“Honey, I didn’t mean—”
“You’re okay. You’re not bad or wrong or any of that. I just need to be alone, in my own head, in my own space. You’re hovering.”
“Oh, am I? I’m sorry. I’m just—”
I hold up a hand. “I know. You’re worried. You’re afraid I’m going to fall off the wagon. All of you are, and I’ve given you good reason, but—”
“It’s not that,” she says.
“You poured out every drop of liquor in the entire house,” I say. “Which had to have been quite a bit.”
“Well, of course. I wanted to make it easier for you.”
The nervousness amps up to anxiety, snaps and crackles up my spine. “I know. I appreciate that.” Taking a long, slow breath in through my nose, I hold it for a moment, then let it go. “But I need to do this myself. You can’t save me.”
Tears spring to her eyes, making them even brighter blue. “I do know that. I mean, I want to. I always want to make things easier for you. Fix it.”
“I know.” I round the counter and hug her, feeling my own emotions rising up like a tidal wave again, ready to swamp me, knock me down. Feel what you feel, says a voice in my head, but how can I let all this in? All of it? It’s so much.
We cling to each other for a minute. Her fingers are tight on my back, and her smell is sunshine and lavender and all things good. I loved her so much from the start, even when it made me feel disloyal. I pull back. “I wish you could. But I need some space.”
“Oh! Okay. I have to be somewhere anyway.” She steps back. “Do you want me to clean up?”
I shake my head. “I’ll do it.”
She pauses. Her face shows the edges of her fear that I will disappear, that I’ll be lost in a bottle forever. “You don’t have to do everything alone, Maya,” she says. “That’s partly what got you here.”
“Pot,” I say, pointing to her, then back to myself. “Kettle. Believe me, I know that. And I promise I’ll call you if I need you, but the best thing you can do for me is give me some room to breathe.”
She sucks her top lip into her mouth, something she’s done my entire life. “Okay.” She closes her eyes, straightens her back. Takes a breath. “Okay. I’m going right now. I’ll be back later.”
My gut sinks. I meant really be alone, really leave, but how can I say that? One step at a time. I just nod. “Take Cosmo. I won’t be here to watch him.”
After Meadow leaves, I sit at the counter for long moments, aching in some strange way I can’t even pinpoint. My chest, my thighs, my forehead. I want—
A drink.
It’s just that, of course. The same thing as ever, the same thing as always. Wine, beer, shots of tequila. Whatever it takes to kill the feelings. My therapist said that the reason alcohol is so hard to give up is because it works.
Other things can work, too. Standing up, I round the counter and clear a spot for a fresh cutting board, then pull the bowl of artichokes over. They’re gorgeous, as big as footballs, the leaves well formed and hydrated. I smell one—dust and day and chlorophyll—then center it on the cutting board and cut the end off. The knife slices right through, as if the tough skin is made of cheese, and I look at the beautiful knife for the first time. It’s a Japanese Yoshihiro chef’s knife. Of course. Everything in my dad’s kitchen is going to be perfect.
I cut the ends off all of them, then trim the leaves with good scissors, noting the pleasure I feel in the good tools, and slice them all in half. The heady scent makes me dizzy and hungry.
Somewhere in the house, I hear a door slam. I lift my head. “Meadow?”
No answer.
Leaving the artichokes, I pad into the hallway and stand there, listening. “Hello?”
Nothing.
Maybe it was the wind.
That longing for booze sweeps back, harder this time. Rum, wine, Blue Moon （oh, yes please, a Blue Moon, with a thick slice of orange）。 The thirst builds and spreads through my body, burning up the back of my neck, on my tongue, creating an itch in my brain in a place I can’t scratch.
Tools, I think. Remember your tools.
I pour a glass of cold water and drink it down fast. It hits the same centers as alcohol, the back of my throat, the mid-esophagus, cooling. Calming. The craving eases. I take a deep breath, blow it out, focus on preparing the artichokes. All of them go into a steamer for twenty minutes while I make the grilling sauce.
Play it forward, says the voice of the group leader in my head.