The Sins That Bind Us
Geneva Lee
For those who have faced the storm,
those who still brave it,
and the ones we have lost to it.
Author’s Note
First, and most importantly, thank you for taking the time to read The Sins That Bind Us. The story you’re about to begin is a difficult one.
This is the most personal book I’ve ever written as it delves into topics that have deeply affected my life. I have stood on the outside of addiction watching it claim people I love since I was born. Some it turned into monsters and others it broke. At times in my life, just watching nearly broke me as well.
Please make no mistake, this is a novel. The plot is not based on real events, and although many of the characters share traits with people I have known, they are not based on living people. Still at the heart of this book is an exploration of issues that we don’t discuss and the burdens that addicts and their loved ones carry silently. In many ways, I’ve been writing this book all my life and part of me wishes I’d never begun it.
If your life has been affected by drugs or alcohol, this book may trigger you, but I hope you’ll read it anyway. I wrote it for us. If at any time while reading this book, you need to reach out, please do. And if this book leaves you with any message, please let it be this: you are never alone.
With all my love,
Geneva
Chapter 1
Some times life changes in an instant. The shift so violently unexpected that it sucks the breath from your lungs. But more often life changes subtly—a series of tiny tremors one barely feels. A person falls out of love as gradually, and obliviously, as she fell in love in the first place. The perfect job or the bright future never quite materializes. The collapse of the what-might-have-been isn't abrupt or tragic. It’s just unavoidable.
That's why I find myself here, in a church basement, once a week.
I stir a bit of crappy, powdered creamer into even crappier, old coffee. It’s only characterizing flavor is burnt. Maybe no one cares how it tastes. Or maybe everyone here is so used to bitterness that they prefer it that way. I take a cup out of habit. It’s something warm to hold. I can sip it during the long, uncomfortable pauses or the awkward moments in a stranger’s story. It’s a prop, but I cling to it like a security blanket.
Clutching the Styrofoam cup, I turn and hit a wall. No, not a wall—a him. Thin, hot liquid sloshes over the rim and he narrowly avoids ruining his shirt, moving with the precision of a man who knows how to avoid being burned. Time slows as it splatters to the floor. I’m already considering how to mop up the mess, but when I glance up to apologize, my gaze travels along the muscular torso that his black t-shirt doesn’t try to hide. Tattoos trail down his bicep, and I imagine that they extend up his shoulder to the chiseled chest that’s visible through the thin cotton. A worn, brown leather bracelet is wrapped around his wrist. When I reach his face, and I freeze.
His eyes don’t match the rest of him—soft and warm, occupying the space between sapphire and sky blue. They are a direct contrast with the sharp lines of his body and the jaw he’s hidden under a rugged beard that’s as dark as his messy, black hair. As he stares at me, his eyes harden into scornful gems.
“Sorry.” I step back to allow him to pass, looking around for a napkin.
“It was an accident.” His voice is as cool as his eyes have become. “It happens.”
But not to him. I can hear it in his words. Maybe it’s a lifetime of experiencing the exact opposite—of being the one gifted with bad luck and poor decision making skills—but his attitude scrapes along my nerves. I bristle, forgetting the napkin and spilled coffee. “No need to be an asshole about it.”
His eyebrow arches, disappearing under a fallen lock of hair. “I thought I was being pretty polite given that you nearly dropped a cup of boiling coffee down my pants.” He leans closer and I catch a whiff of soap and the lightest hint of clove. “A man has to have his priorities.”
He’s one of those—a guy constantly drawing attention to his dick as though it’s a public treasure. Arrogant. That is to say, he’s a man.
I focus on the anger bubbling in my chest and ignore that my body has come to the same conclusion. I pretend I can’t feel the gentle pull of his presence, rejecting the leap of my heart as a fantasy of pressing my body to his flashes through my mind.
I walk away without another word, leaving him and the mess behind me. He’s as responsible for it as I am and he could use a little accountability by my estimation.