Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Bloodhound
The road stretches out in front of us like a promise I'm afraid to believe in.
Four hours.
That's how long it takes to get from Morgantown to the Poconos.
Four hours of winding through the mountains, watching the West Virginia hills give way to Pennsylvania farmland.
Four hours of silence so thick I can taste it.
Vanna sits in the passenger seat of my truck, curled against the door like she's trying to make herself as small as possible.
She's wearing one of my old hoodies—the gray one with the frayed cuffs that she used to steal from my closet back when stealing my clothes was the worst thing she ever did.
It swallows her whole now.
She's lost so much weight that my clothes hang off her like she's a child playing dress-up.
I grip the steering wheel tighter and keep my eyes on the road.
The past week has been a blur of phone calls and paperwork and trying not to think about how many times I've done this before.
How many times I've let myself hope, only to have that hope crushed under the weight of her addiction.
But she said yes this time.
She said yes, and there was something different in her eyes when she said it.
Something I haven't seen in years.
Fear. Real fear.
The kind that comes from finally understanding what you stand to lose.
I want to believe that fear is enough.
I want to believe that this time will be different.
But I've been burned so many times that hope feels like a luxury I can't afford.
"You hungry?" I ask, breaking the silence that's been stretching between us for the past hour.
Vanna shakes her head without looking at me. "Not really."
"You should eat something. It's a long drive."
"I'm fine, Garrett."
She's not fine.
She's pale and shaky, her body already starting to rebel against the absence of the poison she's been pumping into it for years.
The doctors at Ruby Memorial gave her something to take the edge off, but it's not enough.
It's never enough.
I don't push.
I've learned that pushing only makes her pull away harder.
We pass a sign for a rest stop, and I pull off without asking.
Vanna doesn't argue when I park and get out, doesn't say anything when I come back with two bottles of water and a bag of pretzels.
She takes the water when I hand it to her and sips it slowly, her eyes fixed on something I can't see.
"Thank you," she whispers.
Two words. That's all.
But they hit me harder than they should, because there was a time when she stopped saying thank you altogether.
When she stopped seeing me as a person and started seeing me as an obstacle between her and her next fix.
"You're welcome," I say, pulling back onto the highway.
The sun is starting to set by the time we cross the Pennsylvania border.
The sky bleeds orange and pink and purple, painting the mountains in colors that remind me of the first time I kissed her.
We were seventeen, sitting on the tailgate of this same truck—different engine, same frame—watching the sun go down over Morgantown.
She tasted like cherry lip gloss and Mountain Dew, and I remember thinking that I would die happy if I could kiss her every day for the rest of my life.
I got my wish.
I married her two years later.
And now I'm driving her to rehab because the girl I fell in love with has been slowly killing herself for the better part of a decade.
Funny how life works out.
"Do you remember our first kiss?" Vanna asks, her voice so quiet I almost miss it.
I glance over at her.
She's watching the sunset, her profile silhouetted against the fading light.
Even now, even after everything, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Yeah," I say. "I remember."
"I was so nervous." A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "I'd wanted you to kiss me for months, and when you finally did, I forgot how to breathe."
"You weren't the only one."
She turns to look at me, and for a moment, I see her.
The real her.
The girl who used to laugh so hard she snorted.
The girl who dared me to chase her across Mountaineer Field.
The girl who said yes when I asked her to marry me, even though we were too young and too broke and everyone said we were making a mistake.
"I'm sorry," she says. "For everything. I know I've said it before, but—"
"Don't." I shake my head. "Not tonight. Tonight, let's just... be us. Before everything went wrong."
She's quiet for a long moment.
Then she nods, reaching across the console to take my hand.
Her fingers are cold and thin, but they fit against mine the same way they always have.
Like they were made to be there.
We drive in silence after that, but it's a different kind of silence. Softer.
The kind of silence that used to fill the spaces between us before words became weapons and love became something we had to fight for.
By the time the GPS tells me we're an hour from the facility, it's fully dark.
Vanna is dozing against the window, her breath fogging the glass in soft, rhythmic clouds.
She looks younger when she sleeps.
More like the girl I married and less like the stranger who's been wearing her face.
I should keep driving.
I should push through and get her to the facility tonight, before either of us has a chance to change our minds.
But there's a motel up ahead, its neon sign flickering against the darkness, and something in my chest tells me to stop.
One more night.
That's all I'm asking for.
One more night before I have to let her go.
I pull into the parking lot and kill the engine.
Vanna stirs, blinking at me in confusion. "Where are we?"
"About an hour out," I say. "I thought we could stop for the night. Get some rest before tomorrow."
She looks at the motel—a rundown place with peeling paint and a vacancy sign that's missing half its letters—and then back at me.
Something flickers in her eyes.
Understanding, maybe.
Or fear. Or both.
"Okay," she says softly.
The room is exactly what you'd expect from a roadside motel in the middle of nowhere.
One queen bed with a floral comforter that's seen better days.
A TV that looks like it hasn't been updated since the nineties.
A bathroom so small you can barely turn around in it.
But it's clean enough, and it's private, and right now that's all that matters.
Vanna sits on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap, while I lock the door behind us.
She looks small and lost, like a child who's wandered away from home and doesn't know how to find her way back.
"You should take a shower," I say. "Warm up. I'll order some food."
She nods but doesn't move.
Just sits there, staring at her hands, and I can see the tremors running through her.
Withdrawal is starting to set in for real now.
By tomorrow, it'll be worse.
By the time she's in that facility, she'll be going through hell.
I cross the room and kneel in front of her, taking her hands in mine.
They're shaking so hard I can feel it in my bones.
"Hey," I say softly. "Look at me."
She lifts her eyes to mine, and I see the tears she's been holding back.
They're brimming at the edges, threatening to spill over at any moment.
"I'm scared," she whispers. "I'm so fucking scared. What if I can't do this? What if I'm not strong enough?"
"You are." I squeeze her hands. "You're the strongest person I know, Vanna. You just forgot for a while."
"I don't feel strong. I feel like I'm falling apart."
"Then let me hold you together." I reach up to cup her face, my thumb brushing away a tear that escapes down her cheek. "That's what I'm here for. That's what I've always been here for."
She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed. "I don't deserve you."
"That's not for you to decide."
When I kiss her, it's soft. Tentative.
The kind of kiss you give someone when you're not sure if they'll kiss you back.
But she does.
She kisses me back with a desperation that takes my breath away, her hands fisting in the front of my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
I pull back, resting my forehead against hers. "Vanna..."
"Please," she breathes. "I need... I need to feel something other than this. Something other than the fear and the shame and the wanting." Her voice breaks. "I need to feel you."
I should say no.
I should be the responsible one, the one who keeps a clear head, the one who remembers that she's fragile right now and I shouldn't take advantage of that fragility.
But I've been starving for her for five years.
Five years of watching her slip away, of reaching for her and finding nothing but empty air.
Five years of loving a ghost.
And she's here now.
She's solid and warm and real, and she's asking me to touch her.
I'm not strong enough to say no.
"Are you sure?" I ask, my voice rough with need I've been suppressing for longer than I can remember. "Because if we do this and you regret it tomorrow—"
"I won't regret it." She pulls back to look at me, and her eyes are clear. Clearer than they've been in years. "I could never regret you, Garrett. You're the only thing in my life I've never regretted."
My name on her lips undoes me.
I kiss her again, harder this time, and she melts into me like she's been waiting for this just as long as I have.
My hands find the hem of the hoodie she's wearing—my hoodie—and I pull it over her head, revealing the thin tank top underneath.
She's so small now.
So fragile.
I can see the outline of her ribs, the sharp jut of her collarbones, and it breaks my heart even as it makes me want to wrap her up and protect her from everything that's hurt her.
Including herself.
"Garrett," she murmurs against my lips, her fingers working at the buttons of my flannel. "I need you. Please."
I help her with the buttons, shrugging out of the shirt and the t-shirt beneath it.
Her hands trace over my chest, my shoulders, my arms, like she's relearning the map of my body.
Like she's trying to memorize me.
"I've missed you," she whispers. "God, I've missed you so much."