Caffeine and Magix

witterprompts:

“You left me there. Alone.”

“You weren’t alone,” John says. “Bar of fifty people, I’d hardly call that alone!” He rocks on the balls of his feet, his weight making the wood porch squeak.

Cameron’s hands twitch at her sides. She doesn’t say anything else, just continues to look at this man, this friend, who she’s beginning to not recognize at all. 

He looks like a little boy, hands stuffed into jeans’ pockets, graphic tee and earnest smile. His hair is thinning early, something he covers up with gel and spikes, and despite the hard line of his jaw, there’s something soft and childish in his expression. She’d known him as a child, but he hadn’t been like this then or, if he was, she doesn’t remember.

The silence has gone on too long for John. His smile begins to fade and he stills. “Come on, you aren’t mad are you? Just I was really making progress with this chick–the one in the red top? And I thought you were doing fine, really, you’re like a superhero, your control is amazing–”

“I don’t have control,” Cameron says, arms folded over her chest. She can feel the closed door at her back and she wants nothing more to go inside and curl up in her tub. “I asked you for help and you left me. Alone.”

She wonders if she just keeps repeating it if he’ll get it.

“Hey,” John says, “don’t be so hard on yourself. I knew you weren’t going to drink, I trusted your recovery. And I was right to trust, right? Because nothing happened!”

He’s not getting it.

“I’m an alcoholic,” Cameron says. The words feel stale in her mouth, but familiar. It makes her angry, angry like she’s been since waking up in the hospital and being told she’s been signed up for a program she didn’t think she needed. “Damn it, John, I asked you to support me and you left me in a bar with four dozen strangers–”

“–high school classmates, not strangers–”

“–and an open tab!” She grits her teeth, eyes squeezing closed. The funny thing is that she doesn’t want a drink right now; she expects a drink right now. Like a compulsion she can never quite look at, one that’s waiting on the wings for her to slip, to just relax for a second. “I had a long island in my hand before I even realized I ordered one.”

It’d been somewhere between “What have you been doing with yourself?” and “You look so great!” that she must have tossed it out, reflex still there even after weeks. Muscle memory, the need for the burn in her throat, dissociation, stress, whatever she fucking wants to blame it on. 

(She’s an alcoholic. She knows what (who) to blame it on.)

John’s smile is completely gone. “Cameron, you fell off the wagon? Why didn’t you call me?” He takes a step towards her, brows pinched with concern. “Do I need to go through your house again?”

She holds up a hand to him, stops him from getting further into her space. Anger curls in her gut, the instinctive response to another search, but she swallows it down. “I didn’t drink it.”

That’s a lie. She took a sip, she tasted the familiar sweetness, she swallowed. (”That’s your first drink, right? You gotta catch up!”) 

Horror. Revulsion. The little thought, One can’t hurt.

Then she went to the bathroom and threw up guilt, shame and fries. Walked home eight miles in the dead of night, shaking.

John is relieved. “See? Trust! You’re like Superwoman!”

“I want you to stay away from me,” she tells him. Her hand is still between them. Stop. “I need you to give me my space, John.”

“What?” He blinks, rocking back. “You’re mad. You’re mad and you’re taking it out on me, I get it, but–”

“Yes, I’m mad!” She drops her hands to her side, balls them into fists. “John, I asked you to help me and you left me alone! If you’re not going to be there for me right now then I don’t have time to–”

“So I’m supposed to just give up my life?” John mirrors her, balling his own fists. “I’ve been there for you since day one! Who picked you up from the center? Me! Who got you back into civilization? Me! I take one night off and suddenly you don’t have time for me?”

“That’s not–” she starts to say and stops. Because, damn it, he’s right. He should be able to pick up some woman at their high school reunion, he should be able to hang out with her as a friend, he should be able to do a lot of things.

Except she asked him to help her. And he agreed.

“I need you to have better judgement than me,” she says finally. “I–my head’s not right. I don’t make good decisions and that’s why I needed you to be there for me. But last night tells me that you don’t have good judgement, John. So I can’t be around you until I–until I’m okay.”

For a given value of ‘okay.’

John stares at her, jaw tense. “That’s it? You wash your hands of me after one mistake. After all I’ve done for you?”

There’s no way for her to answer that. 

“I need to do what’s best for me,” she says. “And hanging out with a friend who leaves me alone in bars isn’t what’s best for me.”

“You said your head’s not right,” John says, narrowing his eyes. “At least you’re right about something.” He turns on his heels and storms back to his truck, slamming the door behind him.

She watches him peel out of her driveway, watches him careen out of view. Only when she’s sure he can’t see her does she hug herself. Her shoulders shake and damn it, she wants to feel gasoline in her mouth and warmth in her stomach.

Instead she goes inside and fumbles for her sponsor’s number.