White Space Season 2

feeling the first of them burst from her eyes. Suddenly, more than anything in the world, Cassidy had to flee the bar.
    “Can you tell Lewis I don’t feel well? I need to go.”
    “Um … yeah, I … ”
    Cassidy didn’t wait for Tiff to continue. She fled the bathroom, tore the apron from her body, went to the time clock in the back, punched out, then half-sprinted out of the bar and into the cool night air, never once looking back as Lewis called, “Cassidy!” loudly behind her.
    People were on the streets — they were always on the streets in the tourist district — looking at her as she passed by, crying. Cassidy went from fast to faster, eager to escape their curious or maybe even judging eyes, walking quicker until she finally fell into a full run.
    Cassidy kept running and crying until she found herself alone in a narrow alley behind two rows of shops. She stopped, stared up at the full moon, then lost her scream to the night.
    She swallowed hard, reached inside her pocket — the left pocket with her cell, rather than the right with the pills — and dialed her Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, Roberta.
    “Hello?” the woman said, obviously sleepy.
    “I’m sorry to wake you,” Cassidy said, feeling another swell of guilt. Roberta was a 40-year-old working single mother of two. It wasn’t right to call her so late. She had her own shit to deal with. But that’s what sponsors were for, and Cassidy had no one else. It wasn’t like she was about to call Jon and admit to still being an addict. Her addiction had cost Jon and Sarah a shot at love, and changed Sarah’s life. No way her sister would still be on Hamilton if not for Cassidy fucking up.
    Sarah would still be alive.
    “It’s OK, Sweetie. What’s wrong?” Roberta said. Cassidy could hear the woman clicking on her light and sitting up in bed.
    “I really, really want to use.”
    “It’s alright, I’m here for you. Do you want to come over? I can make some coffee or something?”
    “No, no, that’s OK. I just needed to hear your voice,” Cassidy said. “And also to tell you that I relapsed about a month ago. A few times.” Cassidy thought about saying it was around the time Sarah died, but didn’t want to use her sister’s death as an excuse — even if it was an excuse Roberta would understand.
    Roberta’s supportive voice was unflinching. “It’s OK, the important thing is you’re calling me now. Calling me instead of using. Let’s talk.”
    “Thank you,” she said.
    Cassidy sat with her back to the alley brick, listening to Roberta, and knowing that the worst of her habits were like bulbs beneath a winter ground, waiting for spring and a blue sky to burst into bloom and control her. Roberta wanted her to go to another meeting, tomorrow if possible. Cassidy apologized for having missed the past few meetings, and admitted to avoiding the meetings because of her guilt.
    It felt good to get it out, to have someone hear her confessions.
    Cassidy tried not to shake, listening to Roberta, holding the phone in one hand while the other stayed in her pocket, fondling the pair of tiny dots that promised to make everything better.
    Just one Cassidy. You can do it right now while talking to Roberta, then never do it again. She’ll never have to know.
    Just one will make everything better.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 5 — Bruce Henderson

    Missing & Survivor’s Group Meeting
    Hamilton K-12
    Thursday night

    Bruce Henderson sat in the back of the auditorium feeling the anger increasingly swell inside him as the people continued to speak about the school shootings as if God had somehow allowed tragedy to happen, as if it was God’s will and not the act of that fucking lunatic Roger Heller.
    Missy Chissolm, a cafeteria worker who hadn’t even lost any children, was on the stage crying about the “senseless tragedy” and a need for the community to “come together.” Bruce shook his head, sighing audibly enough for a woman two rows in front of him, Mary Stafford, who was at the meeting because of her missing daughter, to turn back and give him the old glare eyes. At least he thought that’s what was doing. It was difficult to tell in the dark. The stage was the only part of the auditorium lit, showing the five people sitting in chairs, each taking their turn at the microphone like it was open mic night at the Tragedy Club.
    Bruce looked down at his hands, clasped tightly, resisting the urge as it rose like a tide inside him, wanting to