He's gone with the group for after-meeting dessert. The members that aren't there are the ones that get talked about, and speculation is the name of the game. And the speculation potential for Sam and Jessi is far too rich and tawdry for them to ignore. He's confident that Russell will try to defend him, but there will be far too much hand wringing and irrational concern for him to defend.
He tries to ignore the looks, but it's difficult feeling all of those eyes. He looks over at Russell. Russell smiles at him through a worried expression.
"Wow. You really get the impression that this group doesn't get much excitement," Jessi says, obviously feeling the stares, too.
"No, they've had their fair share of excitement in life. They just don't get as much as they used to," he says. As they climb the stairs, Sam turns to Jessi, "At least were giving them something to talk about for tonight."
"You think they'll be talking about us after we're gone?"
"No doubt about it. They're probably talking about us right now."
He opens the door for her, and his instinct again tells him to put his hand on the small of her back as she exits. But he suppresses it, and follows her out to the sidewalk.
It's a nice night. Spring is just around the corner, and, though it's still quite cool, the sky is clear. And, even as the city lights have drowned out the stars, Sam can rest assured that they're there standing guard, staring down at him and Jessi. And there is something about this stability, the mere gravity of the world, that gives him comfort amidst his inner turmoil.
"That was weird," Jessi says.
"What? Inside?"
"Yeah."
"I told you it would be strange."
"But we're adults. Can't we talk without—"
"Jessi!" a voice yells from the dark side of the street.
Sam and Jessi turn to get a closer look, and a man, a tall man, moves into the light.
"Michael? What are you—?"
"I thought I'd come surprise you."
"No, you were checking up on me," Jessi says, sounding none too pleased to see him, which doesn't begin to describe how Sam feels to see him.
"Sorry," Michael says to Sam. "She has a tendency to get—"
"Michael, don't apologize for me," she says.
"Why do you assume I'm checking up on you? You told me you were coming to this meeting. I got done early at the firm and decided I'd come and take you to dinner. I didn't realize that was such a terrible thing to do."
"It's not terrible, but you know as well as I do that you were checking to see if I was really here."
"Sure. That's part of it, but—"
"Thank you," Jessi says.
Sam can't help but feel a little relieved at the amount of tension between them, but, at the same time, an awkward silence has dropped over the three of them that makes him hope that someone can find something to say.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Michael asks, but his tone is patronizing, as if he were talking to a child.
"Yeah, this is… Can I even tell him your name? Isn't that against some principle or statute or something?"
"First names are fine," Sam says.
"Good 'cause I don't even know your last name," she says, and this, for some reason, strikes Sam as harsh, probably more harsh than she intended it. Maybe, it was her tone, but it felt like she was belittling their relationship somehow. Maybe, she was simply trying to emphasize to Michael how little she and Sam know each other. Maybe, Michael is a jealous man, and she didn't want to invite any paranoid speculation. Still, regardless of her motivation, it had the unintended consequence of exposing Sam's fear that his fantasies about sharing something significant with her have been nothing other than absurd. "Michael, this is Sam, a friend from AA," she says. "Sam, this is Michael." Michael holds his hand out to Sam. Sam grabs it and Michael gives his hand a ridiculously firm squeeze.
"I hope you're taking care of my Jessica," Michael says, letting go of Sam's pained hand. Sam can see Jessi wince at the sound of Michael's implied ownership.
"She seems to be doing a pretty good job of taking care of herself," Sam says. But Michael is already looking beyond him.
"Should we go, Jessica?"
"Sam, would you mind?" Jessi asks, and Sam notices a softness return to her voice when she addresses him.
"No, of course not," Sam says, though he did mind, and he felt so strongly about this rebuff that he hoped the expression on his face wasn't giving his hurt away.
"I'll call you," she says, as she moves toward Michael.
Sam stands there, feeling completely exposed by the moment—exposed for his foolishness. He watches her move away from him, desperately wanting to say something. Not necessarily something to make her stay, but just anything at all. He just wants more words, more time.
"It was nice to meet you, Sam," Michael calls back, flashing Sam a perfect, and perfectly insincere, smile.
All Sam can muster in return is an equally insincere nod.
"Sorry, Sam," Jessi says as her and Michael move toward the shadow on the other side of the street.
"Me, too," Sam whispers after he is sure they're far enough away not to hear him.
As they move into the darkness, there is a honk and the parking lights blink on Michael's car—clearly, an expensive car. And Sam, again, realizes, how ill-suited he is for Jessi. She's an objectively beautiful girl, and clearly out of his league. Sam is attractive enough, or so he thought until he met Michael, who was handsome in a department store catalog way: dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, unquestionably over six feet tall, and suited up nice and clean. He honestly looked as though he had been put together out of a kit. Sam, however, standing alone in the street, is wearing a simple t-shirt under his vintage, thrift store coat. His hair is non-strategically disheveled, and he has probably two days of beard growth on his face. Not to mention the sophistication he's displaying with a busted lip. He thought he had grown beyond his days of arrested development with Kelly, but, standing here now, he feels like some hipster doofus who has just had his flight of hopefulness planted firmly back on the ground.
As they drive past Sam in Michael's Jaguar, Sam can see an obscured Jessi through the car's tinted windows. She looks out at him with what could be considered an expression of sadness on her face. Of course, it could have just as easily been a look of pity. Who could blame her for feeling sorry for him, standing there looking all lonely and pathetic, knowing deep down that he was falling for her? She knew—she had to know—that he didn't want her to leave, but she left anyway. And he can't blame her.
He wouldn't blame her for anything.
Besides, Michael has a Jaguar. Sam has public transportation.
Michael has a McMansion in the safe, serene suburbs. Sam has a one bedroom apartment in a not so impressive section of the city.
Michael has a job. Sam is recently unemployed.
On his way home, Sam considers circling back and going to Stripe's, visiting Russell and everyone else. He certainly could use the company. Walking the streets tonight, he feels as alone as he's felt any day of the past three months. There's something so emotionally bankrupt about thinking you have something, letting its potential fill you up, only to have it, suddenly, evaporate. Still, Sam doesn't have the energy to face the accusations from everyone at Stripe's. He knows that he's left them with some questions about what's going on between he and Jessi, and he can't face those questions right now. And though going home means facing something more frightening, time alone, he doesn't know what alternative he has left.
He goes by a movie theater, checks the m
arquee, but the movies listed aren't particularly interesting, and none of the showtimes begin for another hour anyway. He goes by a bookstore, looks in the window, wonders how being in there would be any less lonesome than being at home.
He thinks about going to the retro cafe where he and Jessi were heading before Michael's interruption, but it's empty and as lonesome looking as the bookstore. Plus, he knows sitting there, sipping a cup of coffee, staring at himself in the mirror will only make him long for Jessi's company. He'll just keep thinking that she should've been there with him, talking. He'll know that he could have learned more about her, listened longer to her voice, simply been in her presence for a little more time.
He keeps walking, putting off going home, knowing that the hours there will move slowly, relentlessly, and that the thoughts of Jessi will be constant and unforgiving.
He knows he's made a terrible mistake by letting Jessi into his life. But what choice did he have? He didn't pursue her. She found him. He was content with his life where it was. Sure, he was lonely, but he had his mind set on being sober. He was getting closer to a point where he would've been safe if someone like Jessi had come into his life. It wouldn't have endangered anything. But he wasn't there yet. He wasn't ready.
Now, though, he's approaching Lucky's, and he can't help but think how nice it would be to just push it all away: Kelly, Chris, the job, AA, Jessi. It would be so nice to just sink into that old familiar haze where all the world is so easily chased away, drowned out in the whirring of a buzz.
He opens the door, and the music hits him with a wave of bass vibrations. He moves inside the darkened space, and traverses a small crowd of people—mostly students—that are bunched up by the door. The place smells exactly the same as he remembers, like stale beer and sweat. It's a desperate smell, and as he moves toward the bar, and sees himself in the speckle-stained mirror behind the rows of booze bottles, he knows he's at a precipice.
It's the first time he's been in a bar since the night he spent in the drunk tank, and he knows that ordering a drink puts him right back where he was that night. A single drink would lead easily to another drink, and then another, and then three months of sobriety will just slip away. All his work, all those tortured night will be swept out from under him, and then where would he be?
If he were in bad shape before the drink, the drink would only make it worse.
The bartender sees Sam and moves to his side of the bar.
"What can I get you?"
"I'll have a double Cutty Sark on the rocks."
Sam watches as the bartender grabs a glass, scoops a couple of ice cubes into the glass, and pours the scotch. He waits for it, uncertain of what's going to happen once it's sitting in front of him. The bartender sits it down, says something. Sam ignores him, but places a bill on the bar, and waits for him to walk away. Sam stands there for what feels like several minutes just looking into the drink. The dim light that shines on the bar from above illuminates the shiny gold in that glass. One of the ice cubes cracks. It startles him. He looks up at himself in that streaky, speckled mirror again, and sees someone so sad that he can hardly bear to keep looking. But he does. He looks hard at himself.
He picks up the drink. He places it under his nose, takes a deep breath of the booze, and the smell alone swirls something awake in his head, and he is momentarily dizzy. He lowers the drink from his face, looks around the room. He sees someone who looks like Kelly sitting on the small stage at the back of the bar. She appears to be passed out, collapsed against a curtain on the wall of the stage.
Sam walks over to her—his drink still attached to his hand. He sits next to her, sets the drink beside him. He looks over at her, and she is