Stone (Pittsburgh Titans 2)

Stone tips his head back and lets out a bark of a laugh that morphs into belly rumbles of amusement. It occurs to me that I have never seen him be as free with his emotions as he is at this moment. The man who guards everything like a pit bull now releases out to the world a joyous burst, and it touches me.

It also feels nostalgic—Brooks could be quite dour at times, and I always loved making him laugh.

I point up ahead to the next block. “That’s the church. Just to let you know what will happen, we’ll go in and grab coffee. I’m going to introduce you because unfortunately, you’re going to be recognized, and everyone there knows Brooks and about my friendship with him. But you won’t have to engage. The meeting will open up with the Serenity Prayer, and then anyone who wants to talk about their problems or their recovery are free to do so. It’s very casual and informal.”

“Harlow,” Stone says, and my neck twists so I can look over at him. “In case I forget to say it later, thank you for sharing this with me.”

I smile. “I’m an open book.”

CHAPTER 14

Stone

I’m nervous as hell as we walk into the church hall. I knew when I accepted Harlow’s invitation to this meeting—especially after finding out that Brooks was a member of AA—that people would recognize me. I steel myself against the inevitable sympathetic looks and more likely than not, the verbal condolences that will be offered. I don’t want to hear them, but I also recognize that these people were probably a very integral part of my brother’s life, and they might need to express themselves. I sort of get the impression that expression of one’s feelings is important in this community.

It’s antithetical to my very being, but I do recognize that people need it.

The meeting room is toasty warm, and Harlow and I remove our coats to hang on hooks along the wall. A table’s been set up with coffee, tea, and cookies. I grab a cup of water while Harlow makes herself Earl Grey. The introductions begin, and to my surprise, while I am indeed offered condolences as I meet members, they are unobtrusive and politely understated. It’s almost as if they know to treat me with kid gloves.

I’m sure they’re also following the creed that Harlow told me about, that no one is required to engage.

After a few minutes of socializing, an older man who looks to be in his mid-sixties with longish hair and a graying beard asks people to take seats. Metal folding chairs are placed in a circle with one in the middle. We sit, and by my count, there are seventeen people in attendance.

The older man moves to the center chair. “Welcome, everyone. My name is John, and I’m an alcoholic. I’m also your chairperson for the evening, and this is an open meeting.”

Everybody in the group, including Harlow, sitting to my right, says, “Hi, John.”

“I’ll start off by reading our preamble,” he says, then pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket. It’s a short statement about the mission of Alcoholics Anonymous. When he’s done, he bows his head and says, “Now, let us recite the Serenity Prayer.”

Everyone bows their heads, and Harlow holds out her hand to me. I take it automatically and glance to my left. A burly guy sits on that side, holding out his hand expectantly. I take it and bow my head. John starts the prayer, and everyone joins in.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

At the end of the prayer, I release the man’s hand but don’t voluntarily let go of Harlow’s until she tugs it free. Make of it what you will, but it felt good with her palm pressed against mine.

John opens the floor to anyone who wants to give testimony about their journey.

A young man in his early twenties across the circle from me says, “Hi. My name is Alan, and I’m an alcoholic.”

The group resoundingly greets him. “Hi, Alan.”

I listen with almost morbid curiosity to Alan’s story. It’s not so different from my own in that he had parents who were unsupportive, and he started drinking first as a means of rebellion, then as a means of avoidance.

A woman goes next and talks about her alcohol dependency, which started when she was only fourteen. That blows my mind.

Two more people volunteer their stories, each one different, yet they all have the same common thread. They want to be free of this hold that alcohol has over them, and while they work hard to battle, they all live under the knowledge that sobriety is fragile.

To my right, Harlow lifts her hand, and when John nods at her, she says, “Hi. My name is Harlow, and I’m an alcoholic.”