“Where is this asshole, anyway?” I asked, glancing around the filthy room, hoping Brad had OD’d somewhere in the back so we could leave.
Brad was as scummy as they came. A middle-aged creep with a robe and a beer belly, the kind of guy who bought pills just to pass them out like candy to whatever poor soul wandered into his orbit. Calling them friends would be generous. They were victims. Strays. People who didn’t realize they were walking into a trap until it had already snapped shut.
“My friends,” came a slurred voice. Brad. Speak of the devil.
He stumbled out of one of the back bedrooms, his robe hanging open, his body swaying like he was being carried by the narcotics running through his blood. His eyes were glass. Empty windows.
“We’ve been waiting for almost half an hour, Brad,” I snapped, not bothering to hide the disgust in my voice.
“I had business to take care of, son,” he slurred as he wobbled closer. “Did you bring it?”
“Would we be in this piece of shit house if we didn’t? What, you think we dropped by to sayhello?” I said, scowling.
“You shouldn’t insult your customers,” Brad warned, but it didn’t sound like a threat. More like a joke. His eyes dropped to my pocket, pupils narrowing. His hand rose, fist full of crumpled bills.
Levi took the cash, shoved it in his jacket like it meant nothing. Brad looked at me then, his hand still out, palm open. Waiting. I sighed and pulled the bag from my pocket, hating myself with every movement. I dropped it into his hand. He closed his fingers around it like it was gold. Like it was breath. Maybe for him, it was. His body was so dependent on it, it probably thought it needed the pills to survive.
“Try not to let anyone overdose,” I said, knowing full well it was pointless. No one in this house was careful. No one was lucid enough to know how close they were to death.
“I’ll be speaking to Roger about your attitude, boy. Don’t think I won’t,” Brad said, and that name, Roger, hit me like a slap. My fists curled at my sides.
Neither Levi nor I answered. We turned and walked out, eager to leave the house, to leave behind the zombie-like bodies that haunted it. I pushed through the broken screen door, the rusted hinge screeching as it opened. The outside air hit me like a wave. Clean, crisp, almost holy. I walked faster, hoping it could purge the rot out of my lungs.
“Woah.”
I heard her voice before I felt her body. Just a second of contact, and she stumbled backward. My hands shot out on instinct, gripping her waist, pulling her back toward me. Her body jerked the other way, her hands landing on my chest like a barrier or an anchor. I couldn’t tell which. She blew her blonde hair from her face. I shook my head, already annoyed. Another strung-out idiot who didn’t know where the hell she was going.
But then I looked at her. Her eyes were the first thing I saw. Deep brown. The color of coffee before it’s ruined with cream. They weren’t glazed. They weren’t empty. I scanned her quickly. Her clothes were clean, freshly laundered. Her hair was glossy, styled. Her skin was clear, her makeup soft and intentional.
This girl didn’t belong here.
She didn’t belong here at all.
1
I didn’t want to be here.
Seriously, it’s not like I wanted to spend my Friday night at the local trap house. I didn’t want to be the one to knock on that drug house door. I didn’t want to be the one looking into the filthy rooms. I didn’t want to be the one who stepped over the bodies of people already passed out on the floor, even though it was only ten. I didn’t want to be here at all. But I loved Holden, so I’d be here anyway.
I sighed, finally ripping my keys from where they were stuck in my car’s ignition. I was yards away from the small, dilapidated house, yet I could already feel the bass from the music pounding through the ground. I could see the shadows of bodies moving in the uncovered windows. They weren’t fast-paced like they were dancing. They moved slow, like zombies three years into the apocalypse. Already rotted.
He knew better than to come here. But… I guess maybe he didn’t. If Holden was here, at this house, it could mean only one thing. He’s relapsed. Two years of rehab. Two years of therapy and Narcotics Anonymous meetings and endless tears shed during my pleas for him to just hold on a little longer. All of it, gone. Just like that.
It’s funny how that happens, isn’t it? So many hours of struggle, of pain, of hard work… it can all disappear in a single second. The wrong second. That one moment where you give in to the chaos, even when you know it’ll only lead to heartbreak. The second you choose black instead of yellow. I would know, after all. Wouldn’t I?
I took one last glance at myself in the small mirror of my car, eyes tracing over my makeup, then down to my blonde hair. Not a strand out of place. Just the way I liked it.
I looked up at the stars as I stepped out of the car. They were plentiful tonight, glowing bright and excessive against the pitch-black sky. A slight smile tugged at my mouth as I soaked in the feeling they gave me. Infinite. Infinite possibilities, I reminded myself as I walked toward the house. Infinite paths. Infinite choices. Infinite chances. Infinite outcomes. Infinite endings.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Holden hadn’t made the wrong choice. Maybe I’d go in there and he’d be sitting on the couch. His eyes would be clear. He’d be sober. My smile grew a little bigger. There’s still hope. There’s still hope for Holden, just like there’s still hope for me.
I kept my head tilted toward the stars, letting the hope they beamed down swell inside me. Letting it remind me that everything in life can be good, if we just give it the time to remember how. Though… not watching where I was walking seemed to be the wrong choice.
“Woah,” was the word that flew out of my mouth at the impact. My body slammed into something solid, like walking into a brick wall. I flew backward, bounced like a rubber ball launched too hard.
I braced for the ground, but before I hit it, large hands wrapped around my waist. They caught me mid-fall, then yanked me forward in the opposite direction, propelling me straight into a chest. My hands landed there first. I steadied myself only for a second before looking up. The guy who stood before me was tall, tall enough that I had to tilt my head the same way I had when I was looking at the stars. Blonde hair, shaggy and unbrushed.
But it was the tattoo on his neck that caught my eye. Big. Bold. It wasn’t decorative. It wasn’t subtle. An anatomical heart ran up the side of his neck, oversized and dark, the lines thick enough that it looked almost carved rather than inked. Veins twisted outward without symmetry, like something still mid-function instead of preserved. It didn’t look like art meant to be admired. It looked painful. Not in the way tattoos usually do, but in the way open things are painful. Like something that had been exposed on purpose. I let my eyes trace the ink for just a moment before glancing back at his face. His expression was flat, narrowed eyes lined with annoyance.
