“And he still asked for your number?” Cherry asked, disbelief written all over her face. “He must really be into you. Which, with a face like yours, how could he not be? The real question is why you didn’t give it to him.”
“I met him last weekend,” I reminded her, knowing she didn’t remember me telling her that the night before.
“Okay,” she said slowly, waiting for more.
“He was at that fucking drug house when I found Holden.” The impact was immediate.
“You brought your involuntarily drugged best friend to a drug addict’s house?” Cherry’s voice jumped several octaves, loud enough that the driver glanced back at us, alarmed. His concern was easy to read.
“Sorry, sir. Very sorry,” Cherry said quickly, waving a hand. “It’s a book. We’re talking about a book. It’s calledMy Best Friend Is an Idiot. Great read.” She waited until the driver’s eyes settled back on the road before lowering her voice. “He’s an addict?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, instinctively defending him. “He wasn’t high when I saw him. I asked him last night. He said he sticks to weed. But I don’t know. He was still there, for whatever reason. And you know I don’t want anything to do with that world.”
“You mean besides your brother, who lives in that world,” Cherry said quietly.
“Exactly,” I replied. “One person to worry about is enough.”
It’s hard to explain the kind of exhaustion that comes with loving an addict. There’s the obvious part, watching the battles they fight inside their own heads. Even on sunny days, without a cloud in the sky, even when they’re sober. They look you in the eye and promise they will stay that way. They believe it. They convince themselves the storm has passed. The sun is shining, but you know it won’t last. You’re always bracing for the next rainfall. The next lightning strike. The next time you find them on a bathroom floor. Or, in Holden’s case, on the couch of a trap house. I love someone with an addiction. But I will never love another person with an addiction. My umbrella isn’t strong enough to shield me from two raging storms.
“Maybe he had a good reason,” Cherry said gently as the Uber pulled up to the house we’d been in the night before.
In daylight, it looked nothing like it had hours earlier. No thumping music. No chaos. No drunken energy spilling out into the street. Just another quiet house, blending in perfectly with the rest of the neighborhood. We apologized to the driver again before stepping out, our conversation clearly having caught him off guard. We walked in silence toward my car, still parked where we’d left it on the suburban street.
“Are you calling out of work tonight?” I asked once we were inside, suddenly remembering that our presence was required at the restaurant.
“Yeah, right,” Cherry said, pulling her seatbelt across her chest. “Imagine the shit Greg would give me if I called in on a Saturday night.”
“Fuck Greg,” I muttered as I pulled onto the road.
“I’d cheers to that if I had a drink,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Am I dropping you off?” I asked, slowing at a stop sign.
“No way,” she shook her head. “I want some of Mama Evanston’s hangover food.”
“You know she doesn’t make it because you’re hungover,” I scoffed.
“I think she does,” Cherry said seriously.
I smiled, choosing not to argue as I pulled into my driveway. I knew why Cherry didn’t want to go home. Her parents loved her, but they were sharper than she needed them to be. Her mom’s disappointment seeped into everything she said, even when she didn’t mean it. Cherry was more comfortable here, where no one commented on her hair or her clothes. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders as we walked to the door. I didn’t need to say it. I hoped she always knew she was welcome.
“Blair!” my mom called the moment I opened the door. “And if it isn’t my second daughter. Why should I be surprised?”
“Hi, Mom,” I said, forcing a smile as she approached.
She didn’t look worried at all. Her blonde hair, wild and untamed unlike mine, framed her face. A paint smock was tied over her purple dress, splattered with colors so blended you couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.
“Jane,” Cherry said warmly, stepping into her arms.
“Where were you guys?” My mom asked, patting Cherry’s shoulder, her tone curious, not accusing.
“We went to a party,” Cherry said easily.
“Blair went to a party?” my mom said, stunned. “How on earth did you convince her?”
“I needed boy help,” Cherry replied, shrugging her shoulders like there could be no other possible explanation.
My mom laughed. “And did it work?”
