“Yeah, well.” I stare out over the dark water. “Knowing and seeing are different.”
He’s silent for a few heartbeats. “I’m angry,” he says. “Not at you. At what happened to you. At everything you went through alone.”
The words hit me so hard I have to bite the inside of my cheek. “I wasn’t alone,” I mutter. “I had the band.”
He gives me a look. “You were alone where it mattered.”
The ocean roars softly, filling the space where I can’t speak. “I didn’t know how to come home,” I say finally. My voice cracks on the last word.
Dad’s eyes soften. “You’re our son. That didn’t change. Even when everything else did.”
I blink hard, looking back out at the dark horizon because if I look at him any longer, I’ll break apart. This vulnerability seems to gnaw at my rage and shame. I hate it.
He shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing mine—a small, intentional gesture. “When you’re ready,” he says, “we’ll help you. Butyoudecide the pace.Youdecide what you share and what you need.”
“I don’t know what I need,” I whisper. I don’t want them to know everything that’s been happening to me. It would absolutely kill my mom. All they need to know about is my substance abuse.
Dad rests his hand briefly on the back of my neck, the same way he used to when I was a kid, then lets go. “I’m proud of you for coming home,” he murmurs. “More than you realize.”
“I know.”
The door slides open behind us softly, and Emma steps out with two mugs of tea, eyes flickering between us. Dad gives her a small nod, athank youwithout saying it. He squeezes my shoulderonce more, then steps back toward the door. “I’ll let you two talk,” he says quietly, and disappears inside. The sliding door shuts behind him.
Emma stands beside me, her mug warming her hands, her gaze soft but definitely analytical. She finally speaks. “You’re doing good, Jude.”
My chest tightens. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do.” She shifts closer, close enough that her coat brushes my arm. “You camehome. You talked to them. You let them see you. That’s huge.”
I swallow, looking anywhere but her. She reaches to steady the mug in my hand, and her fingers graze mine. She pauses.
I freeze.
Her eyes flick down to see that my hand is trembling.
Fuck.
I try to curl my fingers tighter around the mug, hide it, something, but it’s too late. The coke still has me buzzing, crashing, clawing at my nerves. Or maybe it’s the emotions. Or both.
She looks up at me slowly, eyes softening.
I look away immediately, heat crawling up my neck. Shame. Need. Panic. All of it tangling together until I can barely breathe. “I’m fine,” I lie.
Her voice drops even softer. “You’re shaking.”
“I said I’m fine.”
She lets out another heavy breath. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
I flinch.
She studies my face, and something in her expression shifts. Understanding. “I’ll be right inside,” she says quietly. “Take a minute.” Her hand traces along my arm before she turns and slips inside. But as soon as the door closes, the craving slams into me like a wave.
My fingers twitch. I need something.Anything.Coke or oxy is fine for moments like this, but now that I’ve fallen for heroin and meth, I can’t...I can’t go without them. No matter how hard Ifucking try. I never understood how it all worked back when adults told us kids to stay away from drugs. I never knew that once I injected, I’d have to do it once or twice a day.
Just to breathe.
My hands are already in my hoodie pocket before I realize I’ve moved. The baggie’s still there. My stomach twists with disgust and relief all at once. I head inside, avoiding the living room, veering straight down the hallway until I reach the bathroom. I shut the door quietly. Lock it. And the second the lock clicks, my façade cracks.
