Walking to the bathroom, I tell myself over and over that this is nothing. He’ll be home soon.There’s no need to worry. He forgot his phone. He just went… I don’t know where. But wherever he is, it all makes sense. Everything is okay.
I strip my shorts off to take a shower, but images from the past slam into me. Jensen—high, teeth clenched, talking way too fast. Nodding off in the middle of the day. Pinpoint pupils. Sweating. The godforsaken office door, locked. Drugs. Lies.
I turn on my heel, beelining for the office. The door’s wide open. Jensen promised to keep it that way. It hasn’t been closed once since I’ve been here.
I start yanking drawers open and slamming them shut, feeling underneath for a hidden stash—like before.
There’s nothing.
Next, I head to the closet, pulling open anything that will open, dumping shit all over the floor. I’m making a mess, acting completely nuts. And the worst part is, I feel crazy. My heart’s erratic, pounding volatile in my chest. My fingers shake, but so does the rest of me. It’s like I’ve been over-caffeinated, and a steady buzz of insanity thrums through my veins. My hair’s amess from sleeping, I’m pantless. God, I’m a wreck. My brain’s running a million miles a minute, what-ifs ricocheting through me, colliding with every memory.Did he relapse? Did he go meet Seth? Are there drugs hidden here?
My breaths turn rapid and shallow. Sweat beads at my hairline. Moisture stings behind my eyes, hot and burning with fear.
I fumble through Jensen’s gym shorts drawer until my fingers hit something solid. My pulse spikes as I dig through the fabric and pull out a leather-bound pouch, zipped and tucked—no,hidden—inside one of his pairs of shorts.
Shit.My hands tremble as I pull it free. Tears fall down my cheeks. I bite my knuckles, holding back the sob caught in my throat.Why is this hidden?
“Shit.” I stare at it. Too scared to open it. Too scared of what I’ll find. Too scared to be hurt again. To not trust him. Again.
“Shit,” I whisper again, lips quivering, voice shaking.
My thumb and forefinger grip the zipper. I tug it open a half inch before it catches. I yank harder, frantic, but it won’t budge. I try again, dropping it in the process, yelling a sharp, “God! Fuck!”
I snatch it back up, sniffing hard as snot drips from my nose. My brain’s white static. Pure chaos. I can’t think straight.
A faint noise barely registers as I fight with the mangled fabric stuck in the zipper.
“Goddammit!” I cry.
“Babe?”
My head jerks up. Jensen stands in the doorway, brows drawn tight, worry etched across his face as he takes me in.
“What’s in here?” My voice is raw, wild, unrecognizable. I’m panting like I’ve run a marathon, gasping for air. “Why was this hidden in your drawer?”
His eyes drop to the pouch, then back to me. “Al…” He takes a slow step forward.
“Don’t! Just—” I flinch and pull harder at the zipper, desperation leaking from every pore. “FUCK!” It won’t budge.
His eyes go wide.
I fling it at him. “Open it. Right fucking now.” My voice cracks. I’m hysterical. “I can’t.”Sob.“I can’t do this again.” I suck in a breath, pressing my palm to my chest, like I can hold myself together from the outside.
He nods. Slow. Quiet. “Okay, babe. I’ll open it.”
His steady fingers work at the zipper while I practically hyperventilate. After a beat, it slides open with maddening ease, and he holds it out to me.
I snatch it and dump the contents onto the floor. Chips and photos scatter across the floor, some face up, some face down.
I crouch, picking one up. It’s a sobriety chip. They’re all sobriety chips. Seven days. Two weeks. One month. Ninety days. My gaze drops to a photo of us in the Berkshires.
There’s nothing else.
No pills.
No coke.
No lies.
