The Forest for the Trees

A year ago, it felt like my life was swirling down the toilet pretty quickly, ya know? With Josh and Randy, not to mention my own friggin' issues, I was pretty much a lost cause. At least, it seemed like it at the time. But I guess it's true what they say - a year really can make a difference. I don't know who 'they' are, or if 'they' really say that, but it's true. This past year has been monumental for me.

Randy and I have really put a lot of work into the issues we had last time you checked in with us. On our own, and together, we've both gotten to a place that's pretty healthy. Now, don't get me wrong. That's not to say we don't still have our issues, just like anybody else, but we're light years ahead of where we were. And I can't really put into words just how good that really feels.

"I'm not crazy, right?" Maria interrupts my thoughts as she paces the front of her hotel room, one hand on her hip and the other buried in her red hair. She's worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and staring at the floor as if she can see John's face there. "He's drinking a lot, right?"

She stops and meets my eye, but I'm not really sure what to say. I mean, being a part of Randy's life means being a part of John and Maria's, too, but I wouldn't exactly say that we're close. It was hard enough for me to let Randy into my life, and while I think his friends are great to hang out with, we're not staying up late, ordering cheesy Pay Per View, and eating cookie dough together, ya know? "I really don't know if I'm," I start to answer.

But Maria's brow furrows as she lowers herself to the bed at my side. "You're mom was an alcoholic, right? And Josh?" She grabs my hand. "He drank a lot, too, didn't he?"

"Okay." I clear my throat. Remember how I just said that we're not all close? Well, we're not, and I'm not sure that I want this chick bringing up parts of my past that I don't even talk to Randy about very often. "That's really," I shake my head. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but I also don't want to talk about my mother with her. "It's really personal, Maria."

She's not easily distracted, though. Releasing one of my hands, she pushes a strand of her long hair behind her ear and licks her lips. "Oh, come on, Jamie. We're friends now," she pleads with me, and it doesn't matter if I correct her or not, she's going to keep pretending that we are. "If I can't ask you, who can I ask?"

Oh, I don't know. Randy? Maybe she could talk to her own mother, or her sister, or that lady in make up that she sees once a week? Anybody but me. I think her alcoholic husband and their issues are maybe the last thing I want to think about right now. "Tatum?" I suggest. Because even though I don't really know Tatum, I feel like I do. Seeing as one of my three 'friends' is talking about her all the damn time.

"Well, yeah," Maria agrees, standing again and running her hands over her denim-clad thighs. "But she's kinda busy right now. Apparently," she rolls her eyes, "being a drug counselor eats up a lot of time. And you're my second best."

"Uh, thanks."

"Second best friend," she clarifies when my face and tone convey the insulted sarcasm in my brain. The second best? Gee, I wonder why I'm not a big fan of the memory of one Tatum Sharpe. "I mean, you and I? We haven't known each other that long, so I can't really consider you," she starts to explain.

And it's kind of painful, the way she's backtracking and digging a bigger whole for herself, so I just hold up a hand and shake my head. "No, it's okay, Maria. I get it." I scoot up the mattress to rest against the headboard and pull my knees up to my chest. My therapist says that this position, and the one where I cross my arms over my chest, are defensive gestures. Maybe she's right. Because I would like to protect myself from this conversation right about now.

Maria walks to the window and stares out at the city before turning back and walking to the door. She yanks it open and looks both directions down the hall and then slams the door again and leans against it, letting out an exasperated sigh. I'm not sure I've ever seen another woman so worked up over something. And even more than that, I'm not sure exactly what she's worked up over. Nobody's really filled me in on what started this whole 'alcoholic' issue between the newlyweds in the first place.

"Look, I don't know, Maria. I mean, John is light years away from where my mother is," I open up, even if just a little bit. Maria's so stuck in her own head, with her own problems, that she's not really listening for anything other than 'you're right' anyway, so I figure it's safe. "And he's really nothing like Josh, either," I go on. He's not. John's not kicking her ass or treating her like property, so the way I see it? She's found one of the good ones. "I just don't know."

Sometimes Randy tells me that he hates my honesty. He hates the way that I have no problem telling him that I don't know something. But some days, I feel like it's the only really valuable thing I have left to offer anyone. I know that, for me, the best thing anyone can tell you when you're confused is "I don't know." At least then you know you're not the only one who can't figure shit out, ya know?

Maria moves to the bed and flops back across the bottom of the mattress. "I know it seems like I'm being overprotective," she sighs, her eyes trained on the ceiling and pooling with tears, holding steadily unshed, but just waiting for permission to fall. "It seems like I'm some stupid, nagging wife or something, but I have never loved anybody like I love John," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper as it cracks under the weight of her thoughts. "I think it would kill me if I lost him like . . ." Biting her lip, she closes her eyes, either because she can't bare the thought, or because she can't believe she was about to say it.

"Like Randy lost Tatum?" I fill in the blanks for her. She nods, and I suddenly feel really sorry for her. I mean, Randy and I were friends long before we were anything else, and I know how hard it was for him to watch Tatum fade away like she did. She went to rehab, but they didn't make it through the process as a couple, so I can see why that example would somewhat terrify her.

But Tatum got better, ya know? They're not a couple anymore, but they're both healthier. I'm sure that's not what Maria wants to hear right now, but in my mind? That's a lot more important than whatever crazy, drama-filled roller coaster ride of a relationship they used to have.

"They don't even speak anymore, Jamie," Maria finally allows the tears to flow, not even bothering to wipe them away. "Hell, they don't even speak about each other anymore. It's just tragic. I mean, they were so good together and now . . ." Biting her lip again, she turns her face toward me and blushes slightly. "I can't keep my foot out of my mouth tonight, can I?"

I just shrug. What else am I supposed to do? I mean, I could freak out about it, but what good would that do in this situation? Randy sent me up here to keep an eye on Maria, to make sure that didn't do anything crazy. If I tell her that I don't care about her problem, I'm just sick of hearing Tatum's name fifty times a week, I'm pretty sure I won't be doing my job.

"Look, Maria, my boyfriend was madly in love with someone who had a problem. And he did what he thought was right to help her. She did what she thought was right to help him. And they were both right." I'm still being honest, by the way. My head knows that the words I'm saying to Maria are the truth, even if my heart doesn't exactly feel that way all of the time. "I'm reaping the benefits of those decisions, and I know that. I have a past, too," I add, just like I've told myself so many times in the past.

Before Maria can call my bluff, the door opens and Randy winks at me before stepping inside the room to let John enter. "As promised," he motions to the man walking toward the bed. "Safe, without a scratch," he adds when Maria sits up at her husband's side, her eyes raking over him as he deposits his shirt on the floor and tosses his baseball cap onto the dresser.

When she's convinced that John's parts and pieces are all firmly in place, she turns her wide eyes to the place where I'm joining Randy near the door. "Thanks, Randy," she whispers.

Randy just nods and motions for me to head back toward our room. When his hand touches the small of my back, I feel my heart begin to race. I can't tell you how many times I've reminded myself that we're friends first, and whatever else we've become second. I keep telling myself to guard my heart, and to protect our friendship first and foremost, that it's the most important thing. But it's hard to remember anything at all when Randy's fingers come in contact with any part of my body.

He unlocks our hotel room door and stands aside for me to enter first. "Sorry to shoo you away like that tonight, James," he apologizes as he shuts the door behind us.

"Yeah?" I ask, my eyebrow arching. I've thought of very little tonight other than how different my life has become in the last year, and about exes and problems and drama. But now? Randy's taking his tee shirt off and I'm not thinking of anything but that chiseled chest, and that satisfied smirk that he gets when I've taken him to a place he didn't think shy little Jamie was capable of taking him. "You could make it up to me, ya know?"

He just growls from somewhere deep inside his throat and tosses me back against the plush covers of our bed. He can worry about the other shit later. For right now, he's my best friend, not John's. He's my boyfriend, not Tatum's. Tonight, Randy Orton is mine. And I'm not sharing him with anyone.