The Bottle Ghosts by Dorien Grey Page B

“That’s the kind of issues we deal with in the group,” he said calmly; “learning what not to say as well as what to say.”
    “Sorry.”
    “No need to be sorry. If you would like to join the group, we’d be happy to have you. It’s a pretty casual bunch, but we do have a few unwritten guidelines you’ll be expected to follow. First, group counseling sessions fall under the laws of confidentiality: what’s said there stays there. We touch on some pretty personal and private issues, so we try to protect individual privacy as much as we can. Since this is pretty hard to guarantee, we don’t use last names, and we prefer that the group’s members don’t socialize outside of the meetings—that also prevents any risk of factions developing within the group. Things get a little heated every now and then, but we don’t allow personal attacks. It’s the issues we address, not individuals. My job is to stay as much on the sidelines as I can, and interfere in the meeting as little as possible; I’m not there to play Moses. But if I step in and say a subject’s gone far enough, that’s it. It’s dropped. Agreed?”
    We nodded in unison, and Oaks, apparently satisfied, echoed our nod.
    “Good. We meet from seven to nine fifteen every Thursday night, Room 119 in this building.”
    He got up from his chair and we followed suit. We shook hands as he said: “If you could, try to come a little early next Thursday. The receptionist will have some papers for you to fill out. We’ll see you then.”
    “Thank you,” Jonathan and I chorused as we turned to head for the door.
    As we were leaving the building, we passed and exchanged Hi’s with two guys—obviously a couple—coming in. I wondered if they might be part of Oaks’ group. Well, we’d see the following Thursday.
    *
    Kind of an odd feeling, riding up the Montero’s elevator to Chris and Max’s room. I was standing there with my new partner, about ready to see my ex-partner and his “new”—though they’d been together quite a while now—partner. While time and physical distance had sort of put things on a back burner, Chris and I had never stopped loving one another, I knew. I wasn’t quite sure what sort of games this reunion might play with my head—not to mention my crotch. Well, I could handle it, and I would. I could tell Jonathan was just a bit nervous, too: he’d been very curious about Chris and my relationship and I suspect he might worry about not “measuring up” in some way.
    We got off the elevator, found Room 2218, and knocked.
    *
    The reunion was great! Chris had put on a little weight, but otherwise looked exactly as I remembered him. And a large part of me was very glad Jonathan was with me: I suspect my reactions might have been quite different had I been seeing Chris again while I was single. Max, with whom I’d talked many times on the phone, was something of a surprise in that I’d never really gotten a mental picture of him, for some reason. In person he was about my build and height, just a little older, I’d guess, and I guess a pretty good looking guy. Not my type, but I could see where Chris might find him attractive. Jonathan was favorably impressed with both of them, I could tell, and kept looking back and forth between Max and me.
    We called for reservations at Rasputin’s, which used to be one of Chris’ and my favorite restaurants. Since Chris, Jonathan, and I had to get up early on Friday, we didn’t have as much time as we’d have liked, but we managed to do a lot of catching up. Both Chris and I tried hard not to monopolize the conversation, but fortunately Max and Jonathan seem to find a lot to talk about, which made it easier.
    Max asked Jonathan to go to an A.A. meeting with him on Friday night, and they arranged to go to an early meeting at the M.C.C., then we’d have dinner and do a little bar hopping. Max had been sober since before he’d met Chris but, like Jonathan, never fooled himself into