I sag against the sink, gripping the porcelain so hard my knuckles go white. My breath shudders out of me, uneven, desperate. “Fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck.”
I pull out the small bag, my hands trembling so badly I nearly drop it. A soft, broken laugh escapes me. I can face an arena. I can face the tabloids talking about my shitty life. But this? This is the thing thatownsme. I empty a small line onto the counter. It looks pathetic. But my body reacts like it’s salvation. I lean down, inhaling sharply, letting the burn hit fast. The rush slams through me, sharp and hot, numbing the ache in my chest, quieting the panic. But the relief is only temporary.
I’ve killed people. I’ve been drugged. I’ve been assaulted. If they knew everything I’ve done…
When I look up, my reflection stares back, and his skin is pale, his eyes glossy, and his jaw tight as shit. The man staring back doesn’t look like a son or a boyfriend. He honestly doesn’t even look like someone worth coming home for.
I press both hands to the counter, shoulders shaking. “You’re a fucking mess,” I whisper to him.
By the time we all say goodnight, my mom is wiping her eyes again, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe. My dad keeps a steady hand on her back, like he’s holding her together. “You come back soon,” she whispers against my chest. “Please.”
I nod because I can’t say much without my voice cracking. “Yeah. I...I will.”
Dad pulls me into a rough, quick hug. “Drive safe,” he murmurs.
Emma waves goodbye, and I’m reminded of how much my parents adore her. Of course they do. She’s everything good in a world that keeps kicking me in the ribs.
We walk to my car in silence. Once we’re inside, I grip the steering wheel a little too hard. But Emma doesn’t pry. She buckles her seatbelt and keeps her hands folded gently in her lap, like she can feel I’m on the edge and knows better than to push me.
Good girl.
The drive is quiet, headlights cutting through the dark coastal road. Halfway back to her place, she finally speaks. “I’m really proud of you,” she says softly, without looking at me. “Tonight...that was brave.”
I swallow, throat thick. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“A lot of brave things don’t.”
The words hit me harder than she realizes. When we pull into her neighborhood, the tension in my body spikes. My brain is already screaming formore. And the problem is...the heroin waiting at my place is the only thing that will truly quiet it.
She notices me hesitating when I shift into park. “You okay?” she asks softly.
I nod, even though it’s a lie. “Yeah.”
She pauses, then: “Do you...want to come in?”
She’s hopeful but cautious. Like she doesn’t want to overwhelm me.
I stare at her front door, and at the warm orange glow of her porch light. It’s safe and inviting, and it makes my chest twist. My mind spins.
I need to use.
I need it soon.
But I also need her.
“I can stay for a little bit,” I say, my voice rough.
Her whole face softens into a sweet, relieved smile thatpunches me right in the ribs. “Okay,” she whispers.
She reaches across the console and takes my hand. My fingers twitch, but I let her. As she opens her door, she glances back with that almost playful tilt of her head—the one she used to have in high school, handing me coffee on my roof after sleepless nights studying. We’d always climb out of my bedroom window and watch the way the wind swayed through the coastal pines.
“Do you want chocolate croissants?” she asks, voice hopeful.
A small, involuntary smile tugs at my mouth. It’s barely there, but it’s genuine. “Yeah,” I murmur. “That actually sounds amazing.”
She beams, warm like a California sunrise. Something I don’t deserve but want anyway. She squeezes my hand once before letting go. “Come on,” she says softly. “I’ll heat some up. I made them the other night.”
I sink into her couch, letting my limbs relax. Soon, she rounds the corner with a grin.