Exactly

I went to the meeting because I was told I had some problems. Well, I had one very pressing problem. But, really, I had a TON of problems. So, the one I went to the meeting for. This problem? It was the problem of twenty empty bottles of bourbon in my closet.

Why didn't I throw them away? Or take them to the recycling place with all the other glass and plastic and metal?

I don't know - I just left the bottles in my closet. No one ever went in my closet. 11 years in the same house - not once did someone mention what was in my closet. Perhaps a cursory glance, but nothing more. It was a "safe" place to put things until I could deal with them. Later. But later never came.

Anyway, so I agreed to meet the guy about getting some help.

Of course, the meeting place was not far. Just a few miles down the road, really. That is, the meeting place was about 4 miles from the rental house I'd found. For her.

We'd exchanged messages about it. She liked it. A lot. It was either that house or an apartment outside of town or moving to a whole different city.

So, after I talked about how much I drank each day and how I would buy alcohol even if I didn't have money for anything else, I asked what my options were.

He mentioned a treatment center or some form of outpatient therapy. I suggested I might just stop. I mean, I hadn't had a single drink in 10 whole days. So, maybe I could make it work. He suggested a religious-themed program, and I thought I might at least make that work - or, at least, make it look like it was working.

So, I left the guy who spent his days helping addicts avoid the worst consequences and drove to the rental house. It was empty. Completely empty. A simple, two-story brick home with a basement. A long driveway with a fence. A deck that provided a lovely view of the very long (yet narrow) backyard.

There would be plenty of room for her dog here, I thought. I also found myself quite satisfied that I'd avoided all discussion of the affair. The counselor inquired, and I'd only admitted opportunities.

Now, here I was looking through the windows at a rental house for her. A woman I'd wanted almost from the first text. Certainly, a woman I wanted the very first time I saw her.

I snapped some pictures - from the yard, of the yard, from the front of the house.

I got back in my car. She texted me. A picture of an apartment. In Chicago. Which would mean she'd be gone. Out of my life, out of my world. Sure, I could fly there, but she currently lived 15 miles from me. This rental house was only 10 miles from my own home.

I sent her the pics I'd just taken. Told her the home was beautiful. The kitchen incredible. A wonderful staircase greeted you when you opened the bright red front door.

She called the rental agent. Made an appointment. Saw the home the next day. Committed to rent it. Exactly one week from the day I visited the home, she was moving in.

*****

I picked her up at the rental house on a Tuesday morning. Around 10 AM. It was a moist June day. At this point, I'd only been inside the home one time. A night of red wine and pot and laughs and a need to get back "home." That was about a month before - some 5 months after she'd moved in to the house I'd chosen for her.

We'd spent the day at my office. A beautiful spot downtown - a building over 100 years old. We'd done some work, had a meal, had some drinks. The truth is, I'd been drinking most of the day. So, by the time it was 8:00 at night and we went to the bar, I was pretty far gone. I thought she'd been drinking a lot, too. But, she was switching between water and wine. I was going straight bourbon.

The second drink at the bar was the tipping point. I was louder, more insistent. She asked to leave. We walked back laughing and holding each other. But, at the office, the mood turned. I don't remember all of what I said, but I'm sure she was right to be mad. She left. In a Lyft.

I waited a bit, considered my choices. It was past midnight.

I walked to my car. The evening air seemed to wake me a bit. Plus, I was determined. To apologize. To see her.

She was on the porch. She'd lost her key. So, she was emptying her purse. Even in my state, I remembered a key in my car, possibly hers. I brought it to her. She opened the door and she told me to come inside.

I sat on her couch and she took off my shoes. We talked and laughed and watched TV as our drunken high crashed down around us.

Then, it was morning. The light of the sun creeping in through half-closed blinds. My phone said 5:04 AM.

June 10th.

Exactly six months from the day I picked out the house. I was waking up there, on a nice couch with an angry woman upstairs. Sleep had not made her kinder. If anything, with clarity, she recalled what an ass I'd been. She asked me to leave and folded her arms when I requested a hug. It's funny, now, to see that I'd chosen all of this - picked out the place I would be, picked the place where it would begin to unravel.

I drove home. But, the bed there was empty. I showered. I had a full day of meetings and two very angry people in my world.

How often, I wonder, do we get to choose where we'll fall apart? Was I thinking in January about what might happen - if not in June, at some point? Was I choosing the most pleasant place for the eventual crash?

A bright January day and the hope of at least some recovery - a second chance. A June morning six months later - hope was gone and the world was crashing in.

I made the choices, but it sometimes feels like the path was already laid out for me.