Scars from a Memoir Read Online Free Page A

judging by the expression on his face, my boobs were the only thing he was thinking about.
    What Al was offering would cover my rent and give me some extra to save. It also meant that I would still be connected to Mark, and I was trying to move on from my past. But I hadn't heard back from any of the other coffee shops. Tiffany said Al would be influential in my sobriety; he'd completed a rehab program, worked the Steps, and still attended meetings. Mark had shown he was just as supportive. Even if the job was temporary and I looked for others in the meantime, at least I'd be making money.
    After my first week, I stopped checking the Internet for employment ads. I wasn't making as much money as I had at Mark's bar, but I didn't have an addiction to feed. Al let me float, helping out the pastry chef and busboy when the shop wasn't busy, and told me I could work overtime. He was impressed with all the hours I put in and said he wished his other employees were as committed. I didn't tell him he was actually doing me a favor by letting me work so much.
    I hated being home. Both Ashley and Kathy always went to bed shortly after dinner because they worked really early in the morning. Diem watched TV or talked on the phone. Tiffany was finishing her bachelor's degree and was taking fifteen credits this semester. We'd go to meetings and cook together, and before she hit the books, she'd ask about my day. Eventually, the stories about our customers got repetitious and weren't funny anymore.
    Heroin talked to me when no one else did.
    Jami and Sada, the girls who worked the counter with me, were chattier than my roommates. Jami, a single mom of two, looked like she'd been run through a press. Her body was long and thin, and she wore gloves because she chewed her nails so short they bled. Sada was a junior at Northeastern University. This week, her long, black hair was streaked with hot pink highlights, matching her feather earrings and eyeliner. Her personality didn't demand attention; her looks just attracted it. Neither knew about my heroin addiction or that I'd spent time in jail. The only time we hung out was at work, so there wasn't a reason to bring it up. That was, until Sada invited me out on a Saturday night. She said it wasn't a party—just some friends hanging out at an apartment. She wrote down her address, said to be at her place at eight and then we'd walk to her friend's together. I told her I'd be there.
    I'd been in sober living for three weeks, and I left our apartment only to go to work or NA meetings and to see my parole officer. I didn't want to spend another Saturday night alone in my room, and there was no reason I should. Alcohol wasn't tempting. Sada's friends wouldn't be doing heroin, so I was going to be just fine.
    My roommates were sitting around the kitchen table when I got home from work. Other than some gravy and a few mashed carrots, their plates were empty. Tiffany must have made pot roast.
    “We saved you a plate,” Kathy said. “You just need to stick it in the microwave.”
    “No need, but thanks,” I said. Tiffany was sitting closest to the door, and I stood next to her. “Can I talk to you?”
    “You OK?” she asked.
    “Yeah, I just want to ask you something.”
    She pushed out her chair and followed me to her bedroom. I took a seat on her bed, crossed my legs, and pulled one of her pillows intomy arms. Her sheets were much softer than mine. They were teal and matched her comforter.
    She closed the door and sat in front of me. “What's up?”
    “Do you mind if I borrow some clothes?”
    I'd gotten only two paychecks. The first went toward a whole month of rent, which was my parents’ idea. I bought a cell phone and work clothes with the second and put the rest into savings. Opening a checking and savings account was another of Mom and Dad's suggestions.
    Tiffany moved over to her closet and flipped through her hanging clothes. “Dressy or casual?”
    “Jeans, and maybe something