April's Glow Page 10

  He doubled over and leaned one hand on the bar stool next to her bag. He couldn’t focus, catch his breath, his head spinning.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Her hand touched his back and he straightened up.

  He looked in her eyes once again and knew he couldn’t keep this bottled up inside. He took a deep breath that would in no way prepare him for what was to follow. ‘My name is Zac Masterson, and I’m an alcoholic.’

  Chapter 12

  April stepped back as though the truth had slapped her in the face.

  ‘I mean recovering alcoholic,’ Zac said. ‘At AA they say alcoholic, but I think that reinforces the problem, so I prefer to say recovering. Not recovered, because then that would mean I could have the odd drink and be fine, but I can’t, and I’m not. So I’m recovering, and always will be.’ He leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms as he exhaled a long breath. His gaze dropped to the bottle in her hands and she thought for a moment he was going to grab it from her. She went to the door and placed it outside on the porch, then came back in.

  She should have recognised the signs, but had been blinded by this man and his unconventional charm.

  Recognition. Is that what she had seen in his eyes that had made her feel slightly teary for a moment during the eye-gazing exercise? She hadn’t understood why emotion had surged through her, but now she knew.

  She had seen her father in his eyes.

  The same pain, same need, same hunger … for something no person could provide. And an emptiness that could only be filled by the liquid poison. But, she’d also seen something else. Strength, determination, and … desire? ‘How long have you been sober?’ she asked.

  ‘Almost eight months,’ he replied. ‘September first will be the long awaited twelve-month mark. First day of spring.’ He moved behind the counter and filled a glass with water, then sculled it.

  Part of her wanted to dash outside and suck in the cool night air in giant gulps, then go home and close the door to the night, and him. But she couldn’t. The other part of her wanted to understand. Wanted to know more and more about him. Needed to.

  ‘And how long, I mean, were you …’

  ‘How long was I married to the drink?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Around two years or so. Though I don’t know exactly when it started. It had just been a few drinks here and there after Johnny’s death, and before I knew it I couldn’t get through a day without it.’

  April furrowed her brow. ‘Your friend died?’

  Zac pointed to the mantle. ‘My best mate. Like a brother. Watched him die right in front of me.’ He moved back to the couch and sat, resting his elbows on his thighs.

  April’s heart dropped. She sat next to him. ‘Oh, Zac.’ Her hand tentatively touched his back as it had before.

  ‘One second he was there, the next he wasn’t.’

  April clamped her eyes closed for a moment. She didn’t want to ask what had happened, but assumed it had been an explosion of some kind.

  ‘Our vehicle got hit,’ he said. ‘I’d hopped out to check something suspicious by the side of the road, and when I turned back …’ He exhaled a long breath. ‘All three of them. Gone.’

  She placed her hand on his back, cautiously, like he was a bomb about to go off. Heat urged to escape through his shirt. What words were of any value when it came to something like that?

  His foot tapped up and down against the floor, his body tensing under her touch. She knew what was happening—he wanted to drink. Her father got impatient twitches when he’d been too long without a fix. Which for him was a matter of hours, not months as it had been for Zac.

  ‘We’d actually been laughing about something just before it happened. Laughing, can you believe it?’ He shook his head.

  Yes, she could. Just like she’d been singing and smiling right before her crash. The calm, or in this case the fun, before the storm.

  ‘I’m sure he’d be proud of you,’ she said.

  ‘Proud? I survived, and what do I go and do? Become a drunk.’

  ‘I mean proud that you stopped. That you had the strength to make that decision. And eight months, that’s huge. You should be proud too.’

  As his hands formed a triangle while his elbows rested on his knees, she pointed to the tattoo on his wrist. ‘Did you get that before or after?’

  He glanced at his wrist. ‘After. After I stopped drinking actually. I wanted something there so that whenever I picked up a glass or a bottle, I’d see it, be reminded that if I chose to, I could be stronger. I could resist.’ He rubbed at the tattoo. ‘So far so good.’

  April looked at her own wrist. ‘I need one to stop me eating chocolate.’ Then she covered her mouth. ‘Oh God, that’s a totally inappropriate thing to say. Sorry.’ She tipped her head back and looked at the ceiling.

  Zac turned to her. ‘It’s okay. I like how you say what’s on your mind. It’s refreshing.’

  She caught his gaze. Yes, she did like to voice her thoughts, but new thoughts were creeping into her mind and they weren’t ones she could say out loud.

  He’s an alcoholic.

  Like my father.

  If only he …

  No. This wasn’t the time to allow those thoughts to continue in a domino cascade of increasingly worrisome assumptions. She knew where the cascade would end when the last domino fell, and she wasn’t ready to accept that yet. Right now he was in pain, and she wanted to be there for him.

  ‘I have another tattoo here,’ he said, pulling up the hem of his jeans. ‘For Johnny.’

  The letter J was tattooed in medieval-looking font on his inner right ankle.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘I guess all you, all we, can do, is remember the good times and hope they meant something.’ She looked straight ahead, her gaze falling on the darkened hallway beyond the living room. Zac’s room would be beyond there. Here she was, sitting in this man’s house, both of them open and vulnerable, baring their souls. She hardly knew him, yet at the same time she knew him so well. She had never met someone who had gotten through to her like this, who had triggered some part of her that wanted to go deeper, wanted to feel things she wasn’t sure she could ever feel again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Memories are all we have.’

  ‘Did what happen trigger the agoraphobia?’ she asked, then hoped she wasn’t overstepping the mark by getting him to discuss his traumatic past.

  ‘When I got back. To the real world, whatever that is,’ he said, ‘I felt removed from everything, like an alien. And guilty. How could I go on and enjoy my life when they didn’t get to come home?’ He linked his hands and ground them into each other. ‘I felt guilty if I went out. If I smiled. If I talked to people. Things they’d never get to do anymore. I know it’s stupid, and I should have been grateful and made the most of surviving, but that’s how I felt back then. And to numb the feeling of separation, I’d go to the pub. Zone out. Becoming even more separated in a sense, but in a way that I couldn’t feel the intensity.’ He took a cracker but broke it in half, replacing it on the plate. ‘Then I started drinking at home instead. And when I finally stopped drinking, I didn’t want to go out and have the same thing happen—feel the feelings that triggered the drinking in the first place.’

  April nodded as she listened, keeping quiet so he could release whatever was on his mind.

  ‘There was too much temptation. If I was out, I’d end up in a pub or a bottle shop. If I stayed home, I couldn’t. Pretty soon it became as simple as that.’

  ‘Hence all the deliveries I’ve seen arriving at your doorstep.’

  He nodded. ‘Thank God for internet shopping.’

  ‘Zac, if there’s ever anything I can get for you, bring you, please let me know. If I can help, I …’

  ‘Thanks, April.’ He lightly touched her hand, and she knew he wasn’t just thanking her for the offer.

  ‘Do you get some kind of government help, I mean financial assistance, for your …’ She didn
’t want to say disability.

  Zac shifted on the couch. ‘I have everything covered,’ he said quietly. There was silence for a moment and April feared that, as usual, she had overstepped the mark. She may as well have asked him how much money was in his bank account. But then he turned to face her. ‘Johnny’s adoptive family were well off. He left me so much, too much, in his will.’ Zac took a deep breath. ‘I’ve given to charity, I’ve helped out some people, but I feel so bad that I wasted so much of it on the grog.’ He leaned back on the couch and crossed one leg over his knee, as though the revelations were draining his energy. ‘Apart from charity donation subscriptions, the rest is just sitting there, in my investment accounts. I don’t know what to do with it, apart from pay my necessary expenses. I don’t want a fancy life, don’t need much.’ He rubbed his chin then said, ‘I should give it all away. I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘Zac, he gave it to you. It’s yours. Of course you deserve it.’

  ‘Do you want some?’ he asked, looking her way. ‘Seriously, let me know much and I’ll wire it. You’ll make good use of it for your business, I know.’

  April’s mouth gaped. What she wouldn’t give to have a bit more cash. But this was ridiculous. ‘That’s crazy. I can’t and I won’t accept money from you,’ she said.

  ‘The offer is there.’

  Holy crap. He must be loaded.

  ‘I’ll never accept it.’ She crossed her arms.

  ‘Will you accept another drink? Non-alcoholic of course. Same as before, or something hot—coffee, tea, hot chocolate?’

  The thick air in the room seemed to release, like a door had been opened and it all gushed out. ‘Thanks, but I better get back home. It’s been a long day and I want to get enough sleep for work tomorrow.’ She stood.

  Zac stood and held out his hand. ‘Thanks for the company.’

  She shook it awkwardly, then laughed. ‘After everything we’ve told each other tonight, you’re shaking my hand like a business associate?’ Before she knew what she was doing, she leaned close to him, her arms reaching out.

  Zac’s taken aback expression morphed into a smile, then he held out his arms and slid them around her waist, as hers wrapped around his broad upper back. ‘Thank you for the beautiful dinner,’ she whispered, the peppery scent of his warm skin close to her nose. ‘And for the conversation. It was the most interesting night I’ve had in … in … ever.’

  ‘That’s the power of Truth Chicken,’ he replied, as they pulled back from their hug.

  He passed April her bag and The Prophet.

  ‘Guess I’ll have to alternate between this one and my other one about the farm guy and the jam girl and all the secrets,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring it back when I’ve finished.’

  ‘Take as long as you like,’ he said.

  It would probably take her a while. Reading and understanding anything to do with philosophy and self-improvement would take more brainpower than she usually had at night, the only time she had for reading. She would also need time to get used to what she’d learned tonight. But no matter how much time passed, or how deeply she got to know Zac, there was one thing that time would never enable. She could be friends with him, sure, be a good neighbour, yes, but no way could she be more than that with him. Not ever.

  * * *

  Zac went to his room and lay on the bed. He was exhausted; mentally, emotionally, and physically. But not sleepy. His brain was tired but wired. That was the most interaction he’d had in ages, and new yet familiar sensations were scrambling over each other inside, trying to put themselves in order, but tripping and falling over. Should he call his sponsor? He was surprised his sponsor hadn’t called him, knowing a day like today could reopen some old wounds. But Zac had said he was on track, and would keep his distance from April and stay on course until September first, when he would be in a better position to reassess where he was at and what he was ready for next. Whether he was ready to start thinking about having someone in his life.

  But the desire for companionship was already surfacing, and he didn’t want to quell it. Sure, he’d wait till September before starting anything with anyone, but in the meantime, he knew exactly who this anyone was and what he needed to do. He would establish a solid friendship with her, help her get in touch with her inner self and deal with her own past, and, oh, what the heck, he would also flirt like hell. As long as his willpower could take it. Then, when the time came, she would be ready, he would be ready, and they could take things to the next level. He was sure the same attraction that had gripped him had gripped her, when their eyes had focused intently on each other’s. But it was more than that. They got each other. She already knew a lot about him, and he was surprised by his willingness to open up about his alcoholism, but she’d responded so empathetically. She hadn’t expressed any judgement, like she accepted him. And that gave him hope. Hope, that like his blog name, he could win the war within, and hope that he could move forward with his life and live it properly. She was his hope. She was his candle.

  Zac rolled over and picked up the pen and notepad he kept by his bed, as poetry sang deep within, its melodic notes wafting up from the depths and out into the night air. Not a complete poem, but words, a phrase, and then another.

  This was the beginning of something, he could feel it.

  The ballpoint pen rolled an inky trail across the paper as a hopeful smile edged into his cheeks …

  Our fire is burning, I’m stoking the coals

  We’ve already kissed, not our lips, but our souls

  Chapter 13

  ‘Could this be it?’ Belinda asked on Friday as she sat behind the counter at April’s Glow during a lull in customers. She tilted the computer screen to face April. ‘Winning the War Within.’

  April looked at the blog. Zac hadn’t told her what his blog was or showed her any of his poems, and when she’d told Belinda that her neighbour was an ex-soldier and poet, she’d set about Googling. She hadn’t told her anything else, and wouldn’t. And she wouldn’t have even told her this much had she not been continually pestering her about Zac after the whole flower on the doorstep thing.

  She read the description about how the blog owner was an anonymous ex-soldier who used poetry to help him deal with things he’d been through and things he was going through. Could be him, but he wouldn’t be the only soldier who’d taken to the written word to express what they’d experienced.

  ‘Let me have a read,’ April said, scanning over one of the poems called ‘The Illusion of Time’. Then she read ‘Bird in a Cage’ and knew. It had to be him. It was about going it alone, and how he should be living ‘out there’. It had to be about the agoraphobia and how it was impacting his life. Wow, he was good. No wonder he had so many followers. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked Belinda as she tilted the screen back to herself and typed into the side of the blog.

  ‘Subscribing you.’

  ‘Hey! Hang on, I don’t want him to think I’ve been stalking him.’ She shooed her employee’s hands away from the keyboard.

  ‘But don’t you want to get notified if he posts another entry?’

  ‘No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Do you have another email address apart from your work one?’

  ‘Oh, give it here.’ She tilted the screen and leaned over and typed in her email address, which wouldn’t give away her identity. ‘There, happy now?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Belinda typed in her own too. ‘Two new subscribers in one minute. He’ll wonder why he’s suddenly so much more popular.’ Belinda grinned. Then, as April went to refill the oil burner on a back-wall shelf behind the counter, Belinda said, ‘Um, you should check this out.’

  ‘Check what?’

  ‘Look.’ She pointed to a poem on the screen. ‘I could be wrong, but what if he’s writing about you?’

  UNTOUCHED

  We’ve smiled, we’ve spoken

  Though you don’t know that I’m broken

  I’
m already caught in your net

  But we haven’t even touched yet

  The feel of your skin

  My yang to your yin

  I want it. But I’m scared

  I’m open. I’m bared.

  April had to reread it to take it all in. But they had touched. Hugged. And she knew he was ‘broken’, as he’d put it. She checked the date of the entry. Earlier in the month. Before their dinner. After she’d given him the candle.

  Something fluttered in her belly. Surely it couldn’t be her. Songwriters wrote songs that were just general depictions of love and relationships, but it didn’t mean they were about something they were currently experiencing, so it would be the same with poets.

  I want it. But I’m scared.

  It was like he was reading her mind. But she’d have to get rid of those thoughts and feelings, after discovering his secret. They were no use to her now.

  The bell on the door to the store jingled and a young woman walked in.

  ‘Hi,’ said April. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good thanks,’ she replied. ‘Do you have any candles that aren’t too feminine, like for a guy? I don’t want something too girly.’

  April smiled. ‘I know just the one.’ She led the customer to the cinnamon triple-wicked candle.

  * * *

  By late afternoon, April’s right leg was tired. The store had become busier for some reason, and the new winter range was starting to sell, even though it was still a month until winter. She sat behind the counter, but as soon as she did, her phone rang. ‘Mum’ appeared on the caller ID, so she picked it up. Her mother never called during April’s work hours unless she really had to, but sent text messages like ‘I know you’re busy, call me when you can’, or ‘when you finish, give me a buzz and let’s arrange to catch up’.

  ‘Mum?’ she said.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, but your father is asking for us. He’s causing a bit of a kerfuffle at the hospital.’

  ‘He’s in hospital again?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Clarissa Vedora replied. ‘Nurse says he refuses to take his medication or IV fluids until he can see his wife and daughter. I had to inform her that I’m his ex-wife, but we know he hasn’t quite gotten used to the fact.’