When you spend your life selling cars, you learn how to handle them.
Foot hard against the floor. Sixty. Sixty-five. Seventy. Seventy-five . . .
A sharp corner. One, then another. We’ve both taken it too wide. I see the terrified look of the oncoming driver, the jerk of his hands as he swerves from our path.
Into the next bend, tapping the brakes but using the gears. Changing down, down, down. Spinning the wheel and then flooring the accelerator till it feels as though the back end of the car is going faster than the front.
The gap narrows.
My pulse races so fast I can hear it above the roar of the engine, and I lean forward as though the movement will make a difference.
Cat and mouse.
Who will win?
Driving fast means thinking fast. Reacting fast. Not skills that an alcoholic has—even a high-functioning one—and it’s just another reason among many that I’m glad I quit drinking.
It was easy, in the end. No AA meetings, no therapy, no intervention from well-meaning friends.
Just you.
The look in your eyes when you fell to the floor that night. It meant nothing at the time; it was just another fight. Another punch, another kick. It was only afterward, when I remembered your face—saw the disappointment, the pain, the fear—that I finally understood what the drink had made me do to you.
No. What I’d done to you.
I’m sorry. It’s not enough, and it’s too late, but I’m sorry.
I’ve slowed down. I need to focus. I grip the steering wheel; force my foot back down.
How did it come to this?
I want to rewind; undo my mistakes. I’ve messed up. Spent our entire marriage thinking about me, and now look at us.
What am I doing?
I can’t stop. I’m in too deep.
Anna.
She’s there—in the backseat. Ducking down, trying to stay hidden. I catch a glimpse as she peers up to look out of the back window. Trying to see without being seen.
Failing.
I never wanted to hurt her.
It’s too late.