“My name is Blair Evanston and I need an ambulance,” I said quickly. “My brother… he’s overdosed.”
2
“You seem better than I expected.” My best friend’s voice crept into my ear. She was sitting on the edge of my bed, brushing her signature unruly red hair, trying to smooth it into some version of order.
Cherry’s hair was the kind of red that never softened. Bold, deliberate, impossible to ignore. It framed her pale skin and sharp features, bangs skimming her eyes like she was always mid-thought. She brushed it slowly, not because it helped, but because it gave her hands something to do.
“You know,” she continued, “considering it’s only been a week since Holden was in the hospital again. I remember the first time he overdosed, you were a mess for months.”
I tilted my head at her, trying to block out the image that always rose when I let myself think about that night. Holden on his bedroom floor. Skin pale. Chest barely moving. She was right. I was a shell for a long time.
“That was the fifth time he’s overdosed,” I reminded her. “Five fucking times.”
Cherry pursed her lips. “Damn, Holden.”
A small laugh escaped me. Sad. Tragic. “That’s what I said when I found him.”
“How did you know where to find him, anyway? He’s been clean for months,” Cherry asked, turning away from me to face the vanity mirror instead. She grazed her fingers across my makeup without even asking. That was Cherry—wildly and unapologetically forward in all things.
“I just had a feeling,” I muttered, frowning as the memory surfaced.
It had started like any other Friday night. I was home. In my room. My laptop open to Netflix, shamelessly binging some throwaway show, like I always did on the weekends. It was normal. Until it wasn’t.
The feeling started small, a dull itch below the skin. I tried to ignore it. It grew, minute by minute, until it hollowed out my chest and left nothing but anxiety in its place. I couldn’t shake it, couldn’t focus on anything else. So I gave in. I called Holden. No answer. Called again. Nothing. That house was my first stop. It was always the place he went when he was desperate. He knew no one there would ask questions.
“Like… a twin-telepathy feeling?” Cherry turned back to me, wiggling her eyebrows like she had cracked the case.
I rolled my eyes and grabbed a soft pink pillow, tossing it at her. “Give the damn twin-telepathy a rest.”
“I will not,” she said, dodging the pillow like it was part of a routine. “Not until you admit it’s real. But seriously, Blair, are you okay?”
I breathed out through my nose. “You know, the first time, it was like a car crash. A really bad one. The kind that stays with you forever. You think about it every time you buckle your seatbelt. The pain lingers, even after the injuries are healed.”
Cherry nodded slowly. “And now?”
“Now… it’s like a car with brakes you never got around to fixing. Sure, you can try to drive slow, or use the emergency brake, but sooner or later it’s going to crash. And when it does…”
“You’re not surprised,” Cherry finished.
“No. I’m not. Holden needs to get his damn brakes fixed,” I muttered.
“Speaking of, where did your parents send him this time?” she asked, already guessing they’d acted fast. Cherry knew my parents nearly as well as I did.
“Some rehab facility in Idaho,” I said, remembering the look on Holden’s face when they told him.
“Idaho?” Cherry gasped, like I’d just told her they were making him eat raw horse meat. Honestly, that was exactly Holden’s reaction too.
“I think they’re going down the list of rehab centers that accept our insurance,” I explained. “Three-month stay.”
“You think it’ll help?” she asked, that familiar doubt curling in her voice. The same doubt we always felt.
“I think it will,” I said. To her. To myself. “Something’s got to stick.”
Cherry shrugged, lips pressing into a tight line like she wanted to say more, but didn’t. Instead, she turned back to the vanity and picked up a lipstick. She unscrewed the lid, applying it with precision. The color popped against her pale skin. Cherry red.
“So, why exactly are you forcing me to go with you tonight?” I asked, finally getting out of bed. I walked over to my closet and stared blankly at the rows of hanging clothes, none of them feeling like they belonged anywhere outside this room.
I didn’t go to parties. I didn’t drink. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t do drugs. I knew better. And Cherry knew that about me. She never pushed. Never asked me to be someone I wasn’t. So if she was asking tonight, there had to be a reason.
