Chapter Twenty-Seven

Both hands adjoin at my forehead, blocking as much of the harsh fluorescent lights stabbing my eyes as I approach the train depot. Behind the ticket counter, a nimble young man with a mop of messy hair and a bored expression leans against the glass. He seems to scroll through his phone as I approach. Meanwhile, a knot of dread tightens in my stomach like a python.

His deep Canadian nuances flow from the speaker. "Sorry, friend, you just missed the last train headed south," he informs me.

Those weren't the words I was expecting to hear. I sigh. All I want is to go home, but it looks like I'm stuck here for another six hours at the least.

"How close is the airport?" I ask, rubbing the stress lines on my worn visage.

He points outside. "A few clicks down the road. You might find a taxi at this time of night," he sounds unsure. "Otherwise it's about a forty-minute walk. We don't have Uber here yet."

Now frustrated, my fingernails drag the length of my left arm. This night just keeps getting better and fucking better.

"Thanks," I mumble, tucking my wallet away. "Is there anywhere to eat nearby?"

The boy nods. "Best burger in town is just around the block a piece. Adam's Livery. Get the bacon mushroom burger, rare." He taps his chest with a grin. "It's the only thing open this late, though."

You've got to be fucking kidding me. The thought of food makes my stomach churn, but starving in a train station isn't ideal either. And Adam's Livery? The one type of place I swore—promised—Brogan that I'd never set foot in again. Looks like fate, or whatever cosmic force is screwing with me, has other plans.

"Great, just great," I mutter, the words barely audible through the knot in my throat.

Dragging my suitcase back outside, the cold Vancouver rain cascades down my backside, matching the somber tune this day has taken. It stings my face, but it's nothing compared to the deep aching in my chest. Now what? I'm stranded. Certifiably alone in a city that feels alien and somewhat hostile. No offense to Canadians, but that scrawny-ass kid inside was most certainly not the welcome wagon. My stomach hurts under the guise of hunger and nausea. Six hours until the next train? It might as well be a fucking lifetime. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The thought of the airport sparks a glimmer of desperation. Deep inside, I hope there's a flight, a way out of this nightmare. But the rational part of me knows it's a long shot. I trudge down the sidewalk, each step feeling much more weighted than the last. Meanwhile, a blinking neon sign pierces through the gloom of this night— Adam's Livery. This irony is almost unbearable. This is, in essence, the holy sanctuary of temptation for any recovering alcoholic. My hunger, on the other hand, is relentless in the least. And the thought of eating something now, anything, is suddenly overwhelming. I just fucking wanna go home, God damn it!

Tonight will be a battle between my demons and my willpower. And so far, I'm losing. Having just smoked marijuana with a liar is ultimately what's fucked my sobriety. Though, I cross the street while my feet lead me towards the once-acquainted warmth and promise of a meal. But with each step closer, the guilt and shame grow on me, heckling my conscience.

The twang of a John Denver cover band stabs through the dimly lit bar like a rusty knife. As I stumble inside, I struggle to lug my heavy suitcase through the doorway without causing a huge scene. A few grunts escape my lips as I roll it over the jamb, followed by a harsh sound of the door slamming shut behind me.

"Eh friend," the bartender calls out, his friendliness serves as a jarring intrusion on my misery.

The taps gleam under a series of pendant lights, each one an alluring display of what I desperately need to ignore. I manage a wave while I drag my suitcase towards an empty stool, then plop down much like a pathetic slob in search of commiseration.

My voice cracks, the words are barely audible. "Do you have a charging port I can use?"

He shakes his head. "We do, but this is a no-park zone, eh—" he emphasizes. "You gotta order a drink to stick around the bar, and there aren't any outlets at the tables."

A tsunami of frustration erupts at my core. "You've got to be fucking kidding me?"

"Not my rules, friend," he offers with a pitying look that feels like salt in the wound. "But the boss isn't here tonight," he gestures towards the end of the bar, where a lone outlet mocks my thirst for both power and escape.

My nostrils are tantalized by the aromas of alcohol, as if my demons have returned from London's airport. Their promises of oblivion are tangible, whispering sweet nothings into my ears as if I should just let loose for a little while. After all, I have six hours to burn. I clench my jaw in a fight for sobriety while the storm rages on. I won't give in. Not tonight. Not ever.

"Thanks," I offer my token of appreciation as I feel the light relief crashing ashore, making my way to the end of the bar.

After a minute, my phone glows with life while I handle the hunger pains roiling in my gut. Food is pertinent at this point. But a nagging thought haunts me to the very core. I've already fallen off the wagon, haven't I? That pot wasn't for medicinal purposes. It was an escape, a way to enhance our weekend. And now, I battle the ghosts of my past. The doubts raze inside me, whispering that I'm already a failure. But I can't give in. I have to fight. I must prove these voices wrong this time. I'm stronger than I think.

"Fuck it," I mumble under my breath, motioning for the bartender. He sees my plea and races over to take my order. "You know what? Fuck it. Double Apple Crown Royal with Coke," I demand.

It's a surrender, a temporary lapse in judgment. But just one drink. Just one to dull the ache Durango has impressed upon me.

Not a spare moment later, he slides the glass in my direction. The iced liquid calling me as if it's been a long-lost friend from a lifetime ago. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I also need to cure this hunger.

"Can I get you anything to eat, eh?" He asks.

I nod. "I'll have what the kid at the train depot recommended," I reply breathlessly. But he cuts me off with a knowing smile.

"Thomas, right?"

Another nod. His name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. And from the looks of it, Adam's Livery has its own grapevine. And everyone must know my shame.

"That would be the one," I clarify, swirling the straw in my drink. The ice clinks against the glass and the hollow sound seems to match the emptiness I feel.

"You got it, friend," he obliges. "He orders the same thing every time, so I already know what you want," he chuckles, extending his hand in true Canadian form. "I'm Pete."

"Max," I shake his hand.

"Eh? Max? Looks like you've had one wee bit of a night," Pete says, turning to punch in my order while his words hit way too close to home.

Yet another nod, feeling the past couple of hours catching up with me. "You have no idea, Pete," I lift the glass, proposing a toast.

Suddenly at this moment, the image of Paula, a dying nurse from a favorite show, ‘Nurse Jackie,' flashes through my mind. Repeating her last words, my mock toast is in memory of anyone who's had to go through ‘some shit.'

"Here's to you, and here's to me. And if we ever disagree, fuck you. And here's to me."

Pete grimaces with a half-smile, raising his water bottle to my glass. "Tragic," he says, seemingly sarcastic.

It takes no time for me to down my drink in one gulp, leaving an expansive path to burn down my throat. Something reminiscent of a fiery trail that mirrors the scorching secrecies revealed to me tonight. Although a recognizable warmth, it's a dangerous embrace that I swore I'd never seek again. The taste is bitter, a twisted mockery of the sweetness I once found in Durango's eyes. With each sip, the guilt and shame twist tighter, circling the dagger dangerously close around my heart. And now I've broken my promise. Not just to myself, but to Brogan. To Lily. Melanie. Every fucking body who believed in my recovery.

The realIty of my choice hits me hard. Tomorrow, instead of celebrating ten years of sobriety, I'll be back at square one. Another starter chip, another fight against this bitch I thought I'd conquered. And the disappointment I'll see in my sponsor's eyes could be the death of me. This transgression will now haunt me, leaving a stain on this night, on my soul, and I can't help but wonder if it's a sign of things to come. Can't go back now. May as well have another.

"Pete, how ‘bout another?" I shout.

His head skews to the side. "That's the spirit, eh? Keeping up with us wee canucks, are ya?"

While Pete pours another, I take a gander at my device. An empty screen stares back at me. No messages, no missed calls from Durango. A new hurt afflicts me, and I push it down with another swig of the whiskey Pete slides my way. One drink has already turned into two, and who knows how many more before the night is through?

I pull up the Delta app on my phone, where surprisingly, a flight to Seattle appears. It leaves in only a couple of hours. Perfect. Time is of the essence to book the fare. All the while, I feel a surge of respite course through my veins. Perhaps half of that's because of the ethanol. However someone looks at it, I'll be home sooner than I thought.

Pete flashes a look of concern. "Are ya gonna be right, my friend?"

Looking up from my phone, I battle a brief episode of fuzziness. "Yeah, I'll be fine," I lie, a tremor playing at my lips.

When the plate of food arrives, it's as if I'm the composite of a hundred cheetahs vying for the same kill. Two bites turn into four. And I dip my fries in the gravy as if I've never had poutine before in my life. The smell does nothing for me, with more thoughts flooding through my vast ocean of regrets. It's as if my anger has evolved into a tornado of emotions tearing through my life. Did I overreact? Was Durango's secret really worth shattering our happiness?

Even amidst the anger and the hurt, a stubborn ember of love still flickers for him. I can't deny the connection we share, the laughter and tenderness. This painful truth is agonizing, but one I can't ignore. Nothing seems to soothe the unease I feel about Durango. Food and liquor may only be temporary fixes. I love him, damn it. Even with this hanging over us, even with the uncertainty of what the future holds, that love remains. But fuck it, I'll just have to face this head on tomorrow with a fresh perspective. And the fear of what that means is as intoxicating as the Crown Royal itself.