And for phones. Because mine had a blinking message from Elle.
Don’t get excited.
Don’t read into it.
It’s probably something about the center.
I ignored it as I hit the weights.
I lifted, then as I took a drink of water, I finally opened the text.
Elle: Hi. So, this might sound crazy. But what if we really did hang out? Would that be a terrible idea? Just hang out. Because I really like spending time with you.
Colin: I like spending time with you too.
Elle: You do?
Colin: Yes, in case that wasn’t readily apparent.
Elle: I just like to hear it.
Colin: Then I’ll say it again. I like spending time with you. And if you’re not ready, you’re not ready. No pressure.
Elle: Thank you. I appreciate that so much as a friend. And I appreciate you as a friend.
Colin: Think you’d appreciate zip-lining?
Elle: Whoa. Hold my feet to the fire.
Colin: Well, you do roller-skate.
Elle: Yes, but skating is not one hundred feet above the ground.
Colin: Then, friend, we are zip-lining.
It wasn’t exactly how I’d seen the night going, but maybe this was the true opening.
After we made plans for Tuesday night, I ended the chat and headed home, munching on carrots when I entered my kitchen.
Carrots and club soda.
Chuckling to myself, I shook my head. Man, my life had changed.
Years ago, I would have been devouring a beautiful bottle of Patrón, like I’d done after my dad died when I was thirteen. Then at age twenty-three, I partied too hard one night, decided to still compete hungover in a triathlon the next day, and wound up collapsing, breaking my tibia, and nearly losing my job.
Wake-up call indeed.
My rock bottom, and I quit after that.
Wasn’t easy.
There had been moments in those early days of sobriety when I’d have given my left arm for another glass and my right for a handful of pills. Now, with eight years clean—no slips, no relapses, no just one drinks—I felt steady and calm. I’d made it through the hell of withdrawal, I’d had the support of friends and family in getting sober, and I relied on a solid network of like-minded men in my recovery support group. Every day, I aimed to live according to a new way of thinking—a sober way—and I honestly wasn’t tempted anymore when I walked past tequila on the shelf or saw a drink being served at a bar.
Nearly every night, I talked to my dad before bed, asking him to watch over me, to keep me on the wagon, to make sure I didn’t fall into the wrong crowd again.
I liked to think he played a part.
But then I liked to think he’d played a part in anything good in my life.
And I needed to atone for the wrong choices I’d made. I was doing that by living clean.
Here I was eighteen years later, still hoping I could do right by him.
And by myself too. I intended to do that by competing in the triathlon at the end of the summer. I hadn’t attempted it since my epic fail eight years ago. But it was my personal quest to finish it this time. Whether I came in first or last didn’t matter. Finishing sober was all I wanted.
A tribute to my dad.
And to myself.
And if I could finish it, maybe I could somehow see this thing through with Elle.
Figure out how to be friends, only friends, with the woman I longed for.
9
Elle
Billie Holiday sang of standing alone, without a dream in her heart.
My ringtone. Her version of “Blue Moon.”
One of my comfort songs.
Bleary-eyed and still groggy, I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand.
Squinting, I spied the edge of the red number on my clock radio—eight thirty in the morning.
On a Sunday.
It was too early for anyone to be calling with good news.
An all too familiar burst of panic blasted through me when I saw “unknown number” on the screen. When Sam had called from his many stints in rehab, the number had always shown up as unknown. The times he’d rung me up while out partying, plastered and begging me to take him back, he would block his number.
Logically, I knew that Sam wasn’t calling me from the grave. But a rabid fear pulsed through me nonetheless. I swiped my finger across the screen, sitting up in bed and doing my best to clear the sound of sleep from my voice in case it was a client or one of the kids I counseled at the center. They all had my number.
“Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Marcus.” His tone was nervous.
I sat up straight. If he was calling me this early, it had to be serious. I flashed back on our conversation from the other day. Did he want to talk more about his mom and the family he didn’t know?
But then, he might also be trying to get into the center to play hoops.
“Hey there. Are you trying to get into the center? We don’t open until ten on Sundays. One of the volunteers should be there then,” I offered.
“No, actually. I’m not,” he said, speaking tentatively, the vocal equivalent of shuffling his feet. “I’m sorry to bug you so early. I’ve been thinking about what we’ve been talking about, and I’m finally ready to do something.”
This was serious. I wanted to give him my full attention. “Okay. Tell me more. You mentioned wanting to know your other siblings.”
“Yeah, I do,” he said, and I had a feeling he was going to say a whole lot more today than he had when he’d come to my office earlier in the week.
I was ready, and I wanted to help.
10
Marcus
I paced in the park.
I didn’t like to make calls at my apartment.
Maybe that came from never wanting to make calls in front of my dad, back when I’d lived at home.
It was my habit, and it was a hard one to break.
So I scanned the grounds, making sure I had privacy.
I cleared my throat, drawing up the courage to tell her more. To say what I hadn’t said the other day. Because there were things I hadn’t told her. Hadn’t told anyone. And they were weighing on me, heavier every day, for so many reasons. Here goes nothing. “I just feel like I spent my whole life not knowing anything about my family and where I came from, and now I do,” I said, biting off the truth. “And my dad didn’t want me to find them, but they’re here in Vegas, and I’m not living at home anymore. So this is my choice. I need to do this.”
I stopped in place, digging my heels into the ground.
Metaphorically.
But it felt necessary.
Elle answered immediately. “Then you should do it. Something is compelling you to connect with them, and you need to listen. Family is a powerful pull and a potent bond, and you’ve never had a chance to get to know them.”
Yes. That. Exactly. Who were they? What were they like? Were they like me? Sometimes I didn’t feel connected to my father at all, or my half-sisters a lot of the time. But they were so much younger than I was. Would I connect more with the Sloans? But there was another issue. A scarier one.