The Impact of Losing Sobriety

​

Even before all of this we’d been having the kind of arguments that end relationships.
Loud. Sharp. Unforgiving.

 

"Stop lying to me. I found a beer can in my truck."

"I’m not lying—maybe one of your friends left it in there."

​

I didn’t want to hear another word. I stepped outside for fresh air.

 

    The night was still, but my mind wasn’t. My eyes went to the dent in the front of my F-150—the one we both now shared. Then to her car, hidden under a cover. Just looking at it made a shiver crawl down my spine.

I thought back to the day we met. My tire was low, so I pulled into a gas station. She was already there, parked at the air machine, struggling to figure out how to work it. I helped her, no questions, no flirting—just did the job. She thanked me, pulled off toward the pumps, and that was it.

Or so I thought.

​

    I’d just finished filling my own tire when she came back around and parked next to me. Stepped out like she’d already made up her mind.

​

"Here’s my number," she said, scribbling it on a receipt. "Give me a call. We should go out sometime."

​

    She was everything I wanted in a woman, dark skin, a warm smile, eyes that pulled you in, natural hair, barely any makeup. I called, and the first four months were magic. The happiest I’d ever been. The best I’d ever been treated.

But her demon came back. Four years sober, and she relapsed. Alcohol.

Slowly, my dream turned into a personal hell.

And then came two nights ago.

​

    I’ll never forget it. I was dead asleep when my phone rang, hours before dawn. She was crying, stammering, panicked. Lost somewhere outside Atlanta. She’d been drinking—I could tell. She’d had an accident.

I drove like a madman, following her dropped pin down a long, narrow road. Woods on both sides, dark as sin. I found her car in a ditch, headlights half-swallowed by mud. She ran to me, shaking, smelling of wine, hugging me like I was the only thing keeping her alive.

Then I saw it.

​

    Across the road, in the shadows, the faint glow of headlights. I moved my truck, shined my beams on the other vehicle—and froze.

​

   A small pickup truck, crumpled against a giant oak. The driver’s seat had been ripped from the cab, still attached to the seatbelt, hanging in the air where the door used to be. A man hung there, motionless.

He was in a tuxedo. Arms broken and twisted. Three fingers missing on one hand. Glass embedded in his neck.

"I think he’s dead," I called back to her.

Then he gasped. Loud. Sudden.

 

     I ran closer. His breathing was ragged. He couldn’t open his eyes or speak.

"We have to call the police," I told her. I dialed 911, gave the location.

A few minutes later, the man exhaled one long, final breath—and didn’t take another.

That’s when I saw it. Her paint, scraped down the side of his truck.

I looked at her, terror in her eyes. My stomach turned.

"

We have to go," I said.

​

    Her car was stuck, tires spinning in the wet soil. I got behind the wheel of my F-150, told her, "When I say go, push the pedal slowly." I eased my bumper against hers, heard my headlight crack, metal crunch.

 

"Go!"

 

    The car lurched free, tires spitting mud.

    We made it home before the sun came up.

​

    Now I’m outside again, looking at my damaged front end, wondering how deep in trouble she’s put us. She’s already lost her job. We’re barely making it on my income. If she wrecks my truck, I’ve got no way to get to work.

I went back inside and turned on the TV. She came over, sat next to me. "Hey," she said softly, like nothing had happened.

I love this woman so much that I keep forgiving her. If only she could be the woman I first met, I’d be the happiest man alive.

Then the news came on.

 

"Our top story—family and friends are still grieving and searching for answers after a young groom, headed to his wedding ceremony, was killed in a hit-and-run."

 

     She shot up from the couch, ran into the bathroom, and slammed the door.

The anchor continued. "He was 27. One brother. No kids." A photo of his bride-to-be flashed on the screen, smiling in her wedding dress.

 

     I could only imagine the devastation—the unanswered questions tearing through his family right now.

I got up and went to check on her. She was on her knees, hunched over the toilet, vomiting.

I held her hair back.