Page 33 of Freefall

“Yeah?”

“I asked if you want to stay for dinner. I make a pretty mean baked ziti. Connor is on the night shift, so he won’t be home for a while.”

Connor is Jace’s roommate slash co-worker—well, former co-worker. Jace was an EMT up until a couple of months ago. By some miracle, he didn’t end up dead or in jail like I always feared, and despite everything that went down his senior year, he was able to graduate high school. Barely—but it counted. He didn’t go to college, not just because of the drugs, but because that was never his plan. He did some odd jobs for a while, mostly construction, which worked well for him because when he would inevitably get too high to show up to work and get fired, there were always other contractors looking for cheap labor. Then after he…after the overdose, he got clean again and started studying to be an EMT. He was halfway through the course when his girlfriend broke up with him, and he started using again. When he got sober a few years later so he could “be around to see his niece grow up,” he finished the classes and passed both the exam and the drug screening.

“Please, Mommy! Can we stay?”

It’s Daisy’s voice that snaps me out of it this time.

Jace’s lips curve into a smile, his right cheek revealing the dimple that no doubt has gotten him out of a jam a time or two. I know there were times when it was hard even for me to resist his puppy dog face.

“Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks, Jace.”

We head inside the apartment he shares with Connor. It’s at the edge of Emberfield, close to Rocky Falls. Not the best spot for him, considering it’s within walking distance of several bars, but it was what he could afford.

Daisy skips into the living room, where a large flatscreen TV is mounted on the wall, along with a worn black leather couch and a mismatched brown chair—the kind with the crank on the side that lets you flip up the footrest. Which is exactly what Daisy does after hopping onto it and grabbing the TV remote as if she just got home after a long day at the power plant.

My daughter is an old soul if I’ve ever seen one.

“So, what’s new, Harpsichord?” Jace calls from the kitchen, his voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of cupboards opening and pans clanging on the countertop.

“Not much,” I say, leaving Daisy to watch television as I head into the small kitchen. “Same old.”

How can four words contain so many lies? Maybe because in the time since I last saw him, I ran into my ex, who let me believe he was getting married, he showed up at my house to tell me something that looked important, or possibly even kiss me, but instead found out about the daughter he never knew existed, demanded a paternity test, and got back the results confirming he is, in fact, the father. Insert Maury Povich impersonation here.

“Yeah?” Jace has his head in his retro avocado-green fridge now, presumably gathering what he needs for the ziti. I’m pretty sure he and Connor hit up several garage sales, grabbing random items for their apartment when they first moved in. He pops back out and sets everything on the counter. “Are you sure? You look a little…”

I raise an eyebrow. “A little what?”

His eyes flash with what looks like pity. “Tired.”

I let out something between a scoff and a laugh. “Yeah, Jace. I’m a single mom. Tired comes with the territory.”

His expression shifts from concern to regret. “I know. I’m sorry, Harps. I didn’t mean⁠—”

I wave a hand in front of my face. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. I promise.” A pause. “What about you?”

The color returns to his cheeks, his hazel eyes lighting up when he says, “I’m good. Really good. I had to sell the Camaro to pay some bills, but I have a few leads on jobs, and Connor has been cool about the rent.”

I frown. Jace saved up for months to get that car. It was kind of a piece of shit when he first got it, but it still cost a lot because it was a limited-edition model from 1967 or something. At first, I thought it would be another of his half-hearted attempts at a hobby, but he started fixing it up and, to my surprise, restored it to near-original condition.

“You don’t have a car? Why didn't you tell me? I’ll give you the Jeep back. I had no idea.”

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you would say that. I want you to keep the Jeep. I’ve been hitching rides with friends. It’s no big deal.”

Except it is a big deal because “hitching rides with friends” is another precursor to using.

“I’m not using,” he says, reading my mind. “I didn’t even take the pills. I wanted to, Harps. I really fucking wanted to. Especially when my boss found out and fired my ass, but I flushed them, and I haven’t even had a sip of alcohol since the fourth. I’m going to meetings. I’m seeing that therapist you found. I blocked Pres.”

Preston Fairchild—the least drug-dealer-sounding name you will ever come across, yet he’s supplied my brother since the very beginning.

“I know I’ve said it before, but I’m done this time, Harps. I really am.” He flips an onion in his hand, drops it onto the cutting board, and peels off the outer layer. “You should go to a Nar-Anon meeting. A few of the people I talked to at NA said it’s been helpful for their families.”

I give him a small smile. Going to a meeting is probably the last thing on earth I want to do, but I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t at least try. I’ve always been a proponent of talking about your problems and getting support when you need it. It’s why I started going to therapy after I moved to Colorado and why I convinced Jace to try it.

“Okay,” I say. “Text me when the next meeting is, and I’ll try to make it.”

Jace smiles and continues to chop the onion before setting a pan on the stove.