Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [37]
Not one of them looked at me.
They sang in one loud voice now, knowing, of course, that Mick was absolutely right. What we wanted, we could not have. What we wanted was alcohol or sex or drugs or money or any combination of those. What we needed was sobriety. That search for sanity linked the construction worker, the physician, the loan officer, the high school students, the housewife, the thief, and the waitress.
Mick's song became our anthem.
17
We arrived.
Cars littered the blacktop slab like grown-up Hot Wheels tossed from the sky by careless children of the gods. The bus nosed its way along a chain-link fence, separating the parking lot from the painted white brick church that hovered on the edge of the street.
Myrtle leaned over, tugged on the black handle, and the bus doors yawned opened. “Party's over. Time for me to grab a Subway before the meetin’ ends.” She stood and swiped her hands across the front of her housecoat, wiping off some invisible gunk from her lap. “Three twelve-inch subs only $11.99 tonight,” she announced to the backs of the newly and begrudgingly sober riders who shuffled down the bus steps.
Theresa paused by my seat. “You coming with us or what?”
I chanted my silent mantra when the bus stopped: I will lift myself off this seat. I will move my legs forward. But my rebellious feet protested. Sorry. No can do. We’re happy right where we are. I stared down at my sneaker-clad size sixes, hoping no one else heard them screaming at me. “You are being so disobedient and a little confused about who's in charge here,” I sneered.
“Girl, who are you yapping at?” Theresa's voice reminded me I only felt alone.
I pushed myself off the seat and slid a foot forward. I could beg Myrtle to let me ride with her to Subway just this one time. We could get orders to go. Deliver them to the meeting. Were AA meetings catered? Probably not. But they could be. I could start a new business: The Thirteenth Step. I came to believe in the value of proper nutrition and shared this …
Myrtle cleared her throat. Twice. “I’m hungry, and the meetin's about to start.”
I didn’t see her face because I focused on convincing my feet to shove themselves out the door.
“She's on her way out, Miss Myrtle. Cinderella here's not going to be late for her first AA meeting,” said Matthew. I’d forgotten he was even on the bus as the intern in charge of this wacko field trip. His pat on my shoulder was a gentle push in disguise.
The bus doors clamped shut as the yellow carriage growled away. “She's going to torture us with jalapeno breath, isn’t she?” I asked Matthew.
“Nah. She’ll eat enough white chocolate macadamia nut cookies to not have fire-breathing dragon mouth. Anyway, she's really harmless. Well, on a full stomach,” he said. His scuffed deck shoes slowed to match the pace of my now not-so-white tennis shoes. Every man in Carl's extended family owned a pair of Sperry Rand deck shoes. They were a rite of passage—their totem symbol of manhood.
“Why don’t women have deck shoes? Are we not supposed to be on the deck?”
Matthew stopped. “Are you talking to me?”
Once again, my brain failed to lower the guard gate before the thoughts escaped and expressed themselves in words.
“No. Your shoes remind me of my husband.” Carl's shoes, though, would continue their brisk stride. “Ever since Carl, I associate deck shoes with sailing.” I hoped Matthew didn’t notice my lower lip trembling as memories hitched a ride on our conversation.
“I don’t sail. They’re just comfortable and easy to get on and off.” He bent to tie one of the leather laces that had worked its way loose. I massaged the gravel with the bottom of my right foot, waited, and tried not to stare at his backside, which was just as cute as his front side.
“So—” he straightened and nodded toward the front of the building. “You ready?”
“Does it