Read Online Dear Hearts by Ericka Clay - Free Book Online

dirty.
    “Jessamine,”
the girl says.  She’s young, straddling somewhere between teen and young
adult.  She’s blonde, white, but Rommy isn’t.  I can feel Georgie and
his tray of cookies giving Rommy the evil eye from over near the snack table.
    “Mitch,”
I say.  “So what made you guys come here today?”  Elena looks at me
and her face muffles her surprise.  I'm point proving talking to these
burn outs, I know that, but I'm sure as hell not going to be lumped in with
people who think face tattooing and store bought cookies are good ideas.
    Rommy
laughs, “The cookies.”
    “Starving,
man,” Jessamine says, and I look at the plate in her lap stacked high with the
letter, “N.”
    “We
hit the big ones, but this is our first time at this place.  I just say
shit like my father beat me as a child and they shake their heads and then
afterwards we fill our plates back up.”
    I
have to admit it’s not a bad idea, but I don’t say it out loud because Elena’s
here and this is our ticket to normalcy.  Hopefully.
    She's
been acting strange lately, and at first I started to panic that she found out
about me and Aaron, but it's more of a good kind of strange.  She won't
sit out on the patio with me anymore.  And she made these packets for
Wren, thickly stapled sheets she printed off the Internet that list activities
to do with a seven-year-old.  She's changing, and it's a good change, but
it also feels like watching your boat drift away while you're still standing on
the shore.
    “They
like knowing you’re as fucked up as they are,” Rommy says and steals one of
Jessamine’s cookies, crams it into his open mouth.
    I
consider this information.  There’s a podium in front of us, and I imagine
myself standing there, talking at a room full of fuck ups about having an
affair with a man and raising a daughter with a disgruntled bladder. 
About loving people to the point of it seeming like I love nobody at all. 
I imagine talking about the wooden spoon, my mother's fear.  I imagine I’d
get a standing ovation, maybe even a crown.  Mitch Reynolds, King of the
Fuck Ups.
    “Don’t
listen to them,” Elena says.  Her breath is silk on my neck.  I
glance over at the drugged up duo next to us, Rommy’s hand sneaking around
Jessamine's thigh.  I mirror the movement, grab for Elena to see how that
feels but her eyes dart around and her mouth whispers “Stop.”  And I know
the inside of me feels nothing at all the way Rommy does. 
    Others
come and the air is noisy.  Metal chairs scraping against floors, sneakers
squeaking against the linoleum.  There are eyes on us, a silent game of
“Who’s a Newbie?” and I try to keep the agitation from quaking my nerves. 
Elena is sitting as close to the edge of her chair as she can.
    Finally,
Peg and her tattooed face stands up on the mini-stage, her permanently mulberry
lips leading the meeting with a fervor rivaling the one she has for Georgie’s cookies.
    When
it’s time to introduce myself I say, “Hi, I’m Mitch, and I’m an
alcoholic.” 
    My
liar’s heart begins to beat because I'm so much more.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    TEN
    Elena
     
    I had a dream last night that a tattooed
clown was chasing me through a courthouse where I was supposed to show up for
jury duty.  I think it had something to do with that dreadful woman's
face, Peg I think, who decided a needle was a better idea than replacing a tube
of lipstick.
    It’s
been over a week, and I still want to shower it all off.  Those two bridge
dwelling individuals who stole nearly all the cookies, that man in the fishing
hat with the name of a four-year-old boy, and my husband, Mr. Popular, owning
the place with his crybaby face.  God, I sound like a bitch but really,
here the man is sharing his soul with a room full of strangers, and they eat up
that shit like that greasy street urchin in the chair next to us said