"It's important," I replied.
She looked hesitant, but something in my expression must have gotten through, because she turned to Jonah, the other bartender working tonight, and said, "I need to take five."
Jonah's shot her one of his trademark greasy smiles and nodded. I'd never liked him. He was one of those guys who used this job as an excuse to hit on anything in a skirt and, amazingly, girls seemed to find his whole preppy frat boy shtick appealing, because damn if he wasn't good at it.
Grace followed me out back and into the alley.
"What is it, Logan? I thought we cleared everything up the other day." She sounded tired, defeated, like even the simple act of talking required more energy than her body could muster.
"The situation's changed," I replied. "Charlie knows you're drinking."
That brought some life to her face. Her mouth twisted into a scowl. "I knew it," she spat, jabbing a finger at me. "I knew I couldn't trust you to just let this be!"
"I didn't tell him. He worked it out himself. I caught him just before he was about to come out and fire your ass."
She didn't seem to believe me at first, studying my face for signs of deception, but eventually the anger melted away. She closed her eyes and drew a long, shuddering breath, then turned away from me, her hand darting down toward the pocket of her jeans.
"Don't," I said.
"Why does it matter? You said it yourself, he's going to fire me."
"He was going to fire you. I convinced him to hold that thought."
"How?"
"By telling him I'd offer one more time to help you."
She let out the most bitter laugh I'd ever heard. It was an awful sound. A person so young shouldn't have been capable of that sort of emotion. "Is there an echo out here? Because I swear, we just keep having the same conversation over and over again."
"Maybe we do, but this is the end of the line. After this we're done, one way or another. Either you agree right now to try working with me, or Charlie is going to fire you, and there won't be anything I can do. You'll walk out that door and be alone with this shit."
She stared up at me with wide, glistening eyes. The fear in that look wrenched at my heart like nothing I'd ever experienced before. You know the saying "a deer caught in the headlights?" Well that's how she looked, only magnified a thousand times. I could almost see the last dominoes of her life tumbling over in her mind. It took every ounce of my willpower not to reach out and pull her against me.
"I know it's embarrassing," I continued, "and I know it hurts like hell and all you want to do is get through the day so you can knock yourself out and forget, but this right here, this is your chance to take a step forward. That's the way to beat this thing. One step at a time. I can't promise miracles. You're not going to wake up in a week and feel like a million bucks. But doing something is better than doing nothing."
She didn't speak for a long time. "You keep saying you know what I'm going through," she said eventually, her voice barely more than a whisper. "What do you mean?"
I closed my eyes momentarily. It was easy enough to tell someone else what they needed, but opening up myself was a whole different kettle of fish. I had my own triggers to worry about, and this was diving right into the center of them. But she had to hear it. She had to understand that we were on the same page.
"A lot of us veterans wind up with substance abuse problems once we're back on home soil," I said. "You know how if you go on vacation for a while, then come back home and try to do something like drive a car, it takes time to adjust?" She nodded. "Well, imagine that sensation, except you haven't been in The Hamptons for three weeks. You've been in a combat zone for years, with bullets and IEDs and death all around you."
I leaned back against the wall as images flashed unbidden through my mind. I hated that sensation, not being in control of my thoughts, like someone was playing a horror movie in the back of my head that I couldn't pause or stop. "That shit leaves scars. And then you come back here to a place with supermarkets and traffic jams and street performers, and none of it makes any fucking sense. I felt like a goddamn alien. Some days I still do. You try to explain it to someone, and they nod like they get it, but they don't. How could they?"
I drew a deep breath, feeling myself getting choked up. I hadn't talked about this in detail with anyone, not even Charlie. He was a vet too, so words weren't necessary. He understood. Saying it out loud was painful. It made me feel weak, like I couldn't handle my shit.
"I drank like an Irishman for the better part of a year, just trying to wash all that away. Looking back now, it's pretty obvious I was in self-destruct mode. A bomb with the timer ticking steadily down to zero."