“It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago,” I remind her. “And you didn’t even call me.”
“I’m sorry I forgot… but this is important. You need to be here.”
“It’s not that simple,” I tell her, leaning against the wall, staring at the mirror across from me. I can see me so should she, right. I do exist. “I’m in North Carolina right now.”
“North Carolina? Why are you way out there? It’s so far from Wyoming.” The longer she talks, the higher she sounds and the more pointless I realize this conversation is. “Look, I have to go, Mom. I’m headed out.”
“With who?” She pauses. “You’re going out with him, aren’t you?”
I should just lie to her. It’d be easier if I did. But I hate lying and I hate that she wants to push me to hold grudges against Quinton. I’ve made my peace with it. Accidents are accidents. Shit happens. And holding on to it is tiring. “If you mean Quinton, then yeah.” I head toward the door. “Look, we’ve been over this. You can stay mad at him if you want. Do what you have to do, but I’m choosing to let it go.”
“Let your sister go,” she gasps. “Tristan Morganson, how dare you. Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare.”
I stop in front of the door and press my fingertips to the bridge of my nose. There’s no point in this conversation. We’ve had the same one for years and it’s becoming a broken record. “Look, Mom, I have to go. We’re going out to celebrate me being disease free,” I say, knowing she won’t acknowledge it—anything related to my drug days she won’t, because she’s ashamed of me. I open the door. “Call me tomorrow if you feel like it.”
“You’re a terrible son.” It’s her last attempt to make me feel guilty, to lure me home.
“I know,” I say, slipping on one of my boots. “And I’m sorry for that. Tell Dad I said hi.”
“Tell him yourself,” she snaps. “I’m not your messenger.”
“Bye, Mom.” I hang up the phone and stuff it into the back pocket of my jeans before I put my other boot on and step outside. It’s still hot and muggy, but that’s June in North Carolina.
Quinton is outside smoking, sitting on the curb just in front of the door. I’m surprised to see Nova sitting beside him, since we were supposed to be picking her up. She’s talking to Quinton, her blue eyes are all lit up, so she’s excited about something. She’s still wearing her work clothes, jeans and a black tank top, her brown hair braided to the side. Her face is sun-kissed and she looks gorgeous, but she’s not mine and I shouldn’t be thinking about her that way.
When she leans in and kisses Quinton, I almost back up and sneak into my room, pretend I’m sick, just so I won’t have to see it, but mid-kiss she must sense I’m there because she opens her eyes and smiles at me.
“Hey you.” Her smile brightens as she stands up and walks over to me. “Congrats, by the way. I’ve been meaning to tell you that all day.”
Leave it to Nova to congratulate me on being disease free. “What, just congrats?” I joke. “What, no card?”
She lets out an exaggerated sigh, her lips quirking with amusement. “Sorry, but I couldn’t find one for your exact situation. I think I’m going to call up the card companies and suggest that they need a hep C-free line.” She grins.
“Oh, I’m sure that’ll go over well,” I say as Quinton joins us, handing me a cigarette as he lights up one himself. “I can just picture it now. A needle on the front and inside ‘Congrats on not being a disgusting user anymore.’ ” Just talking about the needle makes my veins throb with need.
Nova’s face instantly falls and Quinton shoots me a warning. “What’s wrong?” Nova asks. “You should be happy, but you’re not.”
She’s right. I’m not. I don’t think I ever really have been. Half the time I’m not even sure why, but today I know. My mom’s got me feeling guilty about Ryder and her birthday. I envied the high I could hear in my mom’s voice, not just because it’ll take all the emotional pain away but because it’s easier to deal with being so alone when I’m out of it. But I’m good at faking being happy and I plaster a smile on my face. “Sorry. I just didn’t sleep very well last night… I had a lot of stuff on my mind.”
Nova leans in closer. “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, popping the cigarette into my mouth and then reaching into my pocket to get my lighter. “No, I’m good, but thanks.” I inch away from her and light up as she leans back. “I am fucking hungry, though. So how about we go eat.” I say it because it’s what she wants to hear and it’ll get her to leave me alone so I can sulk in my own head because what I really want to doing is snort lines. I know it’s wrong. Know I’m fucked up for not being able to stop. But I’ve accepted that I might always be that way. An addict and I’m about to fuck up again, be the loser I am. But I tell myself I need it, that I can’t live without it, because it makes it easier to do.
Chapter 3
Nova has to get ready and Quinton goes back into the room with her. It’s the perfect opportunity for me to take care of my craving. So I pretend to go back into my room, then I slip outside unnoticed and walk to the last door of the motel. There’s a guy there who call himself D-Man. I ran into him once when I was wandering around outside. He was totally a tweaker: skinny, thinning hair, pale skin, bones protruding, teeth rotting, sores on his skin. It was looking into a mirror of the past and after chatting for a little while, I ended up doing a line with him, hence my slipup a few weeks ago. Quinton was the one who found out. Ex-tweakers have a radar for people who are spun out of their minds. He stayed with me until my system was clean, until the crashing was over, and he’s been watching me like a hawk every since. He didn’t tell Nova about it, which I’m grateful for. The last thing I want to do is see the disappointment in her eyes that I’ve seen many times before, including when I kissed her. That one stung.
I rap on the door and he opens up, his eyes glossed over with that look I crave. I need to make it quick before I get busted, so I say I need to buy a hit, or two, or three, or four.
“Sure man,” he says, his voice in that same euphoric state as my mother’s. He goes back into the room and I wait outside because I can see the syringe and spoon on his nightstand and I know if I step over the threshold I’ll want to do that, but I can’t. Not without being busted the moment I pass out. Plus that’s the cause behind why we’re going out to celebrate that I’m disease free today. Still, I crave it and I think I pretty much keep my eyes on it the entire time until D-Man comes back with a small bag with a pinch of white crystals in it. I give him the money, and then tuck it into my pocket, hurrying back toward my room so I’ll have time to do it before we go out.
But my plan goes to shit because Quinton’s waiting outside when I get there, smoking, and when he sees me coming, he gets this weird look on his face like his tweaker radar is on.
“Where’ve you been?” he asks, ashing his cigarette as he searches my eyes, probably for enlarged pupils and lack of blinking.
I miss a beat, but recover. “I went to see if they have any gum in the vending machines,” I say, pointing over my shoulder. “If we’re going to a restaurant, I’m not going to be able to smoke when I want to and I’m going to need something to keep me from wanting to grind the shit out of my teeth all night.”
He’s not buying it, but doesn’t press. “Nova will be out in just a second,” he says and plops down on the curb, stretching out his legs. He doesn’t ask me to sit down and I could easily slip back into my room and do my line. It’d make tonight a hell of a lot easier to bear. But I know if I do, he’s going to sense something else is up, and honestly, I don’t want him to know that I’m still that person who runs to drugs every time there’s a bump in the road. Or maybe I’m just deciding what road I want to go down.