“But it’s true.”
“I know, but…” she huffs, exasperated. “God, why are you doing this? You’re a terrible brother, living with the person who killed Ryder.”
I glance back to make sure the bathroom door is still closed, not wanting Quinton to hear any of this. “What happened wasn’t Quinton’s fault. Accidents happen and you need to start accepting that.”
“No, they don’t!” she shouts, clearly out of her mind, probably from popping too many pills. “This wasn’t an accident! It wasn’t! It would have never happened if he wasn’t driving.”
“That’s not true.” I work to stay calm through her irrationality. “He was the only one sober in the car for God’s sake.”
“So what? That doesn’t mean he was driving safely. It’s all his fault any way you look at it. Because of him, your sister’s gone and you’re a traitor for living with the person who killed her.”
I’m starting to worry that it’s not just the pills making her insane, but that she’s losing her sanity. I think my dad even worries because while I was visiting he kept saying subtle comments that implied my mom might need some help.
“Mom, where’s Dad?” I ask as I flop back on the bed, pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose, and shutting my eyes.
“At the store,” she answers heatedly. “And I’m done with this conversation unless you say you’ll come home.”
“Why do you want me to come home so badly?” I ask through gritted teeth. “When it’s clear you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you. I’m just… disappointed in who you are.” A long pause follows. I’m just starting to wonder if she’s hung up, when she speaks again. “And by the way, that Dylan guy came here looking for you the other day. Said he needed to talk to you about something.”
“Dylan came looking for me?” What the hell? I haven’t seen Dylan since… Well, since my druggie days. And for a good reason. Not just to keep my sobriety, but because… “Mom, please tell me you called the cops when he showed up.”
“Why would I do that?” she asks. “It’s not my job to do that.”
“Haven’t you read the local paper at all over the last year?”
“I hate the papers. The articles are always depressing.”
I open my eyes, lower my hand from my nose, and shake my head. “Mom, the police have been searching for Dylan for almost a year. They think he might have killed that Delilah Pierce girl I used to hang out with.”
“That redheaded that always dressed like a prostitute?” she asks with zero sympathy. “Nichelle Pierce’s daughter?”
“She wasn’t a prostitute,” I reply, but it’s kind of a lie. Dylan was Delilah’s boyfriend and he sometimes sold her out for drugs. Delilah was always so doped up she’d never really put up a fight. Dylan also used to hit her, even though Quinton and I would sometimes try to intervene when we were living with them. Delilah would always go back to him, though. “And did he say why the hell he stopped by the house?”
“He just said he needed to talk to you, but I kind of thought…” She trails off. “You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you?”
Having spent years in trouble, I have to really think about it. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” She laughs cynically. “God, you’ll never change, will you?”
I sit back up. “Mom, call the police and report Dylan’s visit. I have to go.” I hang up on her and then there’s nothing except silence.
My chest is heavy as I roam outside and then stand on the front patio section. I never should have gone home for those few weeks. It’s made me regress. I think part of me, though, hopes—always hopes—that my mom will change her mind about me. That she’ll see me as the son she has instead of the child who she has been stuck with. Although, it didn’t help that Dylan showed up at the house. Why the hell would he go back to Star Grove of all places? And then stop by to pay me a visit?
“Probably to score,” I mutter as I grab a pack of cigarettes from my pocket.
I stay outdoors for a while, smoking and staring at the road until one of my neighbors five doors down from me comes barreling outside. I swear I have some sort of drug radar inside me. Maybe it’s all that time I spent living in crackhouses, getting spun out of my mind that’s causing the radar to go off. But, for some reason, I can always tell who I can buy drugs from.
Take the guy. He’s arguing with the woman who I think is his girlfriend, but that’s not the dead giveaway that he’s a meth head. It’s in the speed he’s talking and the rapid tick in his jaw as he shoves her, his sentences so tightly strung together. It’s just like Dylan and Delilah had been, and I find myself torn between stepping in and going back inside.
But then, in the snap of a finger, they start kissing passionately. And I feel envious toward them, not just because they’re high, but because they’re kissing that intensely. I mentally note that if I’m going to break down, that’s the place to go. I hate myself for making that note, but it comes more naturally than breathing.
Because this is my life.
My addiction.
After everything I’ve been through, it feels like it’s never fully going to go away and part of me doesn’t want it to because what else is there to me?
“Whatcha doing out here?” Nova asks as she steps out of the room and interrupts my drug-addict thoughts. She’s changed out of her work clothes and into a dress. Her hair is up, her freckles are showing on her nose. She looks nice, but she always does.
“Just smoking and thinking.” I flick my cigarette before getting to my feet and brushing the dirt off the back of my jeans.
I think about letting Nova know that Dylan is back in Star Grove, because she was once friends with Delilah, and I know Delilah’s death still haunts her. But I don’t want Nova to worry, so I opt to keep my mouth shut, at least until Dylan is found.
“About what?” Insinuation laces her tone but it takes me a minute to catch on to what she’s implying.
“I wasn’t thinking about Avery,” I snap, overly harsh, but it’s the truth. I was thinking about Avery when I first got back to the motel, but after my mom called my thoughts centered on my crackhead neighbors and getting a bump. “And you need to stop thinking that anything is going to happen between us.”