I draw a line up and down Quinton’s bare back. “The marks on his arms…what does that mean? I mean I know what it means but…how much harder does that make it for him to quit?”
He gives me a sad look as he lights the cigarette. “Honestly?” he asks and I nod. “He has a f**king hell of a struggle in front of him, especially coming down. Maybe even one of the hardest things he’s had to do…he’s going to feel like he’s losing his mind. Plus, his body is going to freak out from withdrawals. But it’s not impossible to overcome.” He gestures at himself and then starts to shut the door as smoke enters the room.
“Tristan,” I call out.
He pauses with the door cracked. “Yeah.”
“Thank you.” I say it softly.
“For what?”
“For coming down here and helping him,” I say. “I’m sure it wasn’t the easiest thing for you.”
He stares at me quizzically, holding his cigarette between his fingers, and then his expression relaxes. “Thanks.” He shuts the door all the way and goes up to the railing to smoke and look out at the casinos glowing around us.
I lie with Quinton on the bed, afraid to move, to breathe, to do anything that will break apart this moment. I just want to hold on to it—hold on to him and never let him go. I want to know that he’ll be okay. And I want to cry, because he’s here, because Landon’s not here. Because this time I did something instead of standing by. No matter how hard I fight them, though, the tears escape. I try to keep quiet, but eventually it becomes too much and I start to sob. I’m not sure if he’s awake or he’s just moving around in his sleep, but his hold on me tightens.
I let the tears flow, feeling the slightest bit freer, feeling like I can breathe again.
Epilogue
August 21, day ninety-eight of summer break
Quinton
I feel like I’m dying. Like I’m being buried alive under the dirt yet for some damn reason my heart’s beating and my lungs are breathing. My dad keeps saying shit to me about going to get help, but I’m not so sure that’s possible. It felt like maybe it was when Nova held me in her arms, but now everything feels so impossible. I feel so empty. My body is too drained of smack and I can feel everything, from the sting of the sun to the pinpricks of the wind. And it all hurts, like my body is slowly being torn apart and I’m on the verge of throwing up, shivering even though I feel like I’m burning.
“We’re going to get you better, Son,” my dad says as he drives us down a road bordered by trees. I know I’m in Seattle. That I flew here with him, but the last twenty-four hours are all blurry and I barely remember anything, even saying good-bye to Nova. I think they might have given me something to keep me sedated, but it’s wearing off now and I just want to go back to my smack. I want to taste it again. Feel something other than what I’m feeling now. This gnawing ache deep inside my chest, below my scar.
After what seems like hours, my dad finally stops the car in front of a building with few windows and only one door. There are trees enclosing the small fenced yard and a blue sky above.
“Where are we?” I ask groggily as I raise my head from the window and vomit burns in the back of my throat.
He turns off the engine, takes the keys out, and gets out of the car without saying anything. Then he winds around the front of the car and opens my door. Just in time, too. I hurry and lean forward, barfing all over the ground. My stomach aches with each heave and it feels like it’s never going to end. Eventually it does, but I don’t feel better at all.
“Get out of the car, Son,” my dad says, holding the door open for me. “We’re going to get you help.”
“How?” I nearly growl, wiping my chin with my hand. I don’t understand anything other than the fact that it feels like my veins are on fire and I’m melting into something else. “What’s going on?”
He doesn’t answer me, stepping back and motioning at me to get out. “Just get out of the car.”
I figure he’s dumping me, so I climb out, stumbling a little as the cold air hits me. I’ve been so used to the sweltering heat, but now I just feel cold all the time.
“Where are we?” I ask, wrapping my arms around myself. I have a jacket on, but it’s still so cold.
He looks at me with pity as he shuts the door. “I already told you, we’re getting you help.”
I don’t know why he keeps saying this but then I look over at the sign on the building and I understand. “I’m not going to rehab,” I say, reaching back for the door handle. “Now take me out of here.”
He shakes his head and puts his hand on the door. “No, I won’t.”
“Why the f**k not?” I ask, jerking the door open, my body starting to uncontrollably shiver.
He pushes on it and slams it shut. “Because I’m not going to let you ruin your life anymore.”
I almost laugh at him. “Anymore? Why the change of heart? After all these years?”
“Because it’s what your mother would have wanted,” he says in an unsteady voice, but it looks like he’s holding back, not telling me the entire reason. “And I should have realized that a long time ago.”
He’s barely spoken about my mom in the twenty-one years I’ve known him and now all of a sudden he is. More emotion piles over me and I’m not high so I feel it. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been this sober and I feel so lost and disoriented. Sick to my stomach. Overwhelmed. Maybe it’s because of this that I go inside. Or maybe it’s the simple fact that when I look down the road that will take me out of here, it looks so far and I feel so goddamned tired and beaten down. But I walk into that building with zero expectations, because I can’t even think that far ahead yet. I’m moving forward by a half step at a time and sometimes it feels like I’m moving backward. But I manage to get checked in. They take everything of mine away, which is pretty much nothing. Then they give me something that will supposedly help me deal with the withdrawal, but I know it won’t help because it’s not a shot of heroin and that’s the only thing that would make this whole process less painful.
I go into a small room with a bed and a dresser, and then sink down on the bed, feeling too much of this moment. It’s excruciating, the fire in my veins burning hotter and hotter. I feel like ripping my skin off, banging my head on the wall, anything to get the fire—the emotion out of me. I start desperately begging, to the door, to the ceiling, hoping someone will hear me and help me, but all I have are the four walls surrounding me. No one is going to help me out of this. No one is going to hurt me like I want to hurt myself.