When I walk in, the door behind me closes—loudly.

Everyone turns and all eyes are on me. Kill me.

It only takes a second before an old woman with frizzy brown hair and a brightly-colored floral dress smiles, an ear-to-ear grin. She walks over and puts her hand out.

“Hi, hon. Welcome to NA. I’m Esther.” Her voice is as weathered and aged as the features of her face. But her smile is genuine, and I actually crack a small smile in return.

“Logan,” I mumble in return.

“Come in, babe,” she rasps as she pulls me gently by the hand. I get the feeling she could feel my inclination to bolt, and she’s physically holding me to her.

The rest of the group greets me as I head toward the styrofoam cups to get some much-needed caffeine. I instantly recognize one of the older guys that I remember selling to a few months back. He teaches at the community college and was always drunk when I met him. I guess now I know why he stopped texting me. He gives me a stern, tight-lipped expression, probably skeptical of my intentions in the group.

After a few forgettable introductions, we take our seats around the circle. The group seems pretty laid-back, only six of us in total. Esther runs the group and they go through a quick round of updates and announcements, when a young woman with telltale scars on her cheeks cheerfully declares that she’s been sober for eighteen months and her kids will come home this summer.

The whole thing is…well, excuse the pun, but it’s sobering. Really fucking sobering.

Everyone around the circle is a different age, a different race, gender. A couple carry designer bags while the lady next to me has holes in her shirt and drinks off-brand cola.

When Esther looks at me, I can tell she’s expecting me to say something. I walked in here with the promise to myself that I was not going to spill my story; I wasn’t going to do the hand-holding kumbaya bullshit.

“Logan, care to introduce yourself? If you’re ready, hon.”

I love her terms of endearment.

So, I raise my hand up and look at each of the people sitting around me. “My name is Logan. I’ve been using for over a year now…since—” I clear my throat. “Since my brother died. He overdosed. I mean, I used before that…here and there, but when he died, I really laid into it, you know?”

A few of them nod their heads, letting their eyes avert, probably thinking about some shitty fucking thing that happened to them that made them want to bury reality in a warm blanket and forget their lives altogether.

“Then I met someone. I want it to be serious, but it won’t be. Because I’m not the guy she deserves right now.” Again, they nod their heads, and then a thought about Sierra occurs to me.

“I haven’t gotten high in five days, and I feel like shit, physically. But then I see a version of myself that could actually get a girl like her, and I’ve never wanted to be clean so much. She’s leaving in a few days. What if I give up again? What if when she’s gone I don’t have anyone to get clean for?”