"I wish I could be that honest and straight out like that." He looked at me with what appeared to be genuine admiration.

Shit, it does pay to be honest!

I could have stayed there and heard Brett compliment me all night. But I suddenly remembered Tommy was waiting in the car. Although I knew it was over between us, Tommy still hoped otherwise. I didn't know what he'd do if he saw me flirting. Besides, I couldn't afford to piss him off-he was my ride. I quickly gave Brett a lame excuse about having to go find Rose and took off for the door. Just as I reached for the doorknob, Brett sprinted up from behind me and leapt toward the door, startling me.

"As long as I'm around," he said softly as he gently removed my hand from the knob and replaced it with his, "you'll never have to open another door." His mouth turned up into a big smile as he bent over, giving me a majestic bow while simultaneously waving me through the doorway. I didn't move. I couldn't move. I was too shocked. The only men who had ever opened a door for me were my daddy and Jr. And it'd been years since either of them had done it.

"Well, I can't hold it open forever!" he said. "You comin' through or what?"

Realizing I was frozen in place, I forced myself to snap out of it and walk through the door, feeling like a queen.

Brett asked for my number. At first I hesitated. Though he was kind of cute and well built, I wasn't really interested in getting involved. The only thing on my mind was staying sober. Besides, for most of my life, I'd viewed men as nothing but dollar signs-and I didn't need any money-at least not right then. But I gave him my number anyway; maybe it was his polite disposition and his soft, gentle voice. Or maybe it was because he was so gentlemanly. I honestly couldn't put my finger on it.

Besides, I thought as I walked to the car where Tommy sat, his impatience growing, what could it hurt? Folks rarely stuck around me for long.

"Who's your friend?" Tommy snapped as I got into the car. He'd obviously been watching me.

I told him that Brett was just Rose's friend from work, and then quickly lied about how the entire conversation had been about recovery.

"But why-" he began when Rose hopped into the car, cutting him off.

"Let's go, y'all!" she almost sang as she buckled her seat belt. For whatever reason, Tommy decided to leave the issue alone, for which I was none too sad. He started the car and took us home.

Brett called me the next day and we talked for four hours. When I asked him how he was able to stay on the phone so long in light of the hospital's time limit, he said that he'd bribed folks for their phone time. I never found out if he was joking or not. But whenever he called me, he was never restricted to the ten-minute phone limit I'd had when I was there.

I was glad he didn't have a phone limit, though, because I enjoyed talking to him. He was very easy to talk to and quite comical. He told me all about his extremely large family-fifteen children from the same mother and father. He told me the age, occupation, and a little bit of personality background of each of his siblings. He proudly told me that his father stuck around and took care of his kids until he'd died in a car accident, when Brett was about sixteen. He was still very close to his mother, who lived in the same house he was raised in.

Next, the conversation moved on to our jobs and our bosses, where we had great differences. He said he liked his job, but wasn't crazy about his boss. I told him I loved my boss and my job. Once I told him about Ken, he was very impressed with him and how he'd helped me in my time of need. Brett told me that his drug of choice had been crack and he'd been using since he was about twenty. He proudly announced that he'd kept a job during the entire time. I told him what I'd learned in rehab: that I was a trash-can junkie, but that I, too, had been able to maintain a job. It sounded to me as though he had the same erroneous belief I'd had-that having a job prevented one from being an addict.

"We know that's a lie now, don't we?" I asked sternly. He readily agreed. That was a lie neither of us believed, and could no longer tell.

When it was my time to talk about my past, I decided to tell the "Marcia Brady" version. I swore I'd never tell the real one to anyone.

Even with our very different pasts, we kept coming back to the one important thing we had in common: the disease of addiction. We spent a lot of time talking about the horrors of drug addiction and the way it fooled us into believing we'd had everybody else fooled. We talked about how it'd started innocently (we both started out "just" smoking weed and drinking), and how it progressed to our spending every dime we had on dope and selling everything we owned to get high. What I liked most about Brett was that no matter how difficult or embarrassing the topic of discussion, he spoke in the same soft, calm voice he'd used the night we'd met. He never got upset or angry. Never raised his voice or even cursed-and he'd been raised in the hood. I hung up feeling that he was unlike any other man I'd ever met.

I was soon crazy about him. We talked on the phone every day, each time for hours. The only time we weren't on the phone was when we were at work or at a meeting. Once he got out of rehab, we began coordinating our meetings so that we'd end up at the same one.

Before my relapse, V suggested that I not get into a relationship during my first year of recovery. After my relapse, the suggestion was repeated. At first I was willing-until I met Brett. I felt that Brett was just too good to pass up. I'd been through so many (and I mean many) unhealthy relationships, I believed it was time for someone to treat me like a queen, which Brett always did. So he just had to be sent especially for me.

Once she realized that I wasn't going to follow the no-relationship-for-a-year rule, she gave me two warnings.

"Just make sure you keep recovery first. And don't make him your god!"

When I told her that I didn't understand what she meant, she explained that people with addictive behaviors, especially women, have a tendency to put a man before their own well-being, so much so that they stop taking care of themselves. If they exercised regularly, they'd stop once a man came along. If they had friends, they forgot about them once a man appeared. If a woman was self-sufficient and self-assured, she'd get a man and suddenly become insecure and needy. I still didn't understand what she was talkin' about.

I was still pondering her comments, when she hit me with the bomb. She said that the only time a woman is ready for a man in her life is when she didn't need one.

Well, I must not be ready then, I thought. 'Cause I damn sho need one! And this one is too good to pass up! I smiled and nodded, but kept my mouth shut.

"You were fine before him," she continued. "Remember that you'll be fine after him! You can do without a man, Cup. It's recovery you can't do without."

I really wasn't trying to hear her preaching. So I promised that I wouldn't make Brett my "god." And she promised not to let me.

- I hadn't planned on falling in love with Brett. But he was so charming and charismatic, it was inevitable.

Just days after we'd begun dating, the receptionist called me and said there was a package for me at the front desk.

"What kind of 'package'?" I asked suspiciously. My mind raced, trying to figure out who I'd screwed over in the past who might now be trying to get revenge.

"Is it a bomb?" I slowly asked.

"Girl, you're so crazy!" she replied. "Just get up here!"

I was about ten feet from the receptionist's desk when I looked up-the sight made me freeze in my tracks. Feeling a scream coming on, I quickly reached up and covered my mouth to stifle it. There on her desk, in a beautiful crystal vase, sat a dozen long-stemmed red roses.

"Are-are-are-" I was stuttering so much, I couldn't get any words out.

"Yes, they're for you!" she exclaimed, answering the question I wasn't able to ask. She jumped up, grabbed the roses, and brought them over to me.

"Here, there's a card. Read it!"

I still didn't move. I just stood there staring at the roses.

"Aren't you going to open it?" she asked. "Com' on! I'm dying to know who they're from!"

Shit, so am I.

I wondered if it were possible to hide a bomb in roses. I wouldn't put anything past dope fiends.

Some of the other secretaries who'd heard the receptionist's squeals ran up to her desk. They gathered around us and began talking all at once.

"Oh my God! They're beautiful!"

"Look how red they are!"

"Look how big they are!"

"I've never seen roses that perfect!"

"Who are they for?"

"I think they're for Cup."

"Cup? Who sent them?"

"I don't know."

"I didn't know she had a boyfriend."

"Boyfriend! Isn't she married?"

They were talking as though I weren't there.

Still, I didn't move and didn't say a word.

Roses? Who in the fuck would send me roses?

"I think she's in shock," one of the secretaries said.

"Aw, shit! Last time she was in shock, we had to call an ambulance!" someone else said.

"That wasn't shock, you idiot! She was in a diabetic coma!"

They continued bickering over why the ambulance had been called.

I was just passed out, you dumb shits! I wanted to scream at them. I hadn't slept in days! I had stayed high on every drug known to man. I was fucked up, you idiots! Git your heads out of your asses! But I didn't. I could handle only one thing at a time, and I was still in shock over the roses.

"Cup," Maria said quietly as she slowly approached me and began rubbing my arm, "would you like me to open the card?" She sounded so sweet.

In anticipation of my response, the crowd of women became deathly quiet. I looked up at Maria. I could see the concern in her eyes. Sweet, charming Maria. I hadn't talked to her since she'd brought the TV and dishes to my house. Though I still thought she was nuts, I liked her. Even though she'd seen my shabby little empty apartment, she'd never said anything negative about it to anyone. In fact, she'd never mentioned the fact that she'd been there. What I liked most about her was that she never tried to force her friendship on me. She'd speak and give me a warm, loving smile. But after that, she'd just leave me alone; and I appreciated her giving me my space. But she was now volunteering for something that I never imagined needing help with. Still, I didn't respond.

"Cup," she said again quietly, "would you like for me to read the card?"

I looked at her again.

How do I warn her? If I tell her it might be a bomb, will she think I'm crazy? Can I warn them without revealing my criminal history? Would the bomb kill all of us? Am I crazy? Can you put a bomb in a card?

My mind was racing frantically. Actually, my mind was tripping. I had never, ever had flowers delivered to me. I honestly did not know how to react to the situation.

"Cup," Maria said again.

I liked Maria, but I figured if there was a bomb in there, better her than me.

"Yea-yeah," I replied, as I quickly took three large steps back.

The women looked at me as though they thought I was nuts. Fortunately, they were used to my exhibiting strange behavior, so they spent only a moment being baffled by my conduct before quickly turning to give their full attention to Maria, who was opening the card.

"To a special lady," she read. "A real lady. Lovingly, Brett."

"Awww," the women sighed in unison.

Brett? These are from Brett? He doesn't even know me. I was bewildered. A lady? He called me a "lady"? Tears began to fall down my cheeks.

"Why is she crying?" someone whispered.

"I don't know. She's so weird!"

"I'd love to get flowers, and here she is crying!"

"Maybe they're tears of joy."

"She doesn't look happy!"

They were still talking about me as if I weren't there. I didn't care. My mind was a million miles away.

Just then, Ken came around the corner. He saw the women gathered around me and tears streaming down my face and immediately became concerned. He didn't know why I was crying; he just knew he didn't like my doing it.

"What's going on here?" he sternly asked no one in particular.

"Look, Cup got roses!" The look on his face told me that he could care less about the flowers.

"Cup, are you okay?" he asked as he approached me and began rubbing my shoulder. When I didn't respond, he lifted my head forcing me to face him.

I nodded my head to signal that I was, though I remained silent and the tears kept falling.

"Come on," he said as he gently grabbed my arm, "let's go into my office."

I didn't say a word and allowed him to lead me away.

"I'll put these on her desk for her," Maria said as she grabbed the roses and followed us.

Once inside Ken's office, I was finally able to speak. I shared with him my surprise that not only had Brett sent me flowers, but he'd called me a "lady." I didn't think I deserved such a gracious title.

"I know your life hasn't been easy. I don't know the particulars. But I know it couldn't have been easy."

"But, you don't-" I started to protest when he cut me off.

"Whatever you used to be, whoever you used to be, is irrelevant. You're a lady now. And you, yourself said it: if you stay clean, it can only go up from here."

I looked up at Ken and wondered if he were high.

Later that day, Daddy and Jr. called on a three-way line. They said they were just checking on me. After we chatted for a few moments, I told them about the roses. They said that they weren't surprised that I'd received them; they were surprised only that Brett had the good sense to send them.

"And," Daddy quickly added, "he should have sent two dozen!"

Later that evening, during our routine check-in, I shared the day's events with V.

"You deserve it, Cup," she said.

Why is no one surprised about these fuckin' flowers 'cept me?

- I couldn't understand it, but decided to let it go-for the moment. Besides, something else had come to mind. I'd realized two things. First, each of the people in my circle had said those wonderful things because they loved me. Why? I had no clue. Hell, I still don't know. What I do know is that love, real love, true unconditional love, transcends age, race, and religious beliefs. It sees the good, focuses on the good, and constantly emphasizes it. Second, they weren't a "circle" at all. They were family. Sure, folks say that family is supposed to be blood. But out of those people who were loving me, supporting me, believing in me, and encouraging me, only Jr. was actually blood. Yet, the others didn't love me any less than he did. That's when I realized that a family doesn't have to be people you're related to. Family are people who love you-whoever that may be. I warned myself not to miss my blessing of a new family just because we weren't related by blood. We were related by love.

I cried myself to sleep that night thanking my Higher Power for my "family"-and their love. And the family was still growing.

- Shortly after my relapse, I found out I was pregnant. I didn't take a pregnancy test; didn't need to. My usual test did the trick: I was over at V's house and she was frying chicken. I immediately got nauseous and had to run outside to barf. Concerned, V followed me and asked what was wrong. She thought maybe it was some form of alcohol-related withdrawal lingering from my relapse. Luckily, my relapse didn't produce any kind of withdrawal symptoms. I assured V that the problem wasn't withdrawal symptoms, but pregnancy symptoms. She didn't believe me and urged me to go to the doctor-a medical professional-and let him decide. Several days later the doctor confirmed what I already knew. I was pregnant-almost three months.

The thought of having a baby scared me. First of all, I didn't know whose it was. The four days at the Dumpster had involved several "business partners," not to mention my attempts at contracting HIV. More important, I was just beginning to get myself together. I was nowhere near ready for a child.