“I think I’m holding him back from getting on with his life after dealing. You know? Drew’s kind of weirdly straight-edge when it comes to pills and stuff, but I think … he’s addicted to me. A little. He wants to save me.”

Jo crosses her arms. “I think he wants to save himself.”

“Maybe.” I push the bowl of soup away. “Honestly, I mostly broke up with him for selfish reasons. I just can’t … I can’t disappoint one more person. And I think if he—when he realizes that I’m not going to suddenly be not fucked-up, then he’ll stop seeing me. Like I’d be invisible to him. That would—that would be so … It would shatter me, I think. And I’m scared of what I would do if I felt that way again.”

The waitress comes by to refill our coffee, and Jo’s quiet until we’re alone again.

“Codependence is a bitch,” she finally says. “I agree, he’s got shit to work on. And I think you two need to work on your shit separately. And maybe someday the stars will align. But your problem right now, Blue, isn’t whether or not to be with him. It’s that the only time you seem to feel okay with yourself is when you talk about how he sees you and how good it feels to have someone see who you are and still want you. That’s addiction talking. It’s the same as the pills. Get your hit of Drew, feel okay. No Drew? Not okay.” She leans forward. “You know you’re really working the Steps when you understand that no one can be your inner lighthouse. No person can get you safely to shore.” She points to her chest. “What you need—that light—it’s in here. It always has been.”

I can’t help it: I roll my eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, laughing softly. “Self-love shit. I know. But it’s true. Other people, they come, they go. But watch me blow your mind right now: The only person you can guarantee will be there with you every step of the way until you die … is you.” She rests her hand on mine. “So doesn’t it make sense to be good to yourself?”

I stare at her, and she grins. “Dude.” Jo spreads her arms. I notice a big lighthouse on her left forearm. “I think I just channeled my great-great-grandfather. He was a transcendentalist out in Concord, hung out with Thoreau and Emerson. That was deep, right?”

I laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

“Finish your soup while I tell you a story,” she says, pushing the bowl back toward me. “My favorite ever.”

The matzo is tender, soft. The broth reminds me of all the chicken soups Mom ever made me when I was sick. I can still feel her with me. With her Little Girl Blue.