Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel by Frank Freudberg

trend turned against him. He lost six bets of varying amounts in a row, and the thousand was gone.
    He tipped the valet five bucks and drove home. His decision never to gamble again had nothing to do with the money he lost. Though he was far from rich, the cash meant nothing to him. He simply and finally realized there was no difference between cocaine, alcohol, and the green felt of a craps table. In AA, he remembered, someone once said switching vices was like being on the Titanic and demanding a different deck chair.
    Now he was on his way to Natalie’s place. Even though Lock’s hands were wrapped around a cold steering wheel, they were sweating, and no matter how many times he swallowed, he could still feel a lump in his throat. It was the same feeling he’d had when he knew it wasn’t in his best interests to be driving to the casino.
    I should turn around and go back home , he told himself . Or maybe I should stomp on the gas pedal and get to Natalie’s faster. Maybe I should drive my car into a bridge abutment.
    He wanted to argue that this was love, or could be love, and that was different. But after years of addictive behaviors, he had at least learned enough so that lying to himself was almost impossible. He flashed on an image of himself and Natalie lounging in deck chairs on the Titanic, glasses of whiskey on the tables next to them. He laughed at the idea and shook his head. Aloud, he said, “Can I get another drink? Oh, and tell the captain there’s an iceberg just ahead, but it’s just the tip.”
    When drunk, high, or anchored to a craps table, the only things Lock’s mind entertained were if there was enough booze, where he would be able to get more drugs, or how he’d get even after having lost so much money. Those were benign dilemmas, easier to deal with than the emotions he now sought to obliterate—especially the sense of isolation and the fear that he’d be alone, without a family, forever. Just talk , he thought. That’s fair. That’s not too much to ask for. But he knew that “just talk” was no different than “just one drink.”
    By the time he pulled into Natalie’s driveway, the clamminess in his palms had evaporated.

    “Oh my God, Lock,” Natalie said, rushing to him as he entered the kitchen through the driveway door.
    She stepped forward and hugged him hard, closing her eyes and holding him tightly. He returned the embrace and then stepped back, holding his hands out to say “slow down.” She smiled and nodded, and he smiled back.
    She took him by the hand and led him to the living room, with its beige and black décor, modern furniture, and a freshly started blaze in the fireplace. He eased his hand out of hers and she nodded for him to take a seat on the sofa. He threw his jacket on an armchair and sat where she indicated. Immediately, she sat down next to him, her leg pressing against his. He slid away, only a few inches, but enough to show he intended to stick to the “just talk” arrangement.
    She closed her eyes and leaned into him.
    “Come on, Natalie,” Lock said.
    “Kiss me once,” she said, “and I’ll be satisfied. But I need that kiss. Nothing more, I promise.”
    “You promised already,” he said, smiling. “Just talk.”
    “So? That was then and this is now. Kiss me.”
    He took her hand and kissed it and then folded it into his own.
    “Okay, okay,” Natalie said, rolling her eyes and shrugging. “You’re no fun.”
    An easy smile came to his face. She smiled back and looked into his eyes.
    “I never met a man who said he just wanted to talk who actually just wanted to talk,” she said.
    “I told you, I don’t tell lies.”
    “Listen,” she said, leaning back and taking a deep breath, “you’re a good man. I knew that the minute I met you, and I want what’s best for my girls and me. If I have to be patient—and believe me, that’s not one of my talents—I’ll be patient.”
    A gulp of beer, a line of coke, a roll of the dice. A