Chapter 4 #2
So I had the bright idea of mentioning that the poetic and musical version of “pure shit” was called “dissonance.” We laughed a lot about it, but ultimately, decided that it was perfect. It became something special between us all.
~*~
The honk of a car behind me yanks me back to the present. Green light. I blink, and I’m turning into Emma’s neighborhood. I pull into her driveway and shift into park, but I don’t turn off the engine right away. Four months after that day, Jude injected heroin for the first time.
Four months.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. We had so many good days. I glance down at the Suboxone packet in the center console. I pick it up, turning it over between my fingers. This little pill has been a godsend.
No.
Heather has been the godsend.
The Suboxone keeps the sickness away, but she makes me want to stay clean. For the first time in years, I feel like there’s a version of my life that doesn’t revolve around chasing a high or avoiding withdrawal. For the first time, I think I might actually survive this.
The house is quiet when I unlock the door. I step inside, shutting it gently behind me. My suitcase thuds softly against the hardwood as I drag it in.
“Em?” I call.
No answer.
I round the corner into the living room and find her stretched out on the area rug, flat on her stomach, one arm draped over Nova’s neck. Nova’s tail thumps once when she sees me.
Emma doesn’t move at first. She’s in oversized gray pajamas, the sleeves swallowing her hands.
Her hair is messy, tangled like she hasn't even bothered to shower or brush it. When she turns her head slightly, I see that her eyes are red, her nose is pink, and her cheeks are all blotchy. She’s been crying for a while.
I set my suitcase down quietly and walk over, lowering myself beside her on the rug. Nova shifts so I can fit, her big black head immediately nudging into my leg. I rest my hand on Emma’s shoulder, rubbing slowly.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
She sniffs and pushes herself up into a sitting position. She wipes under her eyes with the sleeve of her pajama top. “I’m trying to be,” she says.
I nod. “Yeah. I get that.”
She presses her lips together. “It’s just…
I keep thinking he’s going to text me. Or walk through the door.
Or call. And then I remember.” Her chin trembles just slightly.
“And it feels stupid to be this broken over someone who told me that we wouldn't work. He tried breaking up with me and I…” she huffs.
"I didn't let him. I refused to let him go again. "
“It’s not stupid,” I say immediately. “You love him.”
She gives me a small, tired look. “You love him, too.”
I exhale slowly. “Yeah. Can you forgive me?"
"For what?"
"For not doing more."
Her eyes soften. "I don't blame you, Micah."
That stabs me in the heart. I swallow past the lump forming in my throat.
We sit in that for a second. Nova nudges Emma’s hand until she starts scratching behind her ears again. The dog leans into her, as if she knows her mom is upset.
Emma clears her throat. “I knew you were a good man, you know. From the night in Portland. After he got too messed up, you stayed up talking with me. I could tell you cared a lot about him, and it gave me some comfort. But me, being who I am, wanted to try to help him. Fix him, even. I was used to helping so many others that I thought I could do it.”
I smile faintly at the memory of that night.
“You told me things I never thought I’d hear. Especially about the man I loved,” she continues. “You looked exhausted. But you still defended him. You just…cared. And I'm—I'm happy he had someone who loved him when I couldn't.”
My heart clenches. “I did,” I say quietly. I look down at Nova, running my hand over her sleek black fur. “You know, I thought it was kind of crazy finally meeting you,” I admit. “He talked about you a lot over the years.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “He did?”
“Yeah.” I bump my shoulder against hers lightly. “You were the one that got away. The one he screwed up with. The one he never really stopped thinking about.”
Her eyes fill again, but this time she smiles through it.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her into a side hug. She leans into me without hesitation, her head resting briefly against my chest.
“We’re going to figure this out,” I murmur. "We'll get him back. I'm looking into some shit."
She nods against me, though I can feel the doubt in her.
I pull back just enough to look at her. “First, though? You need a shower.”
She huffs a weak laugh. “What?”
“Wash all the tears off. Reset. Then we’re going to sit down and talk about what we’re doing next.”
Her expression shifts. A flicker of determination through the sadness as she studies me for a second. “We need to help him,” she whispers.
“We will,” I promise.
Nova lets out a low sigh between us like she agrees.
Emma nods once, then pushes herself up off the rug.
I watch her head toward the hall, shoulders still heavy but not quite as bad as before.
When she disappears from view, I sit there for a moment longer, petting Nova.
When we all sit down for dinner, I’ll tell them about the flights I booked this morning.
We’re halfway through our subs when I clear my throat from the kitchen, where I grabbed a beer.
Emma’s at the dining table now, hair clean and damp, cheeks no longer blotchy.
The shower helped. She looks a little better.
Smells it, too, honestly. Heather’s curled up on the couch in black leggings and that forest green Oregon hoodie she basically lives in, one sock half falling off her heel.
Practically chaos in human form, that girl.
“I went ahead and booked some flights this morning,” I say.
Emma freezes mid-bite.
Heather looks up immediately. “Flights?”
“To New York,” I say, stepping into the dining area. “Tomorrow night.”
Emma blinks at me. “You—what?”
“I almost told you earlier. I didn’t want to waste time,” I say with a shrug. “Rook is our best hope. He’ll be at the opening night gala at the Met. He’s at every one of those events.”
Heather’s jaw drops. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art?”
I nod. “High-profile. He never misses those. He’s a fucking weirdo, but he’s a high-class weirdo. You’ll see what I mean.”
Emma’s mouth opens and closes. “So what’s the plan? I...thought we didn’t have one?”
“We didn’t. But I thought about it and decided to do what I could. We show up,” I say. “You approach him. You tell him exactly what you need.”
Heather leans forward, elbows on her knees. “And if he tells her to fuck off?”
Emma folds her arms, defensive but logical. “Jude killed his brother. Why would he help us? We need a backup plan. He could say no.”
I don’t hesitate. “Then we pay him.”
Heather frowns. “Pay him…how much?”
“Four million.”
Heather chokes on her saliva, and it turns into a coughing fit.
Emma stares at me. “You’re serious.”
“Yes. I have more than enough.”
Heather finally gets her shit together. “Jesus Christ.”
“He won’t do it out of kindness,” I say evenly. “He’ll do it because it benefits him. That’s how men like him operate.”
Emma gets up from the table and starts pacing. “Okay, let me check hotels, then. Or have you gotten us those, too?”
I smile despite myself. “I didn’t get the hotel yet.”
“Okay.” She takes a sip of her Dr. Pepper and pulls out her phone, already opening an app.
Heather smiles at me as I take a swig of my beer. But when I glance back at Emma, I see that her face has drained of color. And her hands are shaking.
“Em?” Heather says softly. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer.
I’m next to her before I consciously decide to move. “Hey—give me that.” I gently take the phone before it slips from her fingers. And there he is.
Jude.
It’s a grainy street photo. He’s staring straight ahead, expression empty.
He appears high and…vacant. Adriana’s beside him, sunglasses on despite the cloudy sky.
His hand rests on her lower back. They look like they’re trying not to be seen.
Heather must see it on our faces, because she rushes over. The headline punches me in the chest.
DISSONANCE FRONTMAN JUDE GRAVES OFF THE RAILS IN MOSCOW?
Heather covers her mouth. “Oh my god…”
I swallow hard. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
Emma braces herself against the table, palm flat on the wood like the room just tilted. She’s staring at the image like it’s breaking her heart. That’s Jude...but it isn’t. I hate that I recognize that look on his face. I've seen it more times than I'm fucking comfortable with.
“Okay,” Emma says quietly.
I look at her.
Her eyes are glassy but focused now. She lifts her chin. “Let’s pack for New York.”
"Are you okay?" I ask, watching her face.
"I'm fine," she replies quickly. "But he isn't."
And just like that, the grief turns into war. She’s angry, and so am I. Fuck those motherfuckers for forcing my best friend into a life of hell. We’re going to save him. Together.
I nod once. “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”