My body's still adjusting to functioning without heroin, and the counselors warned me that I might experience all kinds of weird symptoms as my system recalibrates.
But this doesn't feel like detox.
This feels like something else entirely.
I grip the edges of the sink and try to breathe through another wave of queasiness.
It's been like this for three days now—fine in the morning, queasy by noon, barely able to keep dinner down by evening.
The pattern is so consistent it's almost predictable.
Almost like...
No.
I shake my head, dismissing the thought before it can fully form.
That's impossible.
I've been on birth control for years—the shot, every three months, like clockwork.
Garrett and I haven't even had sex in...
The motel.
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut, and I have to grab the sink tighter to keep from swaying.
The motel room.
The night before he dropped me off at the facility.
We didn't use protection.
I was so desperate to feel something other than fear, and he was so desperate to hold onto me, and neither of us thought about the consequences.
But I was on birth control.
The shot.
I get it every three months.
Except... when was the last time I actually went?
I try to think back, but the months before rehab are a blur of track marks and trap houses.
I stopped keeping track of appointments.
Stopped caring.
The future didn't exist when all I could think about was the next fix.
Birth control seemed pointless when I wasn't sure I'd be alive next month anyway.
"Oh god," I whisper to my reflection. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."
I'm gripping the sink so hard my knuckles have gone white.
My heart is pounding, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps that make the nausea even worse.
