“That’s a nice sister,” he said. “Do you plan on letting him off the hook or are you going to add him to the list of people you’ve wronged?”

    “It would have to be both now, wouldn’t it?” she said. She had wronged Cal by blaming him for a problem that was entirely her own and yes, she fully intended to make sure he understood that even though it came as a result of her childhood, her disease belonged to her.

    “That’s very mature,” Moody said.

    She never knew when he was being funny, sarcastic or genuine. She frowned.

    “Wanting a drink?”

    She shook her head. “Not today,” she said. “I know I might tomorrow but I don’t today.”

    “What I wonder is—do you feel isolated out there? In your new home? Because you haven’t called me lately.”

    “Oh, Moody, I’m sorry. I should have been more honest with you. It’s true, Cal, Maggie and Sully need me, but what time is left I’m spending with Connie. Every day. Most nights. It’s been very nice. He’s such a dream man.”

    “I like Connie,” he said. “Can’t say I know him well, but he seems okay.”

    “He’s okay,” she assured him. “I haven’t given him a lot of specifics, but I have told him that I’m in recovery.” She bit her lower lip. “I kind of hate for him to know the whole story. I think he gets it, that I’m an alcoholic, but he’s not much of a drinker himself. He really has no idea...”

    ‘I don’t know how important he is to you,” Moody said. “But—”

    “We’re only as sick as our secrets,” she finished for him. “I’ve tried not to think about it too much, as if I could keep it casual, but he’s important to me.”

    “You have over a year of sobriety now,” Moody said. “You’ll always be on thin ice but the good news is, with hard work, it’s going to get thicker. You’ve done a lot of good work. It’s okay to take a little pride in that.”

    “Do you?” she asked.

    “I do,” he admitted. “Cautiously. Honestly. Humbly. My new normal?”

    After burgers and a little talking about more mundane subjects, they went off to the meeting. It was crowded; it was an open meeting, which meant you didn’t have to be in recovery—or hoping for recovery—to attend. People she knew from the closed meetings were there with friends or family. There were the curious who weren’t of a mind to commit. The speaker for the evening was a beautiful woman with a big laugh, an obvious sense of style and an amazing dimpled smile. She was in her midthirties, had clear eyes, straight teeth, a rosy complexion and thick, healthy mahogany hair. She wore jeans, boots and a leather jacket that was to die for. People were greeting her, introducing themselves, anxious to meet her like she was a celebrity. Apparently she was well-known on this meeting circuit. When it was finally time to begin, they started with a prayer, took care of some business, read over the steps and the speaker was introduced. She took the podium.

    “Hi. My name is Neely and I’m an alcoholic.”

    “Hi, Neely,” the room responded as one.

    “I had my first drink when I was four years old. My parents had friends over a lot. There were always half-filled beer bottles and glasses around and I went through the family room and kitchen, sipping at the leftovers. The first time I remember being seriously buzzed, I was about ten. And thus began my drinking career. I’ve been sober for nine years now.”

    No one gasped. No one groaned. No one whispered. They’d all heard this kind of story before. It wasn’t even shocking.

    The new normal, indeed.

    This woman, Neely, was so confident, so captivating, such an engaging speaker, the kind that could make a person almost feel lucky to have this scourge of alcoholism because of all the wisdom brought by the growth. Neely was so sophisticated, so smart. Sierra felt a stirring of envy. She’d given her testimony several times, but nothing like this. This was a performance. When Neely was done she was instantly surrounded by people, praising her.

    She was something of a star.

    * * *

    Sierra got to thinking. She’d known Connie since March. August was only days away. They’d been intimate since about the end of June. She knew him better than she’d known a man in maybe her whole life. It seemed like all the relationships before Connie had been shallow or dysfunctional or abusive or all of the above.

    In several of their long conversations Connie had described himself as an ordinary man with simple needs. He was far from ordinary. He was a first responder, a hero, a decisive man of action. He said all he’d ever wanted since he was a kid was to live and work in this part of the Colorado mountains. He wanted to help people, he wanted to be a family man. “I get enough adventure at work,” he had said. “I’m not looking for a lot of craziness. Just a few good friends, a quiet and stable home and you know, comfort. Oh, and good food. Good food is important.”

    Connie was a keeper. She was afraid to make any kind of statement about that, even to herself. But one thing she knew—if he found her lacking in some important ways and decided they couldn’t be together, it was going to sting. She’d rather not worry about that, anticipate it, fear it.

    The problem was Connie wanted children. He hadn’t come right out and said that was important to him, but what else was included in a home life, in a family?

    She knocked on his door purposefully. When he opened the door he instantly grabbed her with a lusty growl, lifting her off her feet and burying his mouth in her neck. “Connie! Connie! Put me down!”

    “Why?” he asked, not putting her down.

    “I want to talk! Can we please talk?”