Hugo

Neveah

“My name is Hugo, and I’m an alcoholic. Among other things.”

My head involuntarily snapped in the direction of the speaker, reacting because the amused tone didn’t match the serious words—like hearing someone excited about waiting in line at the DMV or angry next to a peaceful brook in a Japanese garden. Utterly out of place.

And utterly compelling.

How had I missed him before? He must’ve walked in late because even with more than fifty people here, I would’ve zeroed in on him immediately.

Served me right to not pay attention. My excuse was that I didn’t want to be here and I generally kept to myself. Just doing my time.

By day I worked as a receptionist at a local law firm here in Santa Barbara. At night, I went out and partied. Until I had one too many DUIs and it was either agree to go to AA or suffer consequences I didn’t want to face. Thankfully, a lawyer in my firm represented me, and part of my plea bargain was that I had to go to these meetings.

But I wasn’t a real alcoholic. I’d do this as long as I had to. Only a few more meetings to go.

If this meeting was gonna have hotties like him, however, it’d make that time definitely more interesting. Maybe I’d stay awake.

Scanning the attendees, I found him seated at the end of the long tables with a matte black motorcycle helmet dominating the table in front of him.

Love me a biker. Love me a wild man.

His huge veiny hands toyed with a small Styrofoam coffee cup barely visible behind the helmet. Those brawny hands led to strong forearms and biceps that mounded on his arms, straining his dark blue thermal shirt. His broad chest and slim waist brought home the point—this man worked out.

My thighs clenched thinking about what all that muscle would be like to touch. What would it feel like to run my hands down the smooth caramel skin of his tight stomach? To trace the boulders of his arms and get a personalized anatomy lesson. Because from what I could tell, I’d learn a lot.

Then he leaned forward and I got a good look at him.

My eyes widened, my mouth got dry, and my heartbeat sped up. My spellbound body reacted in the most visceral way to him, even though my brain said, “Girl, don’t you dare!” He had a presence the way that celebrities do.

Gorgeous smile. Long nose. Strong cheekbones. Bright green-brown eyes held merriment and a strong dose of naughty. He caught my eye and grinned, raising a groomed eyebrow. But then he ordered his features and listened to the next person talk, with grave respect.

I was still paying attention to him, though. A dark gray motorcycle jacket lay draped on the chair, punctuating the point—he was just plain hot.

God damn.

He looked like he’d be a riot to party with. And do other things with.

Too bad we were stuck at an AA meeting.

I zoned out as introductions worked their way around the table, which was really five or six long tables butted against each other.

And I woke with a start. My turn.

“I’m Neveah, and I’m an alcoholic,” I said.

***

After the meeting, I lingered, taking extra time to pick up flyers I already had, not admitting to myself that I wanted Hugo to notice me. Ignoring the AA rule about no intimate relationships during the first year of sobriety. Because I had no intent to be sober. I only had a few more meetings to go before I was done.

I took the longest route out, resigned to leaving without meeting him, since he was still talking to the group leader.

But as I passed his bike, he bounded up behind me and tapped me gently on the shoulder. He towered over my compact, strong body. He smelled good, too, like amber and cardamom.

Oh, God.

“Hey, I heard what you said about it being hard to be around old friends when you’re sober,” he said.

I said that? Damn, that deep, gravelly voice did things to my belly. If I asked nicely, would he read me bedtime stories as my personal Vin Diesel sound-alike?

“It’s the truth,” I muttered, searching for some reason for him to say more, and failing. I didn’t want to add, “It’s still more fun to drink.” I shrugged instead.

Mostly because as he stood next to me, dark jeans down to fucking awesome motorcycle boots, all I could think was,he’s beautiful.

And, stay away.

He’s clearly fucked up if he’s at an AA meeting held at a local mental hospital.

“I get so bored not drinking. I don’t know what to do with myself,” he said.

I looked up at the night sky, then watched him go to put on his helmet. “Me neither.”

He flipped up the visor, smiled, and said, “See you next week?”

I nodded.

He reached out and touched my cheek, then the bike roared to life.

The next week, I saw him pull up on his Harley and dismount, ass snug in motorcycle jeans.

“Still bored?” I asked him, with a smile.

“Still bored.” But again, musical laughter radiated from him. His marbleized eyes met my dark ones.

He reached over and touched my cropped, bleached hair. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like P!nk?”

“Daily.”

“I dig your style, girl. It’s tough. You work out a lot, huh?”

I nodded.

He looked up at the sky. “I gotta get my mind off the shit,” he said, his voice not laughing anymore. “Wanna try doing something?”

“Like what?”

“Anything that’s not drinking.”

Although I shrugged and didn’t say anything, I thought, oh, fuck yes.

He continued, “You know, roller skating or an art exhibit. Sex.”

I did a double take and my eyes widened.

“I’m just kidding, Neveah,” he said in a way that meant that he totally was not kidding. “Just go out with me.”

“Okay,” I nodded.

“I mean, now.” And he handed me an extra motorcycle helmet.

“Ditch the meeting?”

He nodded.

“Sign me up.”

Handing me the helmet, he shucked off his gray leather jacket and handed it to me. It radiated his body warmth. Then I mounted his bike behind him like I’d done it before.

“You good with going to my place?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

I held on tight, my hands freezing as we zoomed down the coast, the waves of the Pacific on our side, the cool ocean air rushing past our bodies.

Freedom.

Nothing between us and the night.

This kind of exhilaration I normally felt after six shots of Jack. The kind of escape I’d normally only get while dancing with my friends, trashed.

Not that I’m an alcoholic.

The thrill of knowing that I’d get to feel him. Get to explore that body. Because mine was aroused by the bike, by his scent, by holding on to him, by knowing what we were going to do.

We pulled up at a small, older house in Ventura, a block from the beach with narrow clapboard siding and overgrown rosemary on the path.

When we stepped inside, he gave me a smile. “You know, I’d offer you a drink, but…”

“That’s okay,” I said, and stepped forward, pressing my lips to his.

With no helmet between us? He smelled even better. His skin was softer than I imagined. I ran my hands over his cheeks.

We shucked off our jackets and shoes and his hands were on my back, gentle, but firm and soothing.

“I don’t remember the last time I had sex not high,” he said against my mouth.

“I was always a little drunk, too.” I dug my hands in his back pockets as he pressed his growing erection into my jeans.

“You’re okay with this?” he asked, now sucking on my lower lip.

“Yeah.”

Yes I was.

“Good. Cause we’re gonna do every goddamn sober thing there is to do on the Central Coast,” he growled.

Then.

Naked.

In his bed, dark blue sheets cradled us while he kissed me, sucked my neck, licked my nipples, made me moan.

I rolled him over and did it back to him, feeling how aware I was of his skin, his breathing, his eyes.

His eyes.

When I was ready—and I was so ready—he entered me on a hot, wet piercing thrill.

What does sober sex feel like?

Pretty fucking good.

Joyous.

Thrusting, panting, joining, groaning, squeaking the bed, crying out.

Tension. Together, tension.

Then.

Release.

And exhaustion. Melted into each other, numb and awake and sated, so sated.

After, when we were getting dressed, he handed me my jeans and T-shirt, kissing me softly. “Let’s keep going. This. Tonight.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

***

“I still can’t believe you were serious about the roller skating,” I grumbled, rubbing my sore ass after falling for the third time. Hours on the treadmill and days with free weights hadn’t given me the balance necessary to skate without mishap. I didn’t like to make a fool out of myself. At least not while sober, because then I could remember it. This, tonight? I wasn’t gonna forget.

Wanting to give it up for the night, but determined not to let a bunch of preteens get the best of me, I let go of the railing. Bodies skated by me, like cars on a freeway passing a stranded motorist. The deejay played the greatest hits of the 90s to preteens who’d never heard these songs.

Hey, Macarena.

I had tunnel vision focus. I could do this. My feet, clad in rented tan suede skates, now rolled forward. My hands flapped at my sides like a teeter-totter. I was staying upright, dammit. Relying on my firm thighs and core muscles. On myself.

Once assured that yes, we had lift-off, Hugo glided ahead of me, turned around, grabbed both of my hands, and skated backwards around the rink shaking his taut ass. I leaned into his bodyweight, grateful for the stability.

The silvery disco ball threw rainbows on Hugo’s handsome face, catching the light in his multicolored eyes. And my tense body unclenched as we moved forward together. I remembered the way those hips felt between mine. The way his cock filled me. The way his eyes darkened when he came, gazing at me.

Now I clung to the able, sinewy hands of Hugo, as we made our way around the rink, ignoring children half our height passing us two and three times over.

Doing it better than me. This would be a lot more fun drunk.

Once I made it around the entire rink on my own two legs without falling, even with his help, I allowed myself to smile. His face changed when I smiled, becoming even more radiant and magnetic. Then, whoosh, distracted, we fell. For once, it was his fault.

He pulled me down on top of him with a hard thud. My cheek ended up on his pec, my legs between his. I was a fan of his pec. I’d spent time worshiping it earlier.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He sat up, pushing me up, and wrapped his T-shirt-clad arms around me, his body shaking.

For a moment I was horrified that he was crying, but he wasn’t. He was howling with laughter. “We’re total goofs,” he said. “Idiots. Yeah, babe. I’m all good. You?”

“Never better.” I curled into him, smelling his satisfying cologne, feeling his strong grip around my body. Not wanting to move.

A little girl, about six with her hair in thick, dark braids, skated past us, an elegant princess in her fancy skates.

“Need a drink?” he asked.

“Yeah. Imma get a beer. Want one?”

Those green-brown eyes now registered utter horror. “Fuck no, absolutely not.”

Hugo

“What the fuck?” I spluttered. I must have heard her wrong. We were staying sober, right? That was the point. Why I’d picked her up.

I thought she understood.

For the past two weeks, I’d hit a rough patch and had started going to daily meetings instead of weekly. I don’t know why it was rough. Just some old shit from my past, I guess. Old neural pathways, they say.

All I know is that without booze or drugs, I was so agitated in my skin I couldn’t stand it. I needed to escape, though I was determined not to turn to chemicals.

While I knew I was strong enough to skip a meeting, especially when I was going every day, I didn’t need this type of temptation. One sip meant I was passed out drunk. I couldn’t stop.

I had to get the hell out of here.

But her.

Neveah was temptation in every form.

Her cropped hair framed a delicate face with a defiant brow and dark, intelligent eyes. Shorter than me by at least a foot, dressed in a badass tank top that showed off toned arms and tight jeans. She had a compact build, with small tits, a flat stomach, and strong, curvy legs.

Sexy as fuck.

I liked her attitude. I liked her take-no-shit personality. And I really liked the taste of her I had earlier. I wanted another taste if I could.

“I’m getting a beer,” she repeated, with a sarcastic eyebrow raise, ignoring my glare. “Want one?”

But not a taste of that.

This was a bad idea. She was a bad idea.

I still really liked her, though.

Goddamn it.

A pair of twin little girls skated past us, holding hands and giggling. Matching outfits. Matching ponytails. Their cuteness did nothing to make me chill. That agitation I’d kept down while riding on my bike, getting a quick fuck, well, it was rising.

“No. We’re here to NOT drink, Neveah. That’s the point.”

She gave me the weirdest look. “What do you care?”

A flare of anger coursed through my veins. “What do you mean, what do I care? I go to meetings. I have a hundred and three days sober.” And I was damn proud of it.

“Congrats,” she said automatically. “Fine, don’t have any.” She patted my arm, turned, and headed for the snack bar. Only she was still on roller skates so she moved like a stinkbug, her bubble rump out and her feet wide. Like she was snow plowing down a bunny slope at Mammoth Mountain.

It was pretty adorable.

But.

While I’ve been known to live my life and make major decisions guided by my dick, at some point I did have a sense of self-preservation, and I was pissed.

Guess she wasn’t serious about working the program.

“I can’t be here with you,” I gutted out, following her. “If you’re gonna drink. I can’t.”

“Some rule-breaker you are,” she sneered as her feet slipped wider. I reached out to catch her, but she recovered her own balance like a cat.

As she skated away, I muttered, “Why do you even go to the meetings?”

She made her way over to the snack bar, and ordered two beers.

Two? Fuck no.

I opened up my wallet, pulled out a twenty, and handed it to her. “This is for your ride home.”

“I thought you were fun,” she said. “I thought you were wild.”

“I am. But I’m staying sober.”

And I turned and went to get my shoes back.

Do you know how long it takes to get roller skates off? Too damn long.

She fingered the beer. Pausing.

No, babe. Don’t do it.

But she picked it up.

While she downed an entire beer in almost one gulp and headed for the next, I unlaced the skates, then brought them over to the rental counter. It took an eternity.

And looking over my shoulder, seeing her buy a third and fourth beer, I left, my feet feeling strange and solid on the industrial-grade blue carpeting, the slick rolling motion gone, but my body still having the muscle memory.

I went out into the night and swore at the freeway passing by the roller rink.

Fuck.

Fuck. Dammit. Fuck.

Why did she have to do that? I wanted to spend the rest of the night at her place, getting to know that body. I wanted to take her out tomorrow and the next day and the next.

Now my jacket smelled like her.

Great.

I locked her helmet in the spare compartment and took off in the cold night, alone.

The next morning, though, like a sucker, I knocked on her apartment door in Santa Barbara, with a chipboard tray of two hot coffees and a bag of protein treats.

She opened the door, her short, bleached hair sticking up, but her facial features as pretty as ever, clad only in a tiny T-shirt and boy shorts.

Basically, she was so hot it hurt. I wanted to hold her, lick her, make all the parts of her shudder. Edge her forever until we couldn’t stand it. Take her.

But her eyes were red and she looked sick.

And a look of shame passed over her eyes as she studied the ground.

I knew how that felt.

“I came with a peace offering,” I said. “It’s bulletproof coffee. With butter and oil in it for energy. Super clean coffee beans, too. Good for a hangover. Protein muffins too, with eggs and bacon.”

“How do you know where I live?” she asked, accusingly. But she took the coffee. And took a sip.

“You don’t remember?”

She shook her head. I leaned against the doorway.

“Last night, after I left you at the roller rink, I came back.”

“You did?” Her eyes were as wide as quarters. That pretty mouth made an “O” shape, so cute. She gave me a small smile and reached up and kissed my cheek.

Bad for me. She was bad for me.

But she reminded me of me.

“I couldn’t leave you there by yourself, all drunk. But I couldn’t take you home on the back of my bike. I’d be scared you’d fall off. So I went home and returned with my car. You slept the whole way home.”

“How did you get my address if I was passed out?”

“Off your driver’s license.”

“Holy fuck,” she whispered.

“You do that a lot? Not know how you end up places?”

She nodded, sipping the coffee. Setting the cup on the ground, she reached over and gave me a big hug. “This is good. You’re treating me better than I deserve.”

“Want me to go?”

“Nope. Sorry. Come in.”

She picked up the coffee and went inside. I stepped into her condo, which was about as messy as mine. For someone as tough as she seemed, it was quite feminine, with a flowered tablecloth on the kitchen table. I guess I expected nothing but empty beer bottles.

“I feel like shit,” she said.

“That’s not surprising. Come back to bed.”

Watching that round ass sway in those tiny boy shorts, I followed her down the hall to her bedroom. “A group of us from AA are getting together tomorrow afternoon at this art place. Something to do. No booze. Wanna come?”

“Maybe. If I feel better.”

Leaving the coffees on a bedside table, she stretched and climbed into bed, her cheek on her white pillowcase. I took off my shoes, jacket, and pants, and crawled in behind her, spooning her.

Snuggling into me, she said, “I swear I’m fine. Really. You didn’t have to rescue me, but thank you.”

I left open mouth kisses on her soft, warm neck. “Sobriety is like that roller rink. While I can hold your hand, you really just have to figure out how to do it on your own.”

Sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains, and everything in the room was warm and light.

She slept. When she woke up, curled in my arms, she stretched, recovered mostly.

After she had a drink of water and came back to bed, she flopped down beside me. But sleeping next to her was just too much temptation. I’d been fighting being hard the whole time. When she ran her hand down my thigh, I rolled over and settled between her legs.

I lifted up her T-shirt and traced her torso with my nose while her hands pulled my hair closer. I could see her chest raise up and down, faster, her breath increasing in pace, but shallower. My fingers ran across her ribs, those tight tits.

“Take this off,” she whispered, and I kneeled back and took off my shirt. Her hands smoothed over my belly, up my chest. Then with two hands behind my neck, she pulled me to her and kissed me, her tongue touching mine, her warmth igniting a need in me.

And in her.

With her heels, she pushed down my briefs. Then she lifted up her hips and shimmied out of her underwear. I knelt between her legs and made her pulse run. After she had cried out—and I grabbed a condom out of my wallet—she welcomed me.

This time, slowly, gently. In the light. With attention.

And afterwards, she cuddled on my bare chest and played with my belly button, our legs intertwined.

I buried my face in the top of her hair. “You only go to AA ‘cause you have to, right?”

“Yeah. Almost done. Then I’m the fuck out of there.”

My only response was to hold her tighter.

I had so much to say, but couldn’t. Like, “I started out going there because I had to, but it changed me.” Like, “I don’t think we can hang out if you’re drinking.” Like, “I really want to date you, but I can’t if you’re going to sabotage me.” Like, “I think it could help you, because I see so much of you in me.”

Like, “I wish you’d give it a chance.”

As she nuzzled my chest, I thought I heard her say, “I’m sorry, Hugo.”

Neveah

“I feel like a complete idiot. What does yours look like?”

“A turnip mating with a merman,” Hugo said, turning around his canvas so I could see. I stifled a laugh and got distracted by the way his biceps filled out his tight, black T-shirt. His long, sensual fingers, ones that had been all over my body not an hour ago, which had slipped between my legs and made me come so hard I lost all track of time. That mouth that had started at my mouth and found its way down lower.

And I’d returned the favor.

Watching out for the wet paint, I turned my canvas around so he could see, and his light eyes bulged with amusement, suppressing a grin back at me. Trying not to make fun of me.

I appreciated that.

“At least yours looks like the sea,” I said. “Mine looks like Barbie met a manta ray, had really bad oysters for dinner and ended up drinking ayahuasca. I didn’t realize that when it said ‘art show,’ we were actually doing the art.”

Our efforts at painting underwater seascapes were underwhelming, to say the least. We’d joined most of AA at a nonprofit art center while a band played Bob Marley cover songs. Several of the AA peeps sat with us, but the next table over was nothing but children.

Was this to be my life? I couldn’t be trusted to be an adult, so I needed to hang with the kids?

Except for the people I recognized from the meeting, like the roller rink, almost everyone around us was under twelve and the only drinks served were fruit punch and water. But it was something sober to do—AA kept long, updated lists of these community events for us.

Still, I really felt out of place, and felt agitated. My legs kept bumping up against the table, which was so low that Hugo’s jean-clad knees were taller than it. His motorcycle boots clashed with the excited kids in bright colors, running around and giggling. He handled the scene with aplomb, though, seemingly content to focus on painting a simple seascape.

The band took a break. Hugo glanced around then caught my eye with a thoughtful expression. “I wasn’t much older than these kids when I started drinking,” he muttered.

“Yeah?”

He pointed at a skinny kid with glasses and a Pokémon shirt. “He looks about twelve. I was thirteen. Sneaking sips from the liquor cabinet. Peppermint Schnapps.”

I added a purple fish that looked like a purple blob. “I was fifteen,” I said. “With my friends who were eighteen and had fake IDs.”

An older dude with longish gray hair, a beard, and a tummy, had painted a starfish that looked pretty good, except it had an extra arm. “I started in ‘Nam. Never quit until I lost my wife, my kids, my family, my friends, my money, my job. All gone. Had to rebuild. Now I’m sober twenty years. And I struggle every day. Still.”

I looked at him. A stereotype.

Oh God, was that me? A stereotype, too? The party girl who ages before her time. Washed up. No friends. Pathetic.

Oh, fuck. I didn’t want to be that girl. I didn’t want to be fighting this thing every day for the rest of my life. But it was so much easier just to ignore the problems. Keep going the way I’d been going.

There’s a reason change is hard.

At the next meeting in a few days, I’d be done with this forever.

Right?

Would I be done with Hugo forever, too?

Hugo caught my eye, leaned over, and gave me a quick kiss. Like he knew what I was thinking. Again.

Shit.

In this short amount of time, he’s treated me better than any of my bar friends. I didn’t want to lose that. I didn’t have a spouse or kids like that guy from ‘Nam, but I did have him.

Maybe.

***

“You did what?”

Uh, Amelia Crowley just glared at me.

“I drank,” I said in a small voice, kicking at the terracotta tile in her office. I couldn’t look her in the eye quite yet. “Did I screw everything up?”

She wasn’t only my boss, she was also my lawyer handling my cases and my friend. After the art show, Hugo and I went out to dinner, and I told him I was worried about my court date coming up.

“I think it’s okay, but talk to your attorney,” he said. “Be honest. It’s easier that way.”

The consummate attorney ready to solve any problem, she didn’t even flinch when I walked in her office saying I needed to talk to her.

“Did you drive?”

“No.”

“If you get another DUI, you’re getting 300 hours of community service. And a shit-ton of other trouble, including massive fines and jail time. You really need to knock it off, Neveah.” Brushing a tendril of dark hair back, she looked at me analytically, her dark blue eyes intense. “I thought you said you could quit at any time.”

“I can. I mean, I will.”

Sitting up straighter in her chair, she put her hand on her hip. “Honestly?”

“I don’t really think I have a problem,” I lied.

“Right. Hasn’t the Twelve Step program helped?”

A red flush came to my cheeks as I thought about how I’d only phoned it in. How I hadn’t really done any of the steps other than physically be at the meeting. “Um, not really.”

“It could help you with your attitude and behavior, if you gave it a chance.” With a sigh, she went back to her computer. “Let me know when you get all your AA paperwork signed, and I’ll get it filed. Just try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, feeling stupid and confused. Knowing that Amelia was disappointed in me felt like a submarine had docked in my gut.

I was disappointed in me, too.

* * *

That night, I got home and paced, twitchy. The walls were closing in on me. There was nothing on Netflix. Facebook sucked. I wanted to throw my phone across the room. Argh! What the hell was wrong with me?

What I really wanted to do was go meet up with my friends at the club. Dance. Drink. Escape. But I couldn’t risk another DUI. I may be a wild girl, but I wasn’t going to jail. It was too far to walk to the bar. And Ubers in this town are few and far between.

I was so goddamned bored, I didn’t know what to do.

I needed a drink.

Why did I clean out my house again?

This was the time I’d normally have a nice buzz on. This was the time that I’d normally be so out of it, feeling no pain.

And a small voice inside me said, “You’d be sick and passed out.”

And, “You don’t want to be sick and passed out anymore. You just want to be normal.”

My hands were shaking. I wanted to rip out my hair. My skin was crawling and I wanted to run.

What was happening to me? Alcohol withdrawal?

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. How could I not see it?

I had a problem.

How was I gonna deal with this?

Could I get help?

I answered my own question. I called Hugo.

“Babe.” His voice immediately made me feel calmer. Maybe I wasn’t in withdrawal. Maybe I just needed a friend. Him.

My voice was barely louder than a whisper. “Can you come and get me? Right now?”

He heard the desperation in my tone, I’m sure, because his words were a low, gentle growl. “Yeah, but I’m on my way to AA.” He went every day, I knew, and he’d memorized all of the local schedules.

“Can I go with you?”

“Absolutely, babe.” And I don’t think I was imagining his enthusiasm. “On my way.”

He must have broken most speed laws, because we made it to the meeting only a few minutes late, even though it was way across town. This meeting was held in the rec room of a brand new senior center, a completely different vibe than the place I went to before. Clean and new and smaller.

And the group was tiny, just seven people.

I couldn’t hide.

Hugo sat next to me. While I fidgeted, he reached over and held my hand, soothing me.

While the introductions proceeded around the tables, I looked every person in the face, in their eyes, and tried to understand what they were saying.

I listened.

And it felt like they were all talking about me.

A woman who looked like an elementary school teacher said, “It’s painful to drink. It’s more painful not to drink. And it might be even more painful to keep doing what I’m doing.”

A businessman wearing a suit and tie sobbed out, “This meeting is helping me learn how to face the emptiness, the emotions that I can’t handle sober.”

A dude who looked about my age said, “I tried to escape. Tried to find that elusive feeling that I felt while drunk. That I was fun. Invincible. Successful. The life of the party. But I don’t have to be that anymore.”

Listening to them started moving something inside me.

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit, oh, shit.

Could I do this?

Could I fess up that I have a drinking problem? In front of these people?

In front of Hugo? Who I’d lied to?

I looked around. They really were just like me.

It felt . . . safe.

Still, my pulse roared in my ears as I waited my turn.

My palms clammed up, but Hugo still held my hand firmly.

I didn’t know what was gonna happen. I didn’t know if this was gonna work.

But I was willing to give it a shot.

Then they got to me.

I looked over at Hugo, who gave me an encouraging smile. Not his normal, slightly-wicked grin. But a gentle, “You got this, girl,” smile.

I took a deep breath. Sweat gathered at my hairline.

Fuck it.

I turned to Hugo and looked him squarely in the eyes.

I was only talking to him.

“My name is Neveah, and I’m an alcoholic.”

As I said those words, I felt them in my arms and my legs. My skin started tingling. I felt it in my marrow and the sinew. My bloodstream.

Then.

Lightness.

Freedom.

I’d admitted it. I did it.

I was an alcoholic.

“And I need help,” I said.

“Welcome, Neveah,” said Mikey, the group leader. “We’re glad you’re here.”

When it came to the part of the meeting where we were allowed to share our story, I surprised myself and started talking. About how no one in the bars was really my friend, they just wanted my credit card to buy a round. About how I didn’t want to face what it felt like not to party, or not to be popular. About how I was sick of throwing up. Sick of blacking out. Sick of depending on the kindness of strangers or almost-strangers. Sick of wasting all my money on alcohol.

Embarrassed at work. In pain.

Tired of lying to myself. Tired of lying to everyone.

And I didn’t know what to do to stop.

There. I did it. I sat back down. Hugo smiled at me, kissed my check, and wiped off a few tears that I didn’t know had escaped.

When I finished, Mikey thanked me for sharing.

The next person spoke, and I again listened to their story, which was eerily like mine.

These were my people.

At the end, Hugo held my hand as we walked outside. “I’m so proud of you, babe. You did good.”

“I like this group better,” I said. “Can I switch?”

“Of course.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” We went over to his bike. “Wanna go for a drive up the coast before I take you home?”

I nodded.

In the dark, we parked his bike at the edge of the road, listening to the ocean. Our helmets off, I sat backwards in front of him, straddling him.

He kissed me like the only moment that existed was this one. This one in which he held me with his strong arms and gave me all of him.

No matter how hard I tried to hide, he came and found me.

I ran my finger along his jaw, feeling his one-day beard and seeing all of him. His eyes, his beauty, but also his belief in me.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“We take it one day at a time, babe,” he said. “That’s all we can do.”

You can read The Sun and the Moon here!