Chapter 29
Tristen
And here I am again, stumbling into the house alone, while my best friend fucks off into the day like he didn’t just fall off the wagon.
I trust him. I really do.
But his first meeting was only two days ago. It’s been over a year since he went. He’s barely out of the detox phase and he’s already running around like nothing happened.
To say I’m just a ball of goddamn anxiety is an understatement as I pull the door closed behind me and dump my keys into the bowl next to it.
The clang it makes grates across the silent morning and I cringe.
Quiet.
Funny how paying attention to the noise I make hits different now.
“Em?” I ask the still dark house. There’s the normal light coming from the single bulb above the stove, a gentle glow from the nightlight in the hall, but otherwise it’s as if the house is still asleep.
Fuck, I hope I didn’t scare the shit out of him.
When I don’t get an answer, my palms itch.
The first place I go is the bathroom. My fingers tingle when I open the medicine cabinet, devoid of orange bottles for a reason, and sigh.
It comes out shaky.
I’m trembling as I push aside the aftershave that neither of us use.
I’m such a liar.
The black pouch stares back at me from its hiding spot, the corners worn from use, paint chipped off the zipper.
Quiet.
The vial burns inside my pocket.
It’s half used and already punctured. Unsanitary.
It should have been thrown away.
“No. No,” I mumble to the nothingness and snatch the pouch, unzipping it with jerky movements.
The syringe inside it has been used and recapped.
But there’s an alcohol pad left right beneath it.
I swallow hard as I fish the tiny bottle from my pocket.
Why am I like this?
A tremble rolls its way down my entire body, my fingers uncoordinated, my eyes burning.
“No.”
Saying it aloud does nothing to deter me from uncapping the needle. Poking it into the bottle’s rubber top. Drawing some of the drug into the chamber.
Just one more.
I drop to the closed toilet lid and pull off my sock.
Just one.
It’ll be quick.
I cross my ankle over the opposite knee and feel the groove between my big toe and the next.
The spots already raised.
My eyes water.
Emmett will never know.
Honey eyes flash in my head. Blond hair. Little gasps and the warmth of his touch on my leg.
He’ll never have to know I’m a liar.
My grip on the needle tightens when my fingers shake too much.
There’s a bead of sweat that’s rolling down my back, raising goosebumps along its path. A thickness in my throat that I can’t swallow back.
You promised.
That thickness becomes a dry sob, my chest too tight to drag in a full breath.
Emmett will know.
Maybe he found the kit last night while he was alone—
Fuck, he was alone all night.
I’m practically vibrating, caught up in a spiral of dark thoughts of what he could have done all night. What I might find when I venture farther into the house.
He was fine when we left.
He was fine.
He was fine.
Forcing a choppy breath, I miss capping the needle three times before the click sounds.
It’s like a boulder crashing in the night, accompanied by the sound of my pumping chest and the hiss of the closing zipper. It gets caught, refusing to close the last few teeth together.
Just use it.
The thing inside my chest clenches tighter as I pull back the zipper and try again.
“He was okay,” I whisper to the nothingness around me. “Fine.”
I get to the part where it sticks and jerk, jamming the metal over itself and catching my finger in the process. I hiss and toss the kit back where I found it. Clamor around putting the glass bottle of aftershave back in front of it.
Stepping back, I stare at it.
It’s clear that it’s back there. Barely hidden. Sticking out and visible through the glass.
I’m such a liar.
With a curse, I swipe at my brow and slam the cabinet closed.
My reflection stares back at me in the dark and it’s bad enough that I almost dig the pouch back out.