“Ouch,” she hissed, wincing in sympathy.
I nodded, then let my gaze drift to her chest. Her breasts weren’t flat, but they weren’t much more than a handful either. I reached out and prodded one, giggling when it wobbled like jelly.
“What are these like?” I asked, poking it again until Trix laughed and smacked my hand away.
“They’re just... there, y’know?” She flicked her pierced nipple like it meant absolutely nothing. “I don’t know how some girls deal with massive ones. Bella’s are huge and they give her backache.”
I glanced down at my own flat chest and hummed. “Yeah,” I murmured. “Think I’m glad I don’t have any.”
“What the fuck is going on in here?”
We both snapped our heads towards the doorway. Bella stood there with an amused grin, a freshly lit joint in one hand and a glass of what looked like cola in the other.
Trix pushed herself up and offered me a hand. We wrapped ourselves in the hotel’s complimentary robes and shuffled back into the bedroom. While we’d been gone, Bella had rolled another joint for us, and music hummed softly from a Bluetooth speaker on the dresser. Two glasses sat on the table between the beds, filled right to the brim.
I flopped onto the mattress and reached for one, grateful for it since my mouth felt like sandpaper. The second the liquid hit my tongue, I almost choked. The sharp burn of vodka caught me completely off guard.
“Fucking hell,” I sputtered, wiping my chin.
“Bella always makes them strong,” Trix mumbled around the joint as she lit up.
She motioned for her own glass and I handed it over, watching in mild horror as she drank almost all of it in one go. It probably made me look like a lightweight, but even before rehab, alcohol had never really been my thing. Drugs were the main event. Drinks were just something to wash the cottonmouth away.
Half the time, I didn’t even realise how much I’d had until the next morning, when my head was splitting and I was hunched over a toilet, paying for it in full.
“Let’s do this pamper night right,” Trix said simply.
Bella cranked the volume on the speaker, and the bass vibrated through the mattress like a second heartbeat. Somewhere along the way, the vibe in the room had shifted without anyone really noticing. I glanced at the plastic bags slumped on the bed behind us, face masks and nail polish forgotten. “Pamper” had been stretched thin, reshaped to mean whatever we needed it to mean now.
“This is still self-care,” Trix declared, lifting her empty glass in a lazy toast. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Hear, hear!” Bella said, already pouring her another drink. The vodka filled more of the glass than I expected, and when the cola followed, it crested the rim and spilled onto the carpet. No one moved to wipe it up.
This was the point where I should’ve excused myself. Made ajoke about needing an early night. Should’ve chosen responsibility. Boring. Honest.
But instead, I stayed exactly where I was.
I’d already crossed the line. That much was impossible to ignore now.
Weed wasn’t harmless. It wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t Oxy, but it was relapse adjacent. Close enough to feel familiar without tripping the loud alarms rehab had trained me to obey. It was enough that I could lie to myself and say it didn’t count.
Walking out now would make it awkward. It would turn a hazy, half-drunk, half-stoned pamper night into questions I didn’t have the energy to survive. Because saying no would mean explaining myself, and explaining myself would mean admitting things I’d been skirting around since Milan. Since Zurich. Since the first Tramadol slid down my throat and I’d told myself it was temporary, controlled, different this time.
I didn’t want to look at that, not yet. I didn’t want to peel it open and see how thin the line really was.
So I stayed.
I didn’t reach for another drink or another pull on a joint. But I didn’t push it away when it was offered either. The room felt warmer now. Softer. My thoughts slowed until they stopped tripping over each other, the constant hum in my chest fading to something distant. Something more manageable.
This was the “I’ve come this far” part of my downfall. Where staying here felt easier than walking away. Because backing out and leaving meant facing myself, while staying and partaking meant I could pretend a little longer.
Trix bumped her shoulder into mine and grinned. “You’re vibing now,” she said, pleased. “See? And you said you weren’t the partying type.”
I smiled back because it was easier than admitting I’d crossed a line and hadn’t felt it give way beneath my feet.
She nudged my knee with hers conspiratorially. “You’re good, yeah?” she asked, already sure of the answer she wanted.
I nodded, and she grinned.
