Chapter 1
The pill bottle rattles when I shake it. The sound is hollow, plastic against plastic, too loud in the quiet bathroom.
Three left.
I stare at the orange plastic in my hand, counting backward. The label's been peeled off—torn away weeks ago in a moment of paranoia, leaving only sticky residue and faint paper fragments. Refill's due in five days, but I still have three pills. That's fine. That's manageable. I'm not cutting it close.
You're always cutting it close.
I twist the cap off and dry-swallow the suppressant without water, tilting my head back, throat working as the pill catches halfway down. I feel it scrape down my throat. Bitter. Chalky. Like swallowing dust. Like swallowing chalk and shame. A taste I've known for eleven years.
The bathroom mirror shows me what I always see: too-pale skin, almost translucent under the harsh fluorescent light, shadows under my eyes that never quite disappear, dark hair that needs a cut. It falls into my eyes, long enough that I can hide behind it when I need to. I look tired. I am tired. But that's normal. That's just how things are.
I trace the scar on my collarbone through my t-shirt—thin, white, barely visible. My finger follows the line frommemory, knowing exactly where it starts and ends even through fabric. One of many. Some I can hide. Others I can't.
The pill sits heavy in my stomach. A weight that doesn't belong there. Foreign. Wrong.
You're disgusting. Filthy. Unnatural.
Linda's voice. Still sharp after all these years. Still cutting. Even four years after Margot took me away from her, I still hear it. Still feel her hand cracking across my face when she caught me without my shirt, saw what I was becoming at thirteen. The sting. The shock. The shame that burned hotter than the pain.
"Max?" Margot's voice drifts up the stairs. Warm. Gentle. Everything Linda's wasn't. "Dinner's ready, sweetheart!"
I shake my head, fingers gripping the edge of the sink hard enough that my knuckles go white, and push the memories down where they belong. Linda's gone. I'm safe. I have Margot.
I have a home.
"Coming!" My voice cracks on the word. I clear my throat, try again. “Coming.”
I shove the pill bottle into my pocket—habit, paranoia, whatever——feeling the hard plastic press against my thigh through thin denim, and head downstairs.
Our apartment is small. Cozy, Margot calls it. We've lived here for four years, just the two of us, and I know every creak in the floorboards, the loud groan on the third step that I skip automatically, every water stain on the ceiling, every chip in the kitchen tile. The one near the stove where Margot dropped a pot last winter.
It's ours.
Or it was.
Margot's set the table with actual placemats tonight, the nice ones she saves for special occasions. Deep blue fabric ones with embroidered edges, not the everyday cork ones with coffee rings. Two plates. Two glasses of wine—well, one wine, onesparkling cider for me because she's a stickler about the drinking age.
She smiles when I walk in, and it's the smile that saved me. Warm. Real. The kind that reaches her eyes, makes them crinkle at the corners. The kind that makes you believe someone actually gives a shit whether you live or die.
"Sit," she says, pulling out my chair like I'm someone worth caring for. "I made your favorite."
Chicken parmesan. Garlic bread. The smell hits me—tomato sauce, basil, melted cheese—and my stomach growls despite the pill sitting heavy inside it. Plus the salad I'll pretend to eat.
I sit. The chair scrapes against the linoleum, too loud.
We eat in comfortable silence for a minute—Margot's never been one to fill space with meaningless chatter—but I can tell she has something on her mind. She keeps glancing at me, then away. Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. She sets it down. Picks it up. Sets it down again. Nervous.
Margot doesn't get nervous.
"So," she says finally, setting down her fork. The metal clinks against the plate—a sharp, decisive sound. "I need to talk to you about something."
My stomach drops. The food I just swallowed turns to lead.
Here it comes.
"Okay," I say, forcing my voice to stay level. Calm. I set down my own fork carefully, line it up perfectly with my knife. Like I'm not already cataloging worst-case scenarios.
