Page 2 of Rush

At his pleasant greeting, a knot I didn’t realize I had in my stomach eases a little.

I guess it has been on my mind a bit—how people here would treat me. Without a doubt, they all know about my DUI and rehab stint.

My dad wouldn’t have talked about it. Man of few words, my father.

But the daughter of the coach of the Giants charged with a DUI was a journalist’s dream.

Since it happened—aside from the people in rehab, who were pretty much all like me—normal folk are generally disgusted by my behavior, and some aren’t afraid to let me know. Don’t worry; I’m disgusted with myself. I could have killed someone that night.

That’s what I remind myself of when the urge to drink gets too strong.

It’s just hard to have people look at you like you’re a piece of shit, reminding you of what you already think of yourself. And I worried it would be the same here. So, it’s nice for the first person I encounter to look at me with nothing but a smile in his eyes.

I return his smile.

“I’m Patrick,” he tells me.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I reply.

He hands me back my ID badge. “If you need anything, like an umbrella”—he grins—“I’m your man.”

“Thank you,” I tell him and mean it. His kindness is appreciated. “Is my dad here yet?” I ask him.

“No,” Patrick replies. “He usually gets here around nine.”

I glance at the clock behind him on the wall. Eight thirty.

I’ve got half an hour to clean up and dry off before my dad arrives.

I want to look presentable.

Not that getting caught in the rain was my fault. But Dad has been bugging me about moving back home. He only lives a ten-minute drive from here, so I would get a lift in every day with him. And me getting caught in the rain like this will only give strength to his argument that I move back home.

I know he wants me away from the temptation of alcohol and all the bars in the city.

But I like living in New York, being so close to the art galleries and culture, and I love my apartment. It’s tiny, but it’s mine.

And, if I’m going to stay sober, I have to get used to being around alcohol.

My sponsor, Luke, says hiding from alcohol can actually have a detrimental effect. I think he’s right. I need to get used to the fact that it’s around but that it’s something I don’t do anymore.

Not that I’m actively going into bars anymore or browsing the liquor aisle in the supermarket, but I make sure to remind myself that it’s there, and it’s a part of life. Just not a part of mine anymore.

“Well, I’d better get inside and dry off,” I tell him, stepping back.

The rain has eased a little. It would now that I’m here.

Stupid weather.

“Have a good first day,” he tells me.

I thank him again and then speed-walk toward the building entrance.

Opening the door, I walk inside, dripping water all over the tiled floor.

There’s no one at the reception desk. Damn it. I have no clue where anything is. This is the first time I’ve ever been here. My dad might work here, but I’ve never had a reason to come here before today.

I was hoping there would be someone—preferably female—who might be able to point me in the direction of, at the very least, a hand dryer.