The Dog Year by Ann Wertz Garvin

the high school boy she thought she hadn’t remembered. The dark eyes, hair hanging in them, acne. “I think I remember you now. You were smaller.”
    â€œI bloomed late. That pissed me off, too.”
    For a second, in her mind, she stood back in the hall outside the high school principal’s office. She’d been on her way to work on the yearbook. Teenage Mark had shrugged out of the office, a large hand on the back of his neck steering him into the hallway. His father, saying, “Dumbass. I told you three strikes and you’re out.” He’d shoved Mark—who worked to appear cool in spite of the bully dad who’d yoked him—down the hall. Lucy had watched the pair all the way out the door, where the father cuffed Mark twice, hard, at the side of the head.
    She nodded toward the Walmart. “That wasn’t the first bar of soap that’s ended up in my pocket, you know.”
    â€œCleanliness is important.” He grinned.
    â€œFeloniously important.”
    â€œSo you’re a doctor, and—what? They don’t pay you enough?”
    â€œYeah. And you drink too much because—what? Every day is a gift and you’re going to unwrap the ribbons?”
    His head snapped back an inch. “At ease. It was a joke.” Sighing, he said, “Look, you can go if you want.”
    â€œI don’t need your permission.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why I do it, okay? Like you probably don’t know why you drank yourself out of your marriage.”
    He winced. “Not to reduce the enjoyment of this conversation or put too fine a point on it, but I can drink, get divorced, and still not end up in jail. Can you say that about what you do?”
    â€œAre you going to arrest me?”
    His face fell. “Does it seem like that’s what I’m doing here? Arresting you?”
    â€œI’m not a criminal. I’m not!”
    â€œDenial ain’t just a river in Egypt,” he said.
    â€œThat’s another thing I hate about AA—the catchy one-liners that get thrown in your face like they’re some kind of solution. Like the receiver will be enlightened and never drink again.”
    He laughed. “Sorry to use another tired cliché, but you are a ballbuster.” He laughed some more. “I love it.”
    Lucy pulled a face. “I assure you, that is not something people love about me.” She spread her hands on the table and examined her short nails. “I get that I have a problem, I just don’t think there’s any mystery involved. I’m trying to fill a hole in my life with things instead of experiences. But I’m going to counseling just to make sure. The hospital wants me to go to AA.”
    â€œIt helps, Egypt. Especially in the beginning.”
    â€œDon’t call me that.”
    â€œNext time, you might end up in real trouble.”
    She dragged her eyes up. “Why not this time?”
    â€œCall it valedictorian dispensation. But get some help. Next time you might end up at my place.”
    â€œJail?”
    â€œOr whatever.” He looked away when he said it and Lucy felt something fish-like flip in her stomach. “Either way, it’s trouble for you, I imagine.”
    â€œI just don’t get how AA might help. I don’t drink.”
    â€œYou’re a smart woman. I’m sure I don’t have to connect the dots for you. If you don’t want to see it, though, I can’t make you.” As she moved to leave he said, “Biddy Bartholemew always was a bitch.”
    *   *   *
    Lucy sank into her car seat and started to cry, another unpredictable impulse she seemed to have no control over lately. Wiping her face with the spare lab coat she kept in her car after the fast-food napkins ran out, she watched as Mark Troutman exited the coffee shop. It was hard to reconcile her memories from high school with this solidly built,