Chapter 21 #2
I didn’t answer. I just stalked towards the two girls I knew had been with Iggy. The ones who looked like they’d slept in a bar instead of a hotel.
“Trix!”
She stumbled over her own feet and stopped, looking one way, then the other. When she spotted me, her mouth split into a lazy grin. Up close, her eyes were bloodshot. The smell of marijuana clung to her clothes, stale and unmistakable.
“Hey, Bodhi,” she drawled. I couldn’t tell if it was exhaustion or if they’d already smoked again this morning. “Thanks for yesterday. Oh—” She fished my credit card out of her pocket and held it up. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” I said, slipping it into my jeans. “Did you have a good night?”
“So good,” Bella chimed in. “Paying for it now, though.”
“Right.” My mouth went dry. “Do much . . . uh, pampering?” I asked carefully.
Trix glanced at Bella and smirked. “Oh yeah. We pampered.”
And what the fuck was that supposed to mean?
I forced a smile. I didn’t need a mirror to know it didn’t reach my eyes.
“Have you seen Iggy?” I asked. “He wasn’t at breakfast.”
Trix blinked slowly and nodded. Then she shook her head. “Nah. Not this morning.”
“So . . . do you know where he is?”
“Probably still in bed,” she shrugged. “We had a late night.”
My stomach dropped.
A late night. And they looked like that . . .
I turned and ran into the hotel.
“Bye, then!” Trix called after me, giggling.
I didn’t look back. Didn’t wave or slow down. My palms were slick with sweat, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest. When I reached the elevator, I mashed the call button like I was mid-five-on-five in League of Legends.
It took an eternity.
The moment the doors opened on the fifth floor, I bolted. I barely registered the numbers on the doors, just followed the memory of the room Clara had pointed out to me yesterday.
Five-one-three.
I knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked again. Harder. And again, until the door finally swung open and Iggy filled the doorway.
Relief crashed into me first.
Then it shattered.
His hair was freshly dyed, the honey-blond roots gone, replaced by the perfect shade of pink. It was a tangled mess. His skin looked washed out, almost grey. Dark shadows bruised the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes, and his lips were dry enough to split.
“Bodhi,” he breathed, smiling. But it was tight. Fragile. Nothing like his usual grin. “Come in.”
He stepped aside, and as I followed him into the room, the smell hit me. That same herby, smoky scent that had clung to Trix and Bella
Iggy collapsed onto the edge of the bed like his legs had given up on him and looked up at me.
I stared.
Those green eyes that usually caught the light like emeralds looked dull now. Muddy. Browned over with exhaustion. He lifted a hand to scratch at his jaw, and I saw the tremor in his fingers.
“Iggy,” I whispered, my eyes burning. “What did you do?”
He frowned and tilted his head. “What are you on about?”
His voice was hoarse. Raw, like after a concert. Or too many joints.
I leaned back against the dresser and dragged a hand down my face.
“I saw Bella and Trix.”
His eyes widened, and the sharp inhale he took told me everything before he said a word.
“They said you had a good night together,” I continued. “But they looked pretty hungover.”
“Bodhi—”
“You look hungover too, Iggy,” I cut in. “You look like you had a wild night. Which is funny, considering you’re supposed to be sober. We are supposed to be sober.”
“I am sober,” he said, sharp and defensive, but I barely heard it.
“Jesus,” I huffed, dragging a hand through my hair. “I gave Trix my credit card.” I laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Did you use it to buy drugs? Alcohol?”
“No!” he snapped. “We bought face masks, hair dye, and snacks. Check your statement if you don’t believe me. We only used it once.”
I stepped forward and dropped into the space between his knees, gripping his thighs hard enough to leave bruises.
“I want to believe you, Iggy,” I said quietly. “I really do. But—fuck. Look at you.”
“What’s there to look at?” he shouted, fists bunching in the sheets. “I didn’t do anything wrong. We had a pamper night. That was it.”
He grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked. “I dyed my fucking hair. Look!”
I shook my head. “I just . . . I don’t think that’s all you did.”
He surged to his feet so fast I stumbled back and landed on my ass. He stormed to the window, slamming his hand against the sill.
“Iggy—”
“I had a good fucking night,” he bit out. When he turned back to me, his eyes were wild, tears streaking down his cheeks. “You ignored me all day. You left me by myself. I was lonely.”
He scrubbed at his face, angry and desperate all at once. “I was fucking lonely, Bodhi. And those girls didn’t do anything except keep me company when I felt like shit. They made me feel good. And now you’re here making me feel like shit all over again.”
“So, if I asked Bella and Trix whether you drank with them . . .” I said carefully. “Or did drugs with them . . . they’d say you didn’t?”
The frustration in my chest burned hot and heavy. Because I knew. I could see it. The signs were there, written all over him. And because this pact—this whole we’ll keep each other honest thing—had been his idea. He’d been the one who insisted on accountability. On truth.
And now he was lying straight to my face.
But tangled up with the anger was guilt.
Guilt because he’d needed me, and I hadn’t been there.
Because I’d seen he was struggling and told myself giving him space was the right thing to do.
That I was respecting his boundaries. And now it felt like I’d missed something obvious.
Like I’d ignored a cry for help because I didn’t want to push.
The rational part of me knew better. Knew this wasn’t on me. Iggy was an adult. His recovery was his responsibility, just like mine was mine. We couldn’t carry each other through this forever. The pact wasn’t a safety net that replaced self-control or accountability.
I wasn’t his keeper.
But this wasn’t really Iggy talking anymore.
That was the addiction. The fear. The panic clawing its way to the surface.
He was standing right on the edge, staring down into relapse. He had been ever since he’d taken those pills from Ghost. And I didn’t know what he’d done with the girls last night, but looking at him now, I knew one thing for sure.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t recovery.
“It’s okay to fail, Iggy,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “You just need to start again.”
“I didn’t fucking fail,” he snarled, shoving my chest. I stumbled back a step and lifted my hands in surrender. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do Oxy!”
“But did you do anything else?”
He fisted his hair and yanked hard enough that my chest tightened, like he might rip it out by the roots. Then he dropped into a crouch and screamed into his knees.
“I didn’t do Oxy!” he bellowed. “I’m still fucking sober!”
This was it.
This was addiction in real time.
I’d come too close to a truth Iggy wasn’t ready to face. Too close to naming it out loud. And now he was lashing out, scrambling to regain control of the narrative. Trying to convince me that I was wrong, that I was imagining things. That I was the problem for questioning him at all.
Gaslighting. Deflection. Anger dressed up as certainty.
It was like staring into a mirror I’d shattered after rehab.
Seeing him like this made my chest ache. And because I loved him, because I cared so deeply, the anger tangled itself up with guilt until I couldn’t tell which was which. I was furious at him. I was furious at myself. I was terrified of what came next.
Where did we go from here?
I knelt in front of him and reached out, resting my hand on his knee. He recoiled instantly, scrambling backward like I’d burned him, until he curled into the corner of the room. His face was red and wet with tears, his eyes frantic. His whole body shook, vibrating with panic.
“Iggy,” I whispered. “I think you need help—”
He launched forward without warning and shoved me again. Hard.
“I don’t need anything from you!”
The shove turned into another. And another. Until his fists were slamming into my sternum, heavy and desperate, not quite punches but close enough to make my breath hitch.
“You don’t fucking believe me,” he shouted. “So I don’t need anything from you!”
He staggered to his feet and began pacing, back and forth, back and forth. His gaze kept darting towards his bedside table, and my stomach twisted as I wondered what was hidden inside it. Part of me wanted to look. Another part of me was terrified of what I’d find.
“Just get the fuck out, Bodhi,” he yelled. “You’re not my parent. I’ve already got two of those and they’re fucking useless.”
He jabbed a finger towards the door.
“Go and play rock star and leave me the fuck alone. I’m sober. I didn’t do Oxy, so I’m sober. Now get the fuck out!”
I rose slowly, the tears I’d been holding back since I walked in finally spilling over.
I didn’t know what to do.
Iggy was the only one who could admit there was a problem. The only one who could ask for help. And if he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—what did that mean for us?
I was in recovery too. And standing here, watching him unravel, made my skin crawl. Made old cravings whisper at the edges of my mind. Made me want to numb everything. To drown it out until the bad feelings blurred and disappeared.
As much as I wanted to stay, to fix this, I couldn’t. I couldn’t support him like this without risking my own sobriety. And knowing that . . . knowing I had to choose myself . . . fractured something in my chest.
I walked towards the door, my knees shaking, each step feeling like it might be the one that sent me crashing to the floor. But somehow, I made it. I wrapped my hand around the doorknob, moving on autopilot, like my body had finally hit its limit.
“Get into bed, Iggy,” I said quietly. “Try to sleep before we have to work.”
Behind me, he choked on a sob. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. Not without risking everything I’d fought to hold onto.
“I love you so much,” I whispered, my grip tightening until my knuckles went white. “But I can’t be here for you right now.”
Then I opened the door and walked away, afraid of what I’d just left alone with him.