You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

One

Zayn:

"I let go".

I blinked out of the memory and came back to the present, into a room in the community college, downtown Seattle, Washington. Not on that San Francisco street corner.

Not in the car that smelled of smoke. Not in a body that smelled of that man when we were done. I was me again, and I was going to stay that way. Twenty or so pairs of eyes were watching me. Some nodding.

"That was my rock bottom, " I said, leaning into the mic on the podium.

"Or the beginning of it. It took a lot of hard
work and the benevolence of a total stranger to help me crawl out of it and see my own worth."

I glanced around at the faces in front of me that were waiting expectantly to hear the rest. My happily ever after.

But I didn't have one, and I was done talking for the night. Telling my story putting myself back on that street corner turned me inside out. I didn't have it in me to keep going.

"But I don't want to eat up all of the time. I'll finish up next meeting."

The group offered a smattering of applause, and then Diane, the Narcotics Anonymous coordinator, resumed the
stage.

"Thank you, Zayn, for that honest and deeply personal share. And welcome to our group. We are so glad you're here
with us." She addressed the group at large.

"Zayn was a sponsor in San Francisco, prior to moving here. . .what? A few weeks ago? We're so happy that he's willing to sponsor
someone here as well. Please let me or Zayn know if you're interested."

More scattered applause and some tired nods. I recognized that weariness in the people assembled here.

That bone-tiredness that came with the fight. Addiction thrashed you like a dog with a rabbit in its teeth, sometimes retreating but never slinking away for good.

Before I resumed my seat in the front row, I caught sight of a guy all the way in the back. He slouched in his chair with his long, jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him.

He wore sunglasses indoors and a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head. A lock of brown hair had escaped the hood and hung over his brow. His heart shaped lips were pressed together, arms crossed tightly over his broad chest. His clothes looked plain enough, but his shoes and the sunglasses-not to mention the watch strapped to one pale wrist screamed money.

Hot Gangster, I thought with a smile.

"Are there any new members who would like to introduce themselves?" Diane asked.

I imagined I felt the stranger's eyes boring into me. I suddenly itched to turn around and get a better look. No one responded, and I couldn't help myself; I snuck a glance over my shoulder. The tall guy shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed over his chest like a brick wall, his face a stony mask behind the glasses.

You're staring, I scolded myself. Stop staring. Jesus, dude, this isn't a singles mixer.

I faced forward as another person volunteered to share.

The squeak of a chair brought me around again, and I watched the guy get up on long legs and stride out the door.

I was sorry to see him go. He might come back. He might not. Sometimes the desire for help drowned a swift death in the face of shame, guilt, and the vulnerability in asking for it in the first place.

The next group member took the podium to speak. I tried to give her my full attention, but the stranger in black kept wandering in and out of my thoughts.