She eventually leaves the office. She gets in her car, with all intentions of heading home. Halfway there, on an impulse she pulls into a parking lot. She puts the car into park, and pulls the keys out of the ignition. She exits the vehicle, without a second thought. She enters the building, and makes a beeline for a bar stool. She takes a seat at the bar. The bar is getting busy. She stares up at the bottles of alcohol on the shelf. They call her name, and she doesn't try to ignore them. The bar tender finally reaches her. He smiles at her.

"What will it be?"

"Whiskey sour on the rocks," she responds.

He nods, and turns to grab the bottle from the shelf. She watches as he drops ice into the bottom of a glass. He pours the liquid from the bottle of Jack Daniels. He places a napkin in front of her, and sets the drink on it.

"Thank you." He turns, and walks away. She looks around the bar. In the sea of faces she doesn't see a single on that she recognizes. She watches the people around her. Some of them commiserate in corner booths with their friends. Others celebrate at tables in the middle of the bar. A handful dance to the sound of the band. She exhales, and looks down the bar to her left. She finds lonely souls just like hers nursing their drinks alone. She shifts her attention to the drink in front of her. She reaches forward. Her hand grips the glass. The condensation on the outside of the glass presses against the palm of her hand. A hand wraps around her right wrist. She looks to her right, and finds a familiar face sitting next to her. She swallows hard as she looks him in the eye.

"What are you doing here?"

"I saw your car parked out front," he answers.

"I don't need this," she confronts him.

He takes the drink from her, "No, you don't," he agrees.

"I don't need you here, running my life," she clarifies.

"You need me, you just won't admit it."

"I need you to leave," she argues.

He swallows the drink, "You first."

Her nostrils flare, "Go to hell," she tells him.

He grins, "I would follow you there any day."

"Harm leave me the hell alone."

"Make up your mind, Sarah."

"Do you live to piss me off?"

"No."

She slaps money on the counter, and vacates her seat. She turns, and heads for the door. He doesn't follow her. She climbs into her car. She puts the key into the ignition, and turns the car on. She backs out of her parking space. She pulls out of the parking lot with a look of fury in her eyes. When she gets home she jumps into the shower.

She heads into the kitchen, wrapped in a towel. Her hair is still wet as she squats in front of the kitchen sink. She opens the cabinet doors. She sticks her hand inside the cabinet. She pushes aside the cleaning chemicals. Her hand touches a glass bottle. She pulls it out, and closes the cabinet. She rises to her feet, and places the bottle on the counter. She twists the lid off the Grey Goose. She looks at the sink, and seriously contemplates putting the half full bottle of alcohol to her lips. She sighs in defeat, and dumps the alcohol down the drain.

She doesn't sleep well that night. She wakes up at three o'clock in the morning. Her bed smells like him. She rips off the covers, and throws them on floor. She grabs a clean pair of sheets out of the closet, and re-makes her bed. Her sleep is fitful, and she's wide awake again by five o'clock. She climbs out of bed, and laces up her running shoes.

Her run takes her down the block. She's drenched in sweat before the sun even offers to rise. She stops in front of a church to catch her breath. She finds people entering the church, despite the fact that it's six o'clock in the morning. She glances at the sign out front. Two letters catch her eye. AA is listed at six o'clock. She shakes her head, and enters the basement of the church.

She enters the room that smells like stale coffee, and day old doughnuts. There are rows of yellow plastic chairs. She takes a seat towards the back. She clenches her jaw, silently listening to stories of other people in the room. She feels her anxiety rises, knowing it will be her turn soon. She quietly slips out of her chair. Someone clears their throat. She looks up as she tries to make it to the door.

"Mac, where are you going?"

She looks up, with a furrowed brow. The pastor looks at her. She doesn't wear a nametag, and she certainly has not introduced herself. She looks at the pastor. She groans, inwardly, recognizing the pastor as a former marine that she served with at one point. He motions for her to come to the front of the room. She nods, and makes her way to the podium. She swallows hard.

"My name is Sarah, and I'm an alcoholic," she explains.

The group greets her. After telling her story the next person takes the podium. She slips out the back door. She's just stepped onto the sidewalk when she feels fingers wrapping around her arm. She finds the pastor standing next to her.

"The meeting isn't over," he points out.

"I have to go to work."

"Don't we all?"

"When did you become a pastor?" She questions.

He grins, "Not soon enough," he responds.

"Nick, I never pictured you here," she admits.

"How could a drunk become a pastor, right?"

She doesn't respond.

"The answer is, he doesn't."

She furrows her brow, "I don't understand."

"I've been clean and sober for eight years," he reveals.

"Oh."

"Thanks to you."

"Me?"

"Something you said."

"I don't recall," she admits.

"I do, and it brought me here. It brought me to a meeting, and after I got sober I heard the call again, but this time it wasn't my country calling me."

"Good for you."

"I'm married, and I've got a little girl. It's all thanks to you."

"I don't want to take credit for anyone's sobriety but my own."

"What are you doing here?"

She grins, "It ain't the whiskey," coyly.