The truck smelled like coffee and cigarettes and the pine air freshener hanging from the mirror. There were three empty coffee cups on the floor. Greg put the phone on speaker and set it on the dashboard.
“Frank,” he said hoarsely. “Laura’s here. My ex-wife.”
A man’s voice came through the speaker, calm and gravelly. “Hi, Laura. I’m Greg’s sponsor. He’s been on the phone with me for about two hours. He hasn’t had a drink.”
“I can see that,” I said. I was holding the bottle so tight my knuckles were white.
“He’s had a rough couple of days,” Frank said. “Greg, you want to tell her, or you want me to?”
Greg stared out the windshield at the woods. “It’s my dad’s anniversary. Twenty years. I thought I’d be fine. I was fine on Thursday. Then Thursday night I wasn’t.” He swallowed. “Friday I called in sick. I didn’t drink. I just sat in my apartment. This morning I got up to meet Sam, and I got in the truck, and I drove the wrong way. I drove here instead. I went in and bought that. I came back out and sat down and I couldn’t open it, and I couldn’t leave either. So I called Frank.”
