I need something louder than my thoughts.
If I remain in this house for another minute, I’m convinced I’ll drown in it.
Chapter Eight
Jace
Cold air seeps through the thin walls of the trailer and sinks into my bones. The heater broke a fortnight ago, and I haven’t had the money to replace it. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you find sitting on the curb this time of year, waiting for some fool to drag it home and call it an upgrade.
The couch beneath me is stained and sagging in the middle, with its springs pressing into my back every time I shift my weight.
But it has been my home for the past nine years.
Ever since my vile aunt decided I was too much trouble to keep in the house. Likely to fuck up her perfect little life. That I would be a bad influence on her precious sons, that I bring trouble with me wherever I go. So she bought this piece of shit trailer, parked it out back and called it independence.
It’s out of sight. Out of mind. Let’s not dress it up as something it’s clearly not.
It is a little past twelve o’clock. I clocked off work an hour ago, grease still on my hands, burn marks up my forearms from the grill. My shift at the diner dragged on tonight. Fucking everything dragged on tonight.
I sit forward and roll the joint with steady fingers. The process is now automatic: grind, pack, twist, lick, seal, and light.
I inhale slowly and deeply, letting the smoke billow into my lungs until it stings. I hold it there, chasing that burn, then exhale toward the ceiling and watch it curl and fade in the dim light.
Getting stoned isn’t solely about fun.
It’s all about survival.
If I am high enough, I can sleep through the cold instead of waking every hour with my teeth chattering and my fingers numb. If I am high enough, my mind quiets down enough for me to shut my eyes without replaying every mistake, every fuck-up I’ve made, every look on someone’s face when they realize I am exactly what they thought I was.
Plus, if I get high enough tonight, that voice in my head will stop circling with the same shit.
Aubrey shutting me down at work. Or that expression on Lola’s face in that hospital room. The way something in me snapped tight and pulled back when I saw her standing there beside that bed.
I draw in another breath of smoke and hold it heavy in my chest.
Aubrey’s voice keeps echoing in my mind.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you. So take a fucking hint.”
It wasn’t loud, nor did it need to be. She delivered it calmly and clipped, afterward turning on her heel and walking back out tothe floor, dismissing me as if I were nothing more than a fly she couldn’t be bothered swatting away.
Most people treat me that way.
I earned that reputation myself. I don’t pretend to be anything different than what I am. People recognize that and assume they already know how it ends.
It’s a fucked-up system, though.
No one ever gave me the time of day when I was thirteen and still trying to figure out who I was supposed to be. No one ever waited long enough to see if there was anything else beneath the surface. So I stopped offering it. I stopped trying. I became exactly what they expected.
If you’re going to treat me like I’m disposable, so be it. I’ll act disposable. Fuck you and your opinions.
But even as that thought burns fiercely in my chest, something else keeps bothering me.
I should have pushed it.
I should have stepped in front of Aubrey before she walked away. I should have told her about the hospital, Lola’s dad, the machines, and the word coma hanging in the air.
I should have made her see that this isn’t drama. That this isn’t me chasing something shiny. This is fucking real.
