I can’t meet her eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“This doesn’t define you, you know. None of it does.”
“I know that.”
The nurse calls my fake name, and I stand, my pulse hammering in my ears. Emma walks beside me, her steps steady, her voice calm as she talks to the nurse like it’s just another routine appointment. I try to cling to her composure, but it feels impossible since I’m definitely not calm.
The nurse gestures for me to sit, and I do, rolling up my sleeve without a word. Her eyes flick to my arm, and for a moment, her professional mask slips. Her gaze lingers on the jagged marks and bruises that trail along the inside of my elbow.Track marks.She doesn’t say anything, but her expression tightens, and I feel the weight of her judgment like a punch to the chest.
Emma notices too. I know that because I can hear her sharp intake of breath. When I do look at her, her eyes widen. She looks...stunned. Like she’s seeing me for the first time in this shitty life of mine.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, her voice trembling as she finally takes my hand. I squeeze it hard, desperate for something to ground me. My throat burns, and I’m not sure if it’s from the needle piercing my skin or the shame coiling tight in my gut.Crazy how the moment I feel a needle, my body wants to believe it’s the high.
The nurse finishes quickly, and Emma thanks her for me because I can’t get the words out. My tongue feels heavy, and I’m wildly uncomfortable. I hate existing in my own skin as this person.
We walk outside, and the sunlight hits me in the face. I squint against it, my head pounding in rhythm with my heartbeat.
“You did it,” Emma says softly, but there’s something strained in her voice now.
I let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Guess I did.”
She stops walking, turning to face me. Her eyes are searching, and I can’t meet them. “Jude…” she starts, her voice low and careful. “Your arm…”
My stomach lurches. I knew this was coming. I shove my hands into my pockets, staring at the ground.
“I didn’t know you were...I guess I didn’t think that...” she stutters.
“Obviously, I’m injecting, Emma. It’s been seven fucking years of drugs.” My voice is loud, and she flinches.
She reaches out, her fingers brushing my arm where the marks are hidden beneath my sleeve. “Talk to me,” she pleads, her voice firm. “Please.”
I close my eyes, feeling her fear, her disappointment.
It’s too much.
My fists clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms as something hot and violent rears up in my chest before I can stop it.
Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.
You have no fucking idea what I’ve survived.
No, I don’t want to talk about it.
I force my hands to loosen, drag in a breath, shove it back down. “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper finally.
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then she exhales slowly and nods. “Okay.”
I nod, and we start walking again. “I appreciate you for helping me with this.”
She nudges my shoulder. “You’re important to me. Of course. So do you wanna come over for dinner? Heather will be there. Bring Micah?”
My shoulders relax a little. “We’ll see you tonight. Text me the time.”
Chapter seventeen
EMMA EASTON
The kitchen smells like garlic, basil, and butter, pretty much comfort in its purest form. The sauce simmers on the stove, bubbling softly, and Heather hums the melody of some song beside me as if nothing in the world is wrong. She pours us both another glass of wine, her pale pink floral skirt swaying around her legs in these effortless little movements. Of course, she manages to tie her hair up in one of those perfect, messy knots. Whenever I attempt to tie my hair up like that, I just look like a gremlin.
