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Back No Going Back: a Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Part 1
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. Part 2
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. Part 3
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. Part 4
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. Part 5
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. Part 6
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. 69
  78. 70
  79. 71
  80. 72
  81. Acknowledgments
  82. About the Author
  83. Also by Sheena Kamal
  84. About the Publisher

Oh, so now when he’s weak she can speak perfect English? Hit him back like this?

In his mind her face blurs . . . she starts to look like Nora Watts.

27

All the numbers Van Nguyen’s people called Stephanie Kwan from are disconnected. So that’s a dead end.

When I need ideas, there’s only one person I go to. Problem is, she seems to have disappeared, which is annoying. That’s my role in the relationship. She has never put me in the position of having to hunt her down before, and I wonder if my warm and cuddly personality has driven her away for good. It occurs to me that though we have known each other for years, I have no idea where she lives.

I ask around our old AA meeting group, but no one has seen Simone lately. That’s not like her, but I try not to worry. Maybe she needs some distance.

This depressing thought takes me to the bar down the street. I linger outside for a moment. There’s nothing I want more than to drown my sorrows in the cheapest liquor I can get my hands on.

I don’t want to go in, but I cross the threshold anyway.

It’s not a nice bar. The people here seem sad and mostly alone. There are a few couples at tables, but they seem sad and alone, too. There’s a slim, ethnically ambiguous man sitting at the bar, staring into a shot glass. He looks at the glass for a long time, and then he raises it to his lips and knocks it back.

When I slide into the seat next to him, he doesn’t blink an eye or look over.

“How did the meeting go?” asks Simone, who is not in drag. Who I’m seeing for the first time as her alter ego, Simon.

Simon is drunk and pretending not to be.

Neither of us knows what to do. I’m having some pronoun difficulty because I don’t want to get it wrong. Simone once said that the only people who get worked up over pronouns are those who lack imagination. She’d said it in such a judgmental tone that I didn’t want to admit I possibly lack imagination. Especially today. I don’t want to upset this friend of mine, who is going through something I understand all too well. A relapse.

Simon stops pretending, presses his head into his hands.

“It was exciting,” I say. “Best experience of my life. You should have come.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

I would happily do that, but I can’t leave him here alone in this sad place with these sad people. After I pay the bill, I realize that I couldn’t be an alcoholic anymore even if I wanted to. Not at these prices. Not with my bank account balance.