Watch Over Me (5 page)

"I have no idea. Never seen him before," I tell her, the lie slipping easily off my
tongue. He's a stranger, that much is true, but I've seen him before. I've seen him
sit at the same table in the corner of the room once a week for the past few months.
I've heard the deep melodic notes of his voice when he orders a chocolate scone and
black coffee— two sugars—each and every time he's here. I don't know how I remember
what his order is. We have hundreds of customers and it's not like I remember all
of their orders. The first day he came into the shop, I felt a jolt of recognition
when he came up to the counter, a sense of déjà vu, like I had seen this guy before
in another time. I waited for him to say something about knowing me from somewhere
as I rang up his order, but he never did. He thanked me with a nod of his head and
a smile, never saying more to me than what his order was each week.

"Well, whoever he is, he's yummy. And I've caught him checking you out the entire
hour he's been here nursing that coffee," Meg says as she pushes the tray of cupcakes
into the display case under the front counter.

"He can look all he wants as long as he keeps his distance."

Meg turns to face me and places her hands on either side of my face. "How do you expect
to get laid if you make everyone keep their distance?" she asks with mock seriousness.

"Um, maybe by not
expecting
to get laid. I barely have time to shave my legs or take a shower anymore. I'm not
in the market for a guy."

The store phone rings, saving me from having yet another discussion with Meg on why
I don't have a boyfriend.

Even if I
did
want someone in my life just to scratch an itch, they would always want more. More
information, more history, more answers to questions I wouldn't give— more of
me
that I stopped giving away a year and a half ago.

Meg answers the phone and immediately hands the receiver out to me. "It's your dad."

The tone in her voice is sympathetic. My dad always seems to call when she's around,
and she's gotten her fill of the one-sided conversations, enough to know that my father
and I aren't on the best terms.

"Hey, hon," my dad greets happily when I take the phone. "How are things?"

"Busy," I state curtly.

"Any big party orders coming up this week?" he asks, attempting to make conversation.

"Nope."

I can tell my one-word answers frustrate him by the huge sigh he lets out on his end
of the line. He spends day in and day out learning how to communicate with his loved
ones and how to live a healthy life. He expects me to jump right on board with him
and pour out my heart, but I've done that before and got nothing in return. Fool me
once, shame on you, fool me twice…

"Yeah, I'm busy here too. Just got out of group session. I've got some homework to
do tonight. Need to make a list of all the people I've wronged while I was using.
I think I'll probably need more than one night," he says with a laugh.

I don't return his amusement.

I'm not a cruel person. I was one-hundred-percent supportive of my father the first
time he went into rehab. He would call several times a day, whenever he had a free
minute, and I encouraged him and asked questions and supported his sobriety every
way I could. I was proud of him for making the decision that he needed help and for
being the one to make that difficult phone call asking for it. I believed every single
word that came out of his mouth during those thirty days. I believed he was sorry,
that he loved me, that he knew he screwed up, and that he would do everything in his
power to remain sober and be a solid support system for me. I visited him every single
Saturday during Family Day, the one day a week when they were allowed visitors, and
I participated in every "Smack Down Sunday" where loved ones got to tell their addict
just how hurt they were by their actions. After his third, failed stint in rehab,
my support went out the window with his sobriety.

I learned a very valuable lesson at that point in time and it is this: how can you
tell if an addict is lying? He opens his mouth.

"So, I was wondering if you were planning on coming up to Family Day this weekend.
I need to let my counselor know so she can get you a visitor's pass."

I walk away as far as the cord will allow so Meg and the customers can't hear me.

"I wasn't planning on it. I've got a lot going on here right now," I tell him, turning
my back to the customers and resting my forehead against the wall.

"Well, I really want to see you," he replies earnestly.

"Yeah, I get that. But I just don't have the time. I'm sorry."

He sighs into the phone again, and I know I've made him angry.

"Seriously, Addison. You haven't been to one single Family Day since I've been here.
I'm the only one in my group who never gets any visitors," he complains.

I feel the anger bubbling up inside me, and it takes everything in me not to scream
into the phone.

"Dad, it's an hour and a half drive one way. Weekends are the busiest times at the
shop. I can't be away that long. You know that."

"You know what? Forget it. Forget I even asked. I'll talk to you later."

The dial tone sounds in my ear before I can even reply. I roll my eyes and walk back
to hang up the phone.

My dad is like Jekyll and Hyde. For the most part, when he's clean and sober he reminds
me of the man he used to be when my mother was alive—easy going, funny, always helping
people out, and hard working. When he's drinking, he turns into a cruel person who
lashes out with hateful words and spiteful accusations. Even with all of the therapy
he's received, it still hasn't sunk in that all of those words have left their mark
on me. Each one sliced into me and took a chunk out of my heart. It's easy to forgive
someone for the hurt they've caused you. Forgetting is impossible.

"What the hell do you want from me?" my dad yelled.

The smell of whiskey leaking from his pores nauseated me. It was the Fourth of July
and I made an appearance at a family cookout even though my heart wasn't in it. He'd
been out of rehab for two weeks. Fourteen days was as long as he lasted this time.
It was a new record. Last time it was nine.

As far as I knew, he wasn't coming today. One of the biggest drinking and partying
days of the year, next to New Year's Eve, probably wasn't the best idea for a recovering
alcoholic, but he showed up anyway. He pulled into the driveway, and as soon as he
got out of the car I knew. I could tell by the way he walked, the way he held himself,
and the way he spoke loudly to everyone around him. I tried to avoid him. I knew if
I got within two feet of him, we'd exchange words and they wouldn't be pleasant ones.
When he was drunk, I didn't have any patience for him and he hated everything about
me.

Even though I knew I would regret it, he asked to speak with me privately. I relented,
walking over to the side of the house where he waited for me. It only took five minutes
of him pleading with me about what he could do to make things better between us before
the talk turned ugly.

"How about staying sober for once. That would be a good start. I'm sick and tired
of taking care of everything."

He scoffed and rolled his eyes at me. "Oh poor you. For once in your pampered life
you actually have to lift a finger and get off of your lazy ass."

His words cut into me like a knife and choked the breath from my lungs. I should be
used to the sting of them by now, but I wasn't. I should have learned that there was
no use in arguing with a drunk, but I hadn't. I turned and walked away from him, knowing
that separating myself from him was the only option at this point. Nothing I said
to him would break through the haze of alcohol that had taken hold of his brain and
his ability to think clearly.

"Oh that's right. Walk away. It's what you do best. You are such a bitch!"

Meg bumps her shoulder into mine and pulls my thoughts away from the past.

"Hey, that guy that was checking you out left you a note," Meg tells me with a huge
smile on her face as I turn around and shut off my switch. She hands me a folded up
napkin as I glance to the back corner table that is now empty. I open it and in neat,
block letters are the words:

I laugh uncomfortably and push the note back at her. "I doubt that's for me. I'm sure
he meant you."

Meg glances at the words and then rolls her eyes. She thrusts the note back at me.
"Oh please! He didn't even give me a second glance. He only had eyes for you. That
guy is the sweetest ever. And you really are beautiful when you smile."

She bats her eyelashes at me, and I lightly smack her in the arm before she makes
a big deal about something that clearly isn't. Meg walks away laughing, and I shake
my head at her back. I crumple up the napkin, shove it into my pocket, and get back
to work, trying to forget about the cute guy in the corner and why in the world he
would ever leave me a note.

I finally get home from work at ten o'clock that evening, take a quick shower to wash
the cake batter off of my skin, and sit down at the desk in my room. I power up my
computer and open Facebook, automatically going to her page. I start a new private
message to her, just like I do every single night before I go to bed. I know I should
have deleted her profile ages ago, but I could never bring myself to do it. Obviously
nothing about what I do is healthy, but I don't care. Every time I would hover my
mouse over the settings of her page to delete it, my chest would tighten and I would
struggle to breathe. Deleting it seems wrong. It would be like deleting her from my
life. As much as I hate to think about her, I'm not ready to do that yet. Taking a
deep breath and pushing past the pain, I type my post.