The Unconventional (A Short Story) (2 page)

“
That’s it? Just Sloan?” I
ask, dropping her firm shake. “You only go by your first name? Like
Madonna? Or God?”

“
Carraway. It’s Sloan
Carraway,” she finishes with a bat of her eyelashes.

“
I don’t know any
Carraways.”

“
I’m not from here. I
transplanted.”

“
I can’t say many people
find their way to Zion.”

She cocks her head to the side as she
studies me. I don’t doubt that she likes what she sees, most women
do, but she’s getting caught up on something. Maybe it’s the
goatee. Or maybe she’s trying to name my addiction. I let her
stare.

“
How old are you?” she
finally asks.

“
How old do you think I
am?”

“
Well, you’re in good shape
and your skin is taut. No wrinkles, but something is telling me
different. Something behind your eyes.” She reaches out her glove
like she’s going to touch my face.

I would’ve let her, but she suddenly
drops her hand. “Thirty-three, and you’re an alcoholic.”

“
Close. Thirty-eight. And
I’m not an alcoholic.”

Her smile falls a bit; I’m not sure at
which part. She probably thinks I’m in denial.

“
You?”

“
Twenty-seven. I can’t
believe you drank before you came to an addiction meeting,” she
says as she turns away from me and walks toward a set of wooden
stairs.

“
I didn’t exactly plan on
coming here tonight,” I reply, following her.

“
Someone tried to pull an
intervention on you?” she asks as we creak down the stairs. “You’re
in denial, by the way.”

“
I’m not in
denial.”

“
There it is again,” she
says. “Regardless, it’s good you’re here. You’re going to love
it.”

“
It looks like we’re the
only ones here.”

“
Most everyone comes through
the back way, but they keep the main doors open in case there are
any stragglers. I like to pick them up on the way in.”

“
I’m a straggler, huh? You
pick up random guys a lot?” I ask.

She doesn’t say anything at first,
which makes me painfully aware that I’m half-flirting with a woman
who’s attending an addiction meeting. It suddenly seems completely
inappropriate.

“
Let’s just say you’re not
my first straggler. But you’re probably the best looking,” she
says. “At least you have that going for you.”

Relief floods over me. After all, this
was the same woman who cursed the second she stepped inside a
church. “You’re not so bad yourself, although I think you could
lose the blue stuff you have going on with your hair.”

“
I’m a makeup artist,” she
explains. “Experiment is the name of my game.”

There’s a silent tension between us.
It’s the kind of pull that makes you throw caution to the wind, the
kind that gets you into trouble. It’s intriguing and almost
unfamiliar to me. The only other time I had this feeling was with
the olive-skinned and hazel-eyed Rosalyn twenty years ago when I
was stationed in North Carolina. I met, made love to, and lost the
most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing in a
matter of twenty-four hours. But I don’t compare Sloan to Rosalyn
like I have with all the other women I’ve met. For the first time,
I appreciate that she’s nothing like Rosalyn.

“
A makeup artist in Zion? I
can’t imagine that’s an employable skillset here,” I
reply.

“
In Zion and employed,” she
affirms. “You?”

“
I own a restaurant.” I
don’t tell her which one because I don’t want her to associate me
with it “ain’t that bad pizza.” I switch focus to an equally
unsettling subject. “What’s your addiction anyway?”

“
You’ll see,” she says.
“It’s glamorous. You might even want to take me home
afterward.”

I swallow hard at the thought of
taking her home. We hit the bottom of the stairs and make our way
through a barely lit hallway. There’s a soft glow of light just a
few feet down the hall. Addiction Meeting Room. I’m suddenly
sweating at the idea of knowing someone in the room. I know half
the families in town and those I’m not familiar with know me. They
saw my face plastered on the news when I returned home five years
ago.

The room is full of folding chairs set
up in a circle. I wouldn’t have expected anything else for a
support group. I search the room for a guitar or an open case. I
figure we would all hold hands and sing Kumbaya while half of the
group members wept. I don’t find a guitar, but I do see a portable
boom box with a CD case lying next to it. I guess none of the
members are any good at strumming.

Seven chairs are filled, which seems
remarkable given the weather. They’re dedicated to this and
suddenly I feel like the asshole that I am. I scan faces expecting
to see someone I know, already playing out in my head what I will
recite when it comes time for me to talk. I weigh the route of
addict supporter, but I dismiss this idea quickly because I’d have
to spin a web of lies I’m sure I’ll fall through. I decide to go
with honesty, after all, it’s always the best policy.

Surprisingly, all the faces are brand
new. They’re smiling at me so I give a meager nod. Half women, half
men. They’re a wide range of ages from twenty-something to the
gray-haired man with more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei. Most of them I
wouldn’t gauge as recovering addicts. They’re put together; they’re
dressed and have combed hair. There’s a table of liter sodas and
molasses cookies and above it, a large crucifix with a weeping
Jesus, just as there should be.

Sloan and I pick two chairs next to
each other and settle in. As I hang my jacket over the back of my
chair, I turn to see Sloan taking off her coat. She’s wearing a
low-cut, black sweater that’s fitted in all the right places. As
she turns to drape her coat on the back of her chair, I catch a
glimpse of ink on the top of her right breast. As much as I want to
keep staring, I feel the gazes of the other group members on me. I
avert my eyes and clear my throat.

“
Thank you for braving the
cold and your demons tonight. Welcome.” A plump woman with round
curves like a teapot and auburn hair begins. “It looks like we have
a new guest tonight so I’d like to go around for introductions. The
usual.”

I discover the usual includes name,
addiction, days of sobriety, and mental state. The first five are
Meth, Alcohol, Smoking, Sex, and Alcohol #2. Then all eyes are on
me, the guest. Lucky me.

“
Archie Briggs. I suppose
alcohol, if I had to choose something. To be honest, I had a drink
about thirty minutes ago. I’m alive.” My words hang in the
air.

Smoking brings her hand to her chest
while Sex puts his hand on Smoking’s knee. All the other addictions
nod their head in empathy.

“
Alive,” Teapot repeats,
clasping her hands in front of her face as if she’s just had a
profound thought. “Hang on to that word, Archie. I’d like to talk
more about that later. In the meantime, welcome. We’re glad to have
a new face.”

I nod my head at the series of smiles
and welcomes that swarm me before turning my attention to
Sloan.

“
Sloan Carraway. Oreos.
Four-hundred-thirty-two days. And I’m fabulous.” She winks at me
before the rest of the group erupts in stifled laughter. She clears
her throat and adds, “Fine. Cutting. Still four-hundred-thirty-two
days though.”

“
Damn right,” Meth says to
no one in particular. “Over a year. Have to be proud of
that.”

Most people would look over at Sloan
and wonder how the hell someone as beautiful as her would go about
mutilating herself like that. But I know better than to stop at the
exterior she wears. Uniforms don’t tell you shit.

The woman next to Sloan pipes in with
her introduction. Her poison is prescription pain medication. I
don’t blame her; oxycontin gives you a ride. It took me three
months to get off it after “the incident.” She says she’s at a low
because of the holidays. She’s met with low grumbles of
understanding and “Ain’t that the truth” from Meth.

Finally, Teapot introduces herself as
a recovering smoking addict. Her name doesn’t matter, but she says
it’s been four years since she smoked a cigarette. I notice her
fingernails are painted black, but I guess that might be a
coincidence.

The next forty-five minutes are filled
with a box of tissues that’s passed around like clockwork. No one
asks for the box. It’s just passed silently around each time the
waterworks start coming. Usually it happens within two minutes
after someone starts talking, except for Sloan, Prescription Pain
Killers, Teapot and me. We don’t cry. If given the opportunity to
talk more, I think Prescription Pain Killers would have. But me, I
salute the prospect not to talk. I don’t have anything to
say.

The time is also filled with light leg
brushes and exchanged glances that ratchet up the tension between
Sloan and me. I’m not complaining.

“
Let’s break for fifteen
minutes. Then we’ll come back for the last hour. I’d like to talk
more about what Archie said earlier tonight. I want you to ask
yourself, what does it mean to be
alive
?” Teapot raises her eyebrows as
if she’s concocted the greatest question of all humanity. I don’t
realize in this moment that it
is
the single-most important question of all
humanity. It’s the very question I will face in the next two
hours.

But I don’t know any of this right now
so I do what everyone else is doing: trade one addiction for
another. I stand up and head to the soda and cookie table. I’m two
steps in when a hand grabs my arm.

“
Grab your jacket,” Sloan
says.

“
Why?”

“
Just grab your jacket,” she
repeats as she pulls her coat off her chair and glides out into the
hallway. I glance at the others congregating around the sugar table
before I grab my jacket and follow her into the hallway. I don’t
see her at first.

Suddenly, she appears from against the
wall and takes my hand, pulling me down the hall.

“
Where are we – ” I stumble
behind her, taking one last look over my shoulder at the open door
and empty hallway. They’re all enjoying the sweetness of those damn
cookies. We turn a corner down the hall and walk a few feet
further.

“
Shhh.” She stops in front
of a door and quietly opens it. She slips into the darkness and
pulls me with her, shutting the door behind us. I hear her heavy
breath in front of me, the warm smell of peppermint tickling my
nostrils.

What I do next, I don’t regret because
of all the things I do today, this is something I do
right.

I gently press her against the door
and move my hands up to her face until I’m holding her chin in my
hands. Then our lips find each other, fast and hot as our bodies
push against each other. She winds her hands in my hair with
recklessness, grabbing and tugging as I explore her neck and then
her shoulders. I cup her breasts over her sweater, lifting them up
as she snakes her hands down my back.

She pulls me in tighter and lets out a
soft moan into the darkness, “Yes.”

Then I’m unhooking her bra and
grabbing her breasts underneath her sweater, making her already
hard nipples stiffen even more. She’s fumbling with my pants,
unbuttoning and yanking my zipper down with force. It’s my turn to
moan as she takes me in her hands. My body craves her. I need this
woman right now. I take the bottom of her sweater, about to lift it
over her head when she stops me.

“
Leave it on,” she mutters
in between kisses. “My pants. Take off my pants.”

I undo her pants and tug them down
just past her hips to discover the soft silkiness of lace
underwear. I play with them, tugging and pulling at them. Suddenly,
her hand is on mine, stopping me. Then she pulls her lips away, but
she doesn’t say anything. All I can hear is our panting
breath.

“
Shit, I’m sorry – ” I
stumble, tucking myself back into my pants. I curse myself for
letting it get this far. For once, I actually think that I could
get along with Sloan pretty well, and here I am, in a church
basement, ruining it like I do everything else in my
life.

“
Do you have a condom?” she
asks, her breath hot on my face.

“
In my wallet,” I say
hesitantly. “Look, Sloan. I like you. I think – ”

“
Don’t think. Get the
condom.”

Then we’re at it again, except she
turns around and presses her hands against the door. We try to
stifle our moans as we rock together in a fast and furious bliss
with my hands pressed deep into her hips. I let out one last
shudder before resting my cheek against the warmth of her
shoulder.

We fumble around in the dark, trying
to straighten our clothes. Finally, she flicks on the light of her
phone and lets out a small laugh.

“
How’s that?” she
asks.

“
I – ”

“
Don’t tell me you’re one of
those guys who acts like a bumbling fool afterward,” she says
before she bites the phone between her lips and reaches under her
sweater to hook her bra.