“Maybe I am.”
“Maybe we both are.”
“Or maybe we both need help,” I say, but I only really mean him.
“I don’t need to hear that shit from you, too,” he states with an exaggerated sigh.
“What do you mean me, too?” I ask, lifting my head back up to look at him. “Who else has been telling you that?”
“My parents,” he replies with a shrug.
“I thought you haven’t talked to them since we bailed out on Maple Grove?”
He does another line, sucking air through his nose multiple times as he puts his head upright. “I made the stupid mistake of calling them a few months ago to see if they could lend me some money. I used Delilah’s phone and apparently my mom cared enough to save it in her contacts—although she didn’t care enough to say yes to lending me the money.” He mutters something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like “Stupid bitch.” “Then she randomly called about a day or two ago…told me I should come home and get help…said they missed me or some shit, like they suddenly decided they were going to start caring.”
“Maybe you should go home,” I say, thinking of my own father, wondering what he’s doing and if he ever thinks about me. I haven’t talked to him since I left Seattle, but then again I haven’t tried to call him and I’m not sure if he knows how to get ahold of me. If he does, though, I think I’d rather not know, because that means he can call me but chooses not to. The truth can hurt a hell of a lot more than just thinking about the f**ked-up possibilities. “I mean, if they want you to get help, then why not? It obviously means that they care about you.”
He laughs sharply. “They don’t care about me. Trust me.”
“Then why would they call you?” I ask, wishing he would go, get better, live a good life. “I’m sure they care about you—that they miss you…you’re probably hurting them a lot…” I almost say, “all things considering,” since they’ve already lost one child. But I can’t do that—say it aloud. Remind him and myself of what I’ve done.
He ignores me. “You know what, maybe you should go home,” he retorts as he pinches his nostrils with his fingertips.
“This is my home,” I say. “I don’t have anywhere else…I f**ked that up a long time ago.”
It grows quiet between the two of us, which happens a lot when one of us brings up the past, even if we’re both forcing euphoria into our bodies. The past can always momentarily hinder the high, although we have gone into some really deep heart-to-hearts about it when we’re both soaring on adrenaline, but we never remember exactly what we said when we crash back down to reality.
He starts messing around with his shoelaces even though they’re tied while I reach for a shirt on the floor. But as I bend over, my ribs ache in protest and I stand right back up, letting out a groan.
“What’s wrong?” Tristan asks, his attention darting from me to the door to the window to the ceiling.
“I think I broke one of my ribs.”
His eyes land back on me. “Well, you know what they say the best cure is for broken ribs,” he says, picking up my shirt for me. “More lines.”
I take the shirt from him when he offers it to me. “I’m pretty sure no one says that.”
“I just did,” he says in all seriousness. “Now are you going to come to Johnny’s or what?” He’s practically bouncing, glancing all over my room, drumming his fingers like he can’t sit still.
I try to put my shirt on, but only get one arm in when I decide that I can’t move my body enough, I give up and toss my shirt aside. “There’s no way I can get that on,” I say, trying to figure out a solution, but thinking too deeply about one thing gives me a headache. “I’ll just walk over there without a shirt on.”
He nods as he opens my bedroom door. “That’s a good idea, then maybe you can hook up with that Caroline chick. She has a thing for you and she’s hot. Plus, she’s got connections.”
I shake my head as we walk down the hall. “I’m not hooking up with anyone today.”
He gapes at me like I’m insane. “Why the f**k not?”
I scratch at my arm, right over the tattoos, even though it’s not itchy. “Because I don’t feel like it.”
“You will when we get a few more lines in you,” he assures me as he knocks a glass bottle out of the way and it crashes and breaks against Delilah’s shut door.
I exhale, not believing that’s going to happen, because the real reason for my hesitation isn’t going to go away any time soon. Even with adrenaline storming through my system and my mind and body in a state of artificial contentment, I still can’t stop thinking about Nova…how she showed up last night.
Showed up to see me.
I’m still trying to process it. That someone would actually want to come see me, actually care enough about me to take the time to do so. And what did I do? I ran away. Shut the door in her face. I feel bad, yet at the same time I don’t, because I want her to be here, yet I don’t. I’m very confused and feel guilty for even being confused about my feelings for her, so I force myself to stop thinking, allow the drugs to wash the thoughts away, and keep walking in the direction I’m going, to more drugs.
The whole house is quiet, but that’s normal. Dylan took off sometime last night and hasn’t been back since. When Delilah came home last night, she was on something that was making her pretty happy, so I took the opportunity to tell her I’d finished off her stash. She didn’t seem bothered by it and by the time she wakes up she probably won’t remember I took it. And if she does remember, I honestly don’t give a shit. We all do it to each other—steal from one another. Put our addiction before anything else.
When we enter the living room, Tristan grabs his bag, which is by the front door, while I struggle to jam my feet into my boots. I don’t bother lacing them because it would take too long trying to do it one-handed; then I limp toward the door, focusing on taking step after step because that’s as far as my mind will allow me to look into the future—all it can focus on.
“You gonna be able to make the walk?” Tristan asks as he grips the doorknob.
I nod as he cracks the front door open and lets a single ray of sunlight in. “I’m good…the pain’s wearing on me but that’ll be fixed soon enough.”