“That’s a work history. What about the other stuff. Did you go to prom?”

    “Yeah, I went to prom. I was a football player, it was practically the law. Didn’t you?”

    She shook her head. “My situation was a little different than yours. But let’s get back to you. How are things with you and your dad now?”

    That one made him a little uncomfortable. He looked away for a moment. Then he met her eyes. “My dad was a dick. He was mean to my mother and me. My mom divorced him when I was six and even as a little kid, I was not sorry to see him go, even though my mom cried all the time for months. Then she did something I will never understand. She married another dick. Another mean, snotty, verbally abusive asshole. Why would she do that? She said I’d understand someday but I do not understand and hope I never do.”

    “Sadly, I get it. People do it all the time. Not on purpose. I don’t know why we do it, but some of us are magnets to mean assholes. Luckily for you, when women are picking out their husband they should look at how that guy treats his mother, not how he was treated by his father. But I guess at some point all family relationships matter.”

    “Did you have good family relationships?” he asked her.

    “I did, actually. But there were...extenuating circumstances. Like the fact that my dad has struggled with mental illness his whole adult life. That’s a little hard to work around.”

    “I guess so,” he said emphatically. “Wanna go out to dinner? Maybe Colorado Springs?”

    “No,” she said, laughing.

    “Too soon?”

    “Way,” she said.

    “Okay. Wanna go down by the lake?”

    “Okay,” she said, starting to get up.

    “Stay put,” he said. “I’m going to get a beer—I’m not working tonight. You want something?”

    “Diet Coke?”

    “You got it.”

    He went inside and bought a beer and a Diet Coke. He argued a little with Sully about paying for it since it was for Sierra, but in the end Sully grudgingly took his money. He put the beer in one pocket, the Coke in the other, went back outside and scooped her up off her chair and carried her to the picnic table by the lake. She squealed and got the dogs barking and running circles around them.

    “What are you doing?” she laughed.

    “You like it when I carry you. And then you’re really nice to me.”

    “I’m always nice to you!”

    “You’re nicer when I carry you. I have a devious plan. I’m going to be nice and friendly and you’re going to like me.”

    “I already like you, Connie.”

    “A lot,” he said. “You’re going to like me a lot.”

    “Sully warned me to look out for the firefighters. They’re either real gentlemen with the women or they’re dogs.”

    He stopped walking for a moment. He couldn’t help that a little scowl showed up on his face. “He’s right. And I know who’s who.”

    * * *

    Sierra knew Connie wasn’t a dog. Not only did he have a fan club around Timberlake and the Crossing, she could tell by his behavior. And while she hated to admit it to herself and absolutely wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, she was enjoying his attention. She was not grateful for the sprained ankle, but one of the perks was Connie. It might’ve taken months for them to get friendly much less have these cozy talks.

    Since she was able to drive, she met Moody for coffee at the diner. She was getting to know him better. The personal side of his story made him more real to her. She asked him if he still struggled with wanting a drink.

    “While I was in rehab thirty years ago, my wife moved out of our house. I agreed with her decision—our marriage was a troubled mess. I was a drunk and she was a harpy. We had a lot of work to do. Oh, she came to family week at rehab—she was willing to do the work but I’d worn her out and we decided it was best if she moved out for a while. So she did. When I knew she was gone I called a sober friend and asked him to go to the house and get rid of all the liquor before I went home because I felt so vulnerable without my harpy codependent wife to watch my every move. I told him I had bottles stashed everywhere. I told him to please get rid of all of it. When I went home, he had. And I spent the entire night tearing the house apart looking for the secret bottles he might’ve missed. Not so I could drink, but because it made me afraid, having them lurking there. I ransacked the house to find them and get rid of them. I never did find one.” He shook his head. “I was at a lot of meetings on that. But you know why? Really, why? Because no one is conscious of the absence or presence of alcohol the way alcoholics are. We count people’s drinks. We wonder how anyone can leave half a drink on the table. Other people don’t worry about it. Other people can be done and walk away.”

    “That hypervigilance is very tiring,” she said. “I’m working on minding my own damn business. I don’t want to wonder when someone looks at me if they know.”

    “Well, sometimes they do know. Or guess. What other people think of me is none of my business. Some people guard their anonymity like it’s a precious jewel that will blow up if they breech it while others go on talk shows with it. What you do with yours is up to you. Just don’t handle anybody else’s.”

    “Course not,” she said. “When do I start to feel normal?” she asked.

    “When did you last feel normal?”

    She had never felt normal in her entire life. She bit her lower lip. “This could be problematic,” she said.

    “Do you know what prayer I believe God hears the most? The very most?” Moody asked. “‘Dear God, why can’t I be like everyone else?’”