“Your surgery was two years ago. I was on that stuff after my appendix, and they don’t give it to you for very long.”
“In my case not longenough. But I’m dealing with it, and it’s under control. This isn’t a fucking crisis.”
“You’re ‘dealing with it’? Like Uncle Russ did? Maybe go ask Mom how confident she is that you have it ‘under control.’ You remember how destroyed she was when he died.”
“Jesus, Sage! Don’t play that card. This isn’t the same.”
“Itisthe same, and that was her point when she talked to you about this last year when you were still asking for refills. ‘An equal-opportunity ruiner of lives,’ she said. We have a family history with this shit. You should know better.”
He looks sad enough that I almost soften, but I know I should be stern. If anyone in this family can call Jules out on his bullshit, it’s me; I’m not deterred by his puppyish charm.We stare each other down. I beckon, nodding toward the bottle. “Hand it over.”
“Fuckno,” he says with a harsh little laugh. “This is none of your business.”
I shove my hand closer. “I wanna see the date on the label.”
He pockets the bottle. “Quit hassling me, all right? Fine—you got me. It’s expired. I’m dealing with a lot, so I have to get creative. And I use the old bottle so I can travel with it.”
He folds his arms across a tan torso littered with scars from various climbing accidents over the years. His jaw is hard. The glitter of his green eyes—like Mom’s, not mine and Dad’s—is inky-deep from his splayed pupils.
I cross my arms too, mirroring his stubbornness. “So, ‘creative’ means buying from some black-market lowlife with a pill press?”
“Don’t be dramatic. What do you care anyway?”
“Because, dumbass… if you overdose on fake pills made of fentanyl and chalk, it’llruin our parents’ lives.”
He looks down at his bare feet. “I… I use test strips,” he mumbles. “For fentanyl.”
“Gee, that makes me feelsomuch better about it.” My fist shoots out and I punch him on the shoulder so fast that he doesn’t have time to block it. “How much are you using? I have every right to be worried!”
“I’m not talking to you about this,” he retorts, rubbing his shoulder. “You’re just getting off on feeling superior. Rack up those points, Sage. Life is a zero-sum game to you. You don’t even like me, so why bother acting concerned?”
We fall silent, and for a minute I watch his stupid feet onthe Italian tile floor. His left one is a funny shape because of the missing pinky toe. I hate to admit it to myself, but it really hurts to hear him say,You don’t even like me.
There’s a creak of footsteps behind me as someone walks into the kitchen, and I hear Priya gasp. I spin around and find her standing in the black Petzl T-shirt Julian was wearing when he showed up. Her mile-long legs are bare beneath, and she takes a quick step back through the archway, panicked eyes going from me to Julian.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I growl, smoothing a hand over my face. “Really?” I glance at my brother, who’s gnawing on his lower lip, studying Priya as if he’s not sure whether he should invite her over and throw an arm around her in a show of solidarity or avoid her like poison oak.
It wasn’t until this second that I realized just how much I’mnotokay with the idea of them getting together. Doesn’t fail-son Jules get enough already? I’ve always suspected he’s my parents’ favorite, even though I’m the achiever.He needs me so much, and you’re so competent, my mom once said. I’ve never forgotten that. Why does being a fuckup make him special?
And now he gets Priya too?Mybest friend?
“Again,” I tell her coldly, “I can’t say much for your taste. And now he’s apparently a drug addict—even better! What a catch.”
She tugs the T-shirt hem down, but her pale blue panties are still showing. “He… he’s… I mean, he said his back is hurting tonight. It’s just medication.” She looks at him. “Isn’t it?”
I blow an impatient raspberry. “He may’ve thrown his backout fucking you, but that ain’t ‘medication’ in the bottle, honeybee. It’s street junk.”
Her big eyes are all concern as she focuses on him. “Julian, what does she mean?”
“It means,” I tell her, “that he’s perfect for you now. You can’t resist a stray in need. Time to get out a cardboard box and a blanket and nurse another one back to life.”
Immediately I know I’ve pushed too far. Her eyes go wide—first shock, then pain—and she flattens her lips in the way she does when she’s trying not to say something. I recognize that I’m in the wrong and hate myself for how I lash out instead of letting people see it when I’m feeling vulnerable. I open my mouth to take it all back, but the words are frozen in me.
Does Julian have a serious problem? If he does, and he and Priya are together, what will that do to her? Uncle Russ’s girlfriend ended up circling the drain with him, caught in his downward spiral while trying to rescue him…
“Don’t be mean,” Priya says, her woundedness pivoting to anger. “What’s wrong with you? That’s not helping anyone, Sage.”
At her change in tone, my remorse twists into reciprocal hostility.
