The Next Right Thing

Prologue: His New Addiction
Chapter 1: Money Well Spent
Chapter 2: Close Enough

Though John didn’t smoke, he sat on the back porch of the clubhouse after the nooner meeting with the smokers. The meeting after the meeting. Familiar faces he’d known since his first AA meeting, and one unfamiliar one visiting from out of town.

He had quit smoking years ago when he moved in with his mom and her oxygen tank—cigarettes were an OSHA tragedy waiting to happen—but he still loved sitting with the smokers. Breathing the smoky air and listening to conversations between coughs felt cozy.

Marvin stepped out the back door and clapped his hands once.

“Everything’s locked up. I’m ready for pie.”

John stood from the picnic table.

“Sorry, fellas. That’s my cue.”

They walked a few blocks south to the dingy diner where they had met for the past ten years.

Sliding into their usual booth, they ordered: a Reuben and cherry pie for John, a patty melt and apple pie for Marvin.

Marvin leaned back.

“So… are we going to do a few laps around the barn, or are you going to say it?”

Years of sponsoring had taught him John never asked for lunch without a reason.

“Well, uh… I’ve kind of been seeing someone. A woman. A lady friend.”

Marvin grinned.

“Well, John, that’s fantastic news. A lady! Brave new world—you dating. A blessing of the program.”

“Yeah… well.” John rolled a paper straw wrapper between his fingers. “It’s complicated.”

I’ve been paying a woman to hold me once a week. Now we make out like high schoolers. Last week she jerked me off.

“Well,” Marvin said, “you can just say you’re getting laid. I don’t need the play-by-play.”

“I just don’t want to hurt her… or myself. I don’t know how to do that. I don’t want to screw it up.”

Marvin nodded.

“Yeah. Relationships are Miracle-Gro for our character defects.”

He took a bite of his sandwich.

“Look, it’s not wrong to want companionship. Want sex. Hell, the literature says those are God-given instincts. Just don’t let it run wild. This is AA, not a monastery.”

Marvin studied him.

“This isn’t like that mess you got into a few years ago, is it?”

John shook his head quickly.

“No, no. It’s not like that. She isn’t sending me nudes or anything. She isn't using me...she is professional. She’s working when I see her. But maybe it could be more.”

I think that’s enough information.

Marvin wiped his hands on a napkin.

“Hey, I met Martha when she was a waitress in this diner. Did I tip her too much? Ask when she worked next? Yeah.” He shrugged. “Just be careful.”

Then he pointed his fork at John.

“Ask God what the next right thing is. Then do that.”

He pushed away his plate and picked up his pie.

“And John?”

John looked up.

“I’ve seen a lot of guys try to become Captain Save-a-Hoe.”

Marvin took a bite.

“Don’t do it. You can’t change people.”

Later that day, John paced around the house, turning light switches on and off. Each room seemed too dark for the anticipated activities of the day, but with the click of a switch, the overhead fixtures felt unbearably bright. He suddenly saw each room with new, raw eyes, as if he hadn’t been living here for the majority of his life. The dated, worn furniture from his childhood. The layer of dust on everything. The knickknacks he had accepted as part of each room without question.

John picked up a crystal angel displayed on a pink doily among several other angel figurines.

Did I get Ma this? If I did, it must’ve been when I was a kid. Couldn’t have cost much. It’s been here for… decades. Maybe I should cancel. Clean up a little before we do this.

This. It was something different from what they usually did. It had been Jasmine’s suggestion. One night in his bedroom, she had casually asked if he had any plans for “moving into the rest of the house.” It hadn’t occurred to John that he lived almost entirely out of his bedroom—ate there, spent his time there, only using the kitchen sparingly and cleaning it to his mother’s standards, just like before she died—until Jasmine said something.

She had suggested that one of their meetups could be just that: clearing out some of “the old woman stuff” and making room for his own things.

John had replayed the conversation in his head ever since.

“John, you live like you’re still in a prison cell. Why not sit on the sofa? Enjoy this big house?”

A cell. A cage. A bedroom. Known. Safe. Contained. 

He had grown comfortable in confined spaces. Nowhere to go, little to do—control over himself. Fewer temptations.

But maybe she was right. She had that spark of excitement and eagerness at the thought of using the other rooms in the house, and he wanted to see her in those rooms. But he couldn’t with all the dust and remnants of his mother still clinging to every surface.

A knock at the door.

Jasmine.

He opened it, and fresh air from outside spilled into the room.

“I came to work,” she laughed, motioning to her outfit.

She wore a tank top with bleach stains and baggy sweatpants.

John smiled.

It didn’t feel like he paid her to love him anymore. It felt like friends helping friends. Like when he helped someone move for nothing more than the promise of pizza.

But he still had the cash ready in his pocket.
Four hundred dollars an hour.
The same rate it had been for the past two years.

“Wow! Lights on! I’ve never really seen this room. Not really.” She squeezed his shoulder and, with a coy smile, said, “To new things, huh?”

She set a large duffel bag on the couch.

“I brought trash bags, paper towels, sprays. Teamwork makes the dream work.”

“Uh, thanks. I have… stuff.”

John suddenly felt his heart pounding in his chest, his brain whirling through a million fears and apprehensions. Visions of her seeing his underwear, picking up ugly cherub figurines, moving his mother’s shower chair from the bathroom.

“Yeah, but not this stuff. This is the absolute best for cleanup.” She clapped her hands lightly. “Let’s just survey the rooms. Make a donate pile, grab a trash bag, and work through it. Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

In the kitchen, Jasmine opened cabinets with cool familiarity.

“You’ll want to keep all this. You have a fully stocked kitchen! A dream, really. Everything you need to cook.”

Last time I cooked was canteen duty at Pendleton Penitentiary, John thought, but sure—the pans and pots would be useful someday. Someday when full meal preparation makes more sense to me than a protein bar and sandwiches.

Moving from room to room, she asked probing questions and made suggestions in response to John’s answers.

“So the angels can go. The sofa too. Honestly, John, I think the curtains should go as well. You’d do better with blinds. That way you can control the light that comes in.” She gestured toward the hallway. “Of course, all your mother’s clothes. Basically everything in your mom’s room… well…” She paused, then added, “unless it’s like cute baby photos or something meaningful, of course.”

John watched, transfixed by the precision and organization. Without even seeing the room, she had made it seem easy—like he could simply turn it over to a blank slate.

For years, I have spiraled into a panic attack just thinking about Ma’s room.

But with Jasmine’s assessment and plan, it felt possible. Manageable. Just do what she said to do next.

What was it Marvin had said? Pray for the next right thing to do and do it. This was right.

“Okay, John. Your mom’s room will be easiest to do. It’s basically all donation. Let’s start there.”

God. No.

“Uh… before we do that… I have a gift for you.” John hesitated.

“A prezzy? For me?” Jasmine placed a manicured hand on her heart and leaned toward him in mock swooning.

“Nothing much. I just… it made me think of you,” he mumbled, picking up a small box from the side table.

“Orange blossom perfume?” Jasmine turned the bottle, reading the label. She uncapped it and smelled the sprayer. “This is lovely.”

“’Cause… that first time. You know, we had an orange. I could smell oranges.”

“What a coincidence! I brought a few oranges today too. Guess we’re both thinking about that.”

As Jasmine peeled the rind from an orange in a single spiral, John was lost in thought.

Did she really remember? Did she bring oranges special, or does she always have some as a snack? Do I even care anymore? It’s so sweet. We brought each other orange things.

Hold up, buddy. That’s too far. You gave her orange perfume because she had an orange in her bag. She probably always has one.

After splitting the orange, Jasmine motioned toward the room at the end of the hall.

But John tensed at the thought. Hesitated.

“I, uh… maybe another room. I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve never been in there.”

“What? How? Didn’t you dress her and care for her?”

“Yes. But she was… tough. Tough and firm and just particular. She would pick out her clothes from her room and have me dress her in the bathroom. I’ve never been in it.”

“Oh.” Jasmine paused. “Well, John, maybe—as a woman—I can go in there and clear out the stuff to donate and throw away. That’s probably still in the spirit of your mother, right? Keep her privacy. Woman to woman.” Jasmine spoke with a kind of quiet feminine authority he could only concede to.

John brightened at the idea.

Yes. It wouldn’t be him. It’s just women’s stuff. He couldn’t, but she could.

His mind dredged up memories of his mother’s purse—a holy, sacred interior that remained a mystery to him and his father.

It’s just women’s stuff, she used to say.

For an hour, Jasmine happily worked alone in his mother’s room. She hummed as she carried trash bag after trash bag out, pausing each time for John to nod before tossing them in the truck’s bed. Donations.

John stayed busy in the other rooms. He took down the curtains—blinds did make more sense for him—packed up the various angel figurines his mother had collected her whole life, and contemplated an encyclopedia set from the 1980s.

His concentration was interrupted by a gleeful squeal from the other room.

“Oh my God, John! You have to see this!”

Jasmine appeared carrying a cardboard box with “John” written on the side in permanent marker. Setting it down on the kitchen table, she began pulling out various mementos—envelopes and photos.

She handed him a photograph.

A smiling, impossibly young face in a Boy Scout uniform grinned back at him.

“God. This was the day I made Eagle Scout.”

“Isn’t that the highest you can go?”

“Yes. I went through everything from Cub to Eagle. You have to do a fully independent project for the community to become an Eagle Scout.”

“What was yours?” she asked, looking at him with genuine interest.

“Well… uh…” He tried to suppress a nervous chuckle. “You know the playground on Memorial Drive?”

“Uh, yeah! I used to babysit kids and take them there all the time!”

“Well, I mowed lawns, did maintenance, fundraised, designed it, got the permits—everything.”

“You’re like seventeen or something here!” Jasmine waved the photo in front of him.

“It was when I was young and smart… before I got young and dumb.”

John began pulling more items from the box.

“I can’t believe she saved all these,” he said, thumbing through a stack of envelopes and handing each one to Jasmine’s eager, outstretched hands.

“Pendleton Penitentiary. Madison County Jail. Worthington Correctional Facility. John, you did a full tour of the Midwest.”

Birthday cards, photos, a knot board from Scouts. The box felt like an endless pit of a life John had packed away. His mother had too—the things that were and never could be again.

When they reached the bottom, Jasmine smiled at him as if they had shared a long, meandering secret journey no one else could know.

“John.” Jasmine gently caressed his cheek. “You are a good man. A good son. I want this home to feel like yours. Not hers.”

John nodded into her hand as she drew him into her chest and held him tight. He could hear her heart beating in a low, steady thrum beneath her ribs.

“You could make that room into a library,” she said softly. “All those books you’ve got stacked on your bedroom floor. We could go buy bookshelves. A desk.”

“What?” John sputtered, a small fleck of spit flying with the word. “Uh… no, no. That’s Ma’s room.”

“She’s not going to be using it,” Jasmine said gently. “Come. Have a look.”

Holding his hand, she led him to the door he had only ever knocked on before and opened it.

John stilled as he peered inside.

A large bed with a bare mattress sat in the middle of the room. She must have pulled off the bedding.

Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Jasmine said, “Sheets are in the washer. Blanket’s in the dryer.”

The room was devoid of anything John could recall from the brief glimpses he had caught as his mother entered and exited over the years. Nothing hung on the walls—only faint outlines and stains where pictures once had been. Nothing sat on the dresser. Even the bedside tables had been pushed into a corner.

John took a tentative step onto the avocado-green carpet.

His fingers grazed the open closet door.

The closet was completely bare except for a row of hangers.

“A library, John.” She pointed to the wall farthest from the door. “Shelves. Tall shelves there. I won’t stumble over stacks of books on the floor when I get into your bed.” She paused, then laughed. “Your bed! You could get rid of that twin and fit a full, or a queen, or—”

Her voice lifted with excitement.

“—a king bed in your room.”

He could start to see her vision.

Yes. I could have a big bed. Jasmine in my huge bed. I’ve always had a twin—from being a kid, to prison, to now.

“Do you have a king bed?” John asked.

“No, I have a twin in an apartment with a roommate, and we fight over the bathroom.”

“So no library either.”

“Nope! John, you’d be positively spoiled.” She playfully pushed his shoulder on the last word. Then her expression softened. “No. Not spoiled. You’re a good man. You work hard. You’ve earned a big bed and a library.”

“What about you?” John said suddenly. “It could be your room. No fights over a bathroom—you could have your own. Not pay rent. Pay off those student loans faster.”

Goddamn it, what am I saying? Jesus. I’m a weirdo creep. I’m not stupid. I know we aren’t dating. But maybe we are friends.

“As friends,” he added quickly.

“Oh, John, no. This is your dream. Your life. Your castle. I have to earn my own way.” She smiled at him. “But let’s go to the store and get you some bookshelves. A bed. Blinds. New couch.”

“Uh… together?”

“Well, yeah. If that’s okay with you.”

“In public? People might see us together.”

“John, are you ashamed of me?”

“No. But… aren’t you ashamed of being seen with me? What would you say?”

“Anything I want. ‘This is John, my friend.’ ‘This is Jasmine, my friend.’ Easy.”

“And you would want to be seen with me?”

“Of course, my friend John.” She looped her arm through his. “You don’t need to question me. I tell you exactly what I mean when I mean it. If I suggest something, it’s because I want to do it. I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”

She glanced at the clock.

“I think our time is up today.”

John pulled $1,600 from his pocket. Four hours. Four hundred each.

“Uh, Jasmine, yeah. Let’s do the furniture shopping. Together. Does public, uh, cost more?”

She opened the front door and said, “No charge. I love to shop. But buying me something I pick out—a little gift while we’re out and about—wouldn’t hurt.” She winked and kissed him on the lips.

John turned back toward the clean house, toward the prospect of a new life built inside the recently emptied rooms—rooms where he might finally take up space and a day shopping with his friend Jasmine.

My friend. My friend Jasmine. A date with my friend Jasmine. No. Not a date. Don’t be stupid…But no charge. My friend Jasmine who wants to go shopping with me. I’m not just a job to her. My friend Jasmine who will wear the orange perfume I bought her and pick out a big bed that we can…God, John… have sex in? You think she would fuck you? Goddamn it, man. Get a grip.

But he still smiled.

Returning to the empty room—the second time in his life, the first time alone—he looked at the bare walls and envisioned shelves.

Shelves and shelves and shelves of books.

A leather chair. Real classy. A library.

In the hallway, he passed the Serenity Prayer plaque still hanging on the wall. A Post-it note had been stuck to it in unfamiliar writing.

Eagle Scout! I know this is an A.A. thing too, so I left it up. It suits you.
—J

Jasmine.

Even thought the words were engrained in him, he still read the prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

Marvin’s voice echoed faintly in his mind.

Okay. God, am I doing the next right thing? Is this right, or is this just wrong thing again and I'm convincing myself it’s good? I don’t know the difference. I know I can’t change her. But can I change? What can I even do?

New furniture.
Something he could do.
Something safe he could change.
The next right thing.

Outside, Jasmine’s car started in the driveway and left.