Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 2
Proving Ground

Day twenty-six of sobriety looked a lot like day twenty-five, which had looked a lot like day twenty-four. Ash was starting to understand that this was the point—the monotonous, grinding sameness of it. Recovery wasn't dramatic. It was getting up at the same time every morning, eating breakfast at the same table, attending the same online meeting at 10 AM sharp.

It was mind-numbingly boring.

He sat at the kitchen table on Saturday morning, sketchbook open in front of him, charcoal smudging under his fingertips as he worked on a piece he'd started three days ago. A self-portrait, sort of—abstract enough that Shannon wouldn't ask questions when she inevitably looked at it later. All sharp angles and negative space, the face emerging from darkness or dissolving into it. He hadn't decided which yet.

"That's coming along nicely," Shannon said from behind him.

Ash's hand jerked, leaving an unintended streak across the page. He set down the charcoal and resisted the urge to cover the drawing like a teenager hiding a diary.

"Thanks," he said.

She moved to the coffee maker, refilling her mug for what had to be the third time that morning. It was barely 9 AM. Patrick was at the office—Saturday hours for an important case, or maybe just an excuse to escape the tension that seemed to permeate the house lately. Ash couldn't blame him.

"What are your plans for today?" Shannon asked, casual in that way that meant she'd been rehearsing the question.

"This." Ash gestured to the sketchbook. "Maybe watch something later. I don't know."

"Claire's coming by this afternoon. She wanted to see you."

Ash's jaw tightened. "Okay."

"She's excited about the pregnancy. I'm sure she'll want to talk about—"

"Mom." Ash looked up at her. "I know why Claire's coming."

Shannon's hand stilled on her coffee mug. "She wants to see her brother."

"She wants to check on me. Make sure I'm still clean. It's fine. I get it."

"That's not—" Shannon stopped herself. Sighed. "She cares about you."

"I know she does." Ash turned back to his drawing, picked up the charcoal again. "I'll be nice. I promise."

Shannon lingered for another moment, like she wanted to say something else, then retreated to the living room with her coffee. Ash listened to her footsteps, the sound of the TV turning on to some weekend morning show, the domestic normalcy of it all.

He added another line to the portrait. Then another. Lost himself in the familiar motion of creation, the one thing that still felt like his even when everything else had been stripped away or bargained for.

His phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it reflexively.

Jordan: bro im bored as fuck. movie later?

Ash stared at the message. Felt that familiar pull—the want, the restlessness, the desperate need to feel like a normal twenty-four-year-old instead of a recovering addict under house arrest without the ankle monitor.

He typed: cant, sister's visiting

Jordan: after?

Ash's thumbs hovered over the keyboard. In the living room, he could hear the TV hosts laughing about something. Shannon's coffee mug clicking against the side table.

maybe, he typed. Then deleted it. Typed: still need a few more days

Jordan: u sound like a pussy rn ngl

Ash felt his face heat. Typed back: fuck off, then immediately deleted that too.

Instead: just not today man

Jordan didn't respond. Ash set the phone face-down on the table and went back to his drawing, but the lines felt wrong now, disconnected. He'd lost the thread of whatever he'd been trying to create.

Claire arrived at 2 PM with a reusable shopping bag full of what she claimed were "just some things I picked up." Ash knew better. Shannon had probably texted her a list—vitamins, protein bars, the specific brand of herbal tea that the rehab counselor had recommended for anxiety.

"Hey, stranger," Claire said, pulling him into a hug that lasted just slightly too long.

"Hey." Ash hugged back, trying not to feel suffocated. "Congratulations on the baby."

"Thanks." Claire pulled back, one hand moving unconsciously to her still-flat stomach. "We're thrilled. Terrified, but thrilled."

They moved to the living room. Shannon materialized with iced tea and cookies arranged on a plate, because apparently they were having a proper visit. Ash sat in the armchair—his usual spot, the one that didn't face the TV directly but gave him a view of the front door. Old habit.

"So how are you feeling?" Claire asked, settling onto the couch with the careful movements of someone who'd been warned not to push too hard.

"Good," Ash said automatically. "Fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Twenty-six days. Taking it one day at a time, all that shit." He caught himself. "Sorry. All that... stuff."

Shannon and Claire exchanged a look. Ash felt like a specimen under observation.

"That's great, Ash. Really." Claire leaned forward. "Are you going to meetings?"

"Online ones. Every day."

"And you're seeing the counselor?"

"Twice a week."

"That's really good." Claire nodded, encouraging, like she was praising a child for a decent report card. "I'm proud of you."

Ash felt something sour twist in his stomach. "Thanks."

"I mean it. I know this hasn't been easy."

"It's fine."

"It's okay if it's not fine, you know. Recovery is hard. You don't have to pretend—"

"I'm not pretending." Ash's voice came out sharper than he'd intended. He forced himself to breathe. Soften. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm doing okay. Really."

Claire studied him for a long moment, and Ash had the uncomfortable feeling that she was cataloging symptoms, running through differential diagnoses in her head. Nurse brain never fully turned off.

"What have you been working on?" she asked, nodding toward the charcoal smudges on his hands.

"Just some drawings. Nothing special."

"Can I see?"

"They're not finished."

"I don't mind."

Ash felt the walls closing in. "Maybe later."

Another look between Shannon and Claire. Ash wanted to scream.

"How's work?" he asked instead, desperate to redirect.

Claire took the bait. Started talking about the hospital, a difficult patient case, some drama with the scheduling system. Ash listened and nodded in the right places and tried not to feel like he was suffocating.

After an hour, Claire stood to leave. She hugged Ash again at the door.

"I'm here if you need anything," she said quietly. "Anything at all. Even just to talk."

"I know. Thanks."

"I mean it. Day or night."

"I know, Claire."

She pulled back, searched his face. "You'd tell me if you were struggling, right?"

"Yeah. Of course."

It was a lie and they both knew it, but she let it slide. Gave him one more squeeze and headed to her car.

Shannon closed the door and turned to Ash. "That went well."

"Did it?"

"She's worried about you. We all are."

"I'm fine, Mom."

"I know you are." Shannon touched his arm. "I just want you to know that you don't have to be fine all the time. It's okay to—"

"I need to finish my drawing." Ash pulled away gently. "Before I lose the light."

He retreated to his room before she could respond.

Sunday morning meant church. Shannon had been going more regularly since Ash came home—Patrick suspected it was less about faith and more about the community support, the prayer circle that met after service where she could talk about "our son's recovery" in vague, blessed terms.

Ash had stopped going years ago, around the time he'd started hormones and the looks from certain congregation members had shifted from welcoming to quietly disapproving. But today Shannon asked if he wanted to come, and something in her voice made it clear this wasn't really a question.

So Ash found himself in the passenger seat of his mother's car, wearing khakis and a button-up that didn't quite fit right anymore, heading to the same church he'd attended every Sunday as a kid.

"You don't have to take communion if you don't want to," Shannon said as they pulled into the parking lot. "I just thought... it might be nice. To be around people. Feel connected to something bigger than..."

"Than my addiction?" Ash supplied.

Shannon winced. "I was going to say 'than ourselves.' But yes."

The service was exactly as Ash remembered—the same hymns, the same rhythms, the same particular smell of old carpet and furniture polish. He sat in the pew next to his mother and stood when everyone stood, sat when everyone sat, mouthed along to prayers he'd memorized before he understood what the words meant.

Pastor Michael's sermon was about redemption. Of course it was.

"We all fall short," the pastor said from his pulpit. "Every single one of us. But God's grace is not contingent on our perfection. It's freely given to those who seek it. Who turn away from sin and toward the light."

Ash felt dozens of eyes on him. Imagined or real, he couldn't tell anymore.

After the service, Shannon steered him toward the church basement where coffee and donuts were laid out on folding tables. Several women from her prayer circle descended immediately.

"Shannon! And Ash, oh my goodness, it's so good to see you!"

"You look wonderful, dear. Healthy."

"We've been praying for you."

Ash smiled and nodded and let them hug him, their perfume overwhelming, their hands squeezing his arms like they were checking to make sure he was real.

"Thank you," he said over and over. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

Mrs. Henderson—elderly, sweet, had taught his Sunday school class when he was seven—took both his hands in hers. "The Lord has great plans for you, Ash. You just have to stay on the path."

"Yes ma'am."

"We're all so proud of you for getting help. It takes real strength to admit you need it."

Ash felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin. "Thank you."

Shannon beamed beside him, soaking up their approval like sunlight. This was what she needed, Ash realized. Not just for him to be clean, but for him to be publicly clean. Visibly redeemed. Proof that her prayers had been answered.

After twenty minutes that felt like hours, Shannon finally released him. "Go ahead and wait in the car if you want. I'll just be a few more minutes."

Ash didn't need to be told twice.

Outside, the April air felt like freedom. He leaned against the car and pulled out his phone. Three texts from Jordan, each one more insistent than the last.

dude seriously when u gonna be able to hang

ur parents cant keep u locked up forever

just come over tonight. tell them ur going to a meeting or some shit

Ash stared at the messages. Felt that familiar war inside himself—the part that wanted to be good, to be patient, to earn back trust, versus the part that was so fucking tired of being watched and managed and praised like a performing seal.

He typed: maybe

Then deleted it.

Typed: I'll think about it

Deleted that too.

Finally settled on: let me see

Jordan: thats not a no 👀

Ash pocketed his phone as Shannon emerged from the church, chatting animatedly with Mrs. Henderson. He plastered on a smile and got in the car.

"That was nice, wasn't it?" Shannon said as they pulled out of the parking lot. "Everyone was so happy to see you."

"Yeah. It was great."

"I think we should make it a regular thing. Sunday service. It gives us something to structure the week around."

Ash looked out the window. "Sure, Mom. Whatever you want."

She reached over and squeezed his hand. "I'm really proud of you, honey. I know today wasn't easy."

Ash squeezed back even though he wanted to pull away. "Thanks."

When they got home, Patrick was in the kitchen making lunch. He looked up when they entered, eyebrows raised in question.

"It went well," Shannon reported. "Everyone was very welcoming."

"Good." Patrick returned his attention to the sandwiches he was assembling. "Ash, can you help me with something in the garage after lunch?"

It wasn't really a question.

"Sure," Ash said.

They ate in relative silence—turkey sandwiches, chips, the safe foods that didn't require conversation. Afterward, Ash followed his father out to the garage.

Patrick closed the door behind them and leaned against his workbench. "How are you really doing?"

Ash felt his defenses rise. "Fine. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because we care. And because 'fine' is what you always say."

"What do you want me to say?"

"The truth." Patrick crossed his arms. "Are you happy here? Content with how things are going?"

Ash laughed, sharp and humorless. "Am I happy being under house arrest without the ankle monitor? Am I content having to ask permission to leave my own house at twenty-four years old? What do you think, Dad?"

Patrick didn't flinch. "I think you're frustrated. Which is understandable. But I also think you understand why we have boundaries."

"The sacred ninety days. Yeah, I get it."

"It's not just about the ninety days. It's about building sustainable patterns. Proving to yourself—not just to us—that you can maintain stability."

"I am maintaining stability. I've been clean for almost a month. I go to meetings. I see the counselor. I'm doing everything right."

"You are," Patrick agreed. "And we're proud of you. But addiction doesn't work on a calendar, Ash. You know that."

"So what, I'm just supposed to stay locked up indefinitely? Until you decide I'm cured?"

"No. You're supposed to work with us to build trust. To show us that you can handle increasing freedom responsibly."

"How am I supposed to show you I can handle freedom if you never give me any?"

Patrick was quiet for a moment. "You make a fair point."

Ash blinked. He'd been geared up for an argument, not agreement.

"What if we tried something," Patrick continued. "Small steps. Supervised outings at first. Maybe a walk around the neighborhood. A trip to the coffee shop. Nothing high-risk, but something that gives you more autonomy than you have now."

Ash felt a flicker of hope, quickly suppressed. "Supervised by who?"

"Your mother or me. Or Claire, if she's available."

"So still not free."

"No," Patrick said honestly. "Not yet. But it's progress. And if those go well, we talk about the next step."

It wasn't what Ash wanted. It was nowhere close. But it was something, and something was better than the absolute nothing he'd been staring down for the next two months.

"Okay," he said finally. "Yeah. That... that could work."

Patrick nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Good. We'll start tomorrow. Your mother and I will work out a schedule."

"Can I pick where we go?"

"Within reason."

"What's 'within reason'?"

"Nowhere you used to use. Nowhere your old crowd hangs out. Public places during daylight hours."

Ash felt the cage tighten again even as it pretended to expand. "Right. Of course."

Patrick pushed off the workbench. "I know this isn't easy. But we're trying, Ash. We're trying to find a middle ground here."

"I know."

"Just... keep doing what you're doing. Keep showing up. The rest will follow."

Patrick clapped him on the shoulder and headed back inside. Ash stayed in the garage for a few minutes, surrounded by tools and paint cans and the accumulated junk of suburban life.

His phone buzzed. Jordan again: so?

Ash looked at the message. Looked at the closed door leading back into the house. Thought about supervised walks around the neighborhood like he was a fucking dog on a leash.

He typed: tonight. late. pick me up at the corner

Jordan: FINALLY. 11?

Ash: yeah

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.

The rest of the day passed in agonizing slowness. Dinner at 6. A movie Shannon picked on Netflix at 7:30. Patrick reviewing case files in his office, Shannon knitting on the couch, everything so normal and domestic that Ash wanted to scream.

At 9:30, he announced he was tired. Going to bed early.

"Good idea," Shannon said, not looking up from her knitting. "Get some rest."

Ash climbed the stairs to his room, very aware of how his mother's knitting needles paused until she heard his bedroom door close.

He lay on his bed fully clothed, watching the minutes tick by on his phone. 10:00. 10:15. 10:30.

Downstairs, he heard Shannon and Patrick moving through their bedtime routine. Bathroom, bedroom, door closing. Lights switching off one by one.

10:45.

Ash sat up. His heart was hammering. This was stupid. This was so fucking stupid. He'd promised to wait. He'd agreed to the supervised outings. He was throwing away progress for what—a few hours of feeling normal?

But God, he needed to feel normal. Just for a little while. Just to remember what it felt like to be Ash, not "recovering addict Ash" or "our son who needs supervision Ash" or "the one we're all worried about Ash."

Just Ash.

He opened his window as quietly as possible. The screen came out easily—he'd done this dozens of times as a teenager, sneaking out to parties or to meet friends or just to walk around the neighborhood at 2 AM because he couldn't sleep.

The trellis his mother had installed years ago for climbing roses still held his weight. Barely. Ash climbed down carefully, every creak sounding like a gunshot in the quiet night.

When his feet hit the grass, he waited. Listened. No lights turned on. No doors opened.

He walked quickly to the corner, hands shoved in his pockets, hood up. Tried to look casual. Just a guy out for a late-night walk. Nothing suspicious.

Jordan's beat-up Honda pulled up at 11:03.

"Dude!" Jordan leaned across to open the passenger door. "You actually did it!"

Ash slid into the seat. "Yeah. I did."

"Your parents are gonna be so fucking pissed."

"They won't know. I'll be back before they wake up."

Jordan laughed and peeled away from the curb. "Sure you will."

Ash pulled on his seatbelt and stared out the window at his neighborhood sliding past. Relief and terror fought for dominance in his chest.

He was out. He was free. He was finally, finally free.

The feeling lasted approximately four blocks before the guilt started creeping in.

But by then, Jordan was already pulling onto the highway, and turning back would mean climbing the trellis again, and Ash had already made his choice.

So he settled into the passenger seat and tried to ignore the voice in his head that sounded a lot like his mother asking where he was going, who he'd be with, when he'd be home.

"So what do you want to do?" Jordan asked. "Got a whole night ahead of us."

Ash looked at his friend—really looked. Jordan's pupils were slightly dilated. His movements a little too quick, a little too loose.

"Are you high right now?" Ash asked quietly.

Jordan shrugged. "Little bit. Don't worry about it. I'm good to drive."

Something cold settled in Ash's stomach. "Jordan—"

"Dude, relax. You're not my mom. Just chill."

Ash stared out the windshield. Wondered if it was too late to ask Jordan to turn around. Knew it was.

"Where are we going?" he asked instead.

"My place. Got some people coming over. Just gonna hang out, watch movies, whatever."

"What people?"

"Does it matter?"

Yes, Ash wanted to say. Yes, it fucking matters.

But he didn't. He just sat in the passenger seat and watched the streetlights blur past and told himself that this was fine. He was just hanging out with a friend. He wasn't using. He wasn't going to use.

He'd just stay for an hour or two. Prove to himself that he could be around this stuff and be fine. That he wasn't as fragile as everyone seemed to think.

Then he'd go home. Climb back through the window. His parents would never know.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

The voice in his head that screamed otherwise got quieter with every mile they drove away from his house.