Page 82 of Freefall

He doesn’t answer. All I can hear is him yelling, fists banging, and wood splintering in the background.

“They won’t fucking let me in, Harp. She left me, and they won’t let me in.”

“Jace.” I grip the phone tighter. “Take a breath. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Becca kicked me out. Said she couldn’t handle walking on eggshells anymore. Not being able to drink…” He trails off, and for the first time since he called, the pounding stops. “And now my own fucking parents won’t let me in.”

There’s no need to ask the obvious question. I know my brother’s voice by heart. Sober. Drunk. High. Rock bottom.

“What am I supposed to do, Harp?” His voice cracks on the last word. “I don’t know what to do.”

This is the one that hurts the most. Not because it’s desperate, but because it’s tired. Bone-deep exhausted. Lost. Lonely. So fucking sad, I’d walk through fire if it meant never hearing it again.

A slow breath catches in my lungs. I try to exhale, but it burns.

Focus, Harper.

I’m safe. He’s not. I have to save him.

“Stay where you are,” I say as steadily as I can. “I’m on my way.”

The second I end the call, I dial my mom’s number. It goes straight to voicemail, so I try my dad. He answers on the second ring.

“Harper.” His voice is strained. “We’re calling the police.”

“No.” Fumbling with my keys, I jog to the student lot where my car is parked. “Dad, please. Let me talk to him first.”

“I don’t know…” He sighs—he’s also tired. “Harper…your mother. He’s been saying some awful things. He needs help, and we’re out of options. We can’t afford to pay for rehab again.”

“I know.” The words scrape at my throat on the way out. “Just…please let me try first.”

There’s a pause. Then another long sigh. “Okay.”

When I pull into my parents’ driveway, I find Jace slumped against the front door. His legs are kicked out in front of him, his bloodied fists resting limply in his lap.

My stomach drops, nausea rising in my throat, but I mentally wave it away. Without saying a word, I slide down beside him. Then, so quietly I almost miss it, he says something he’s never once said since he started using. “I think I need help, Harp.”

We don’t talk anymore after that. I don’t tell him that he’s not only slowly killing himself, but he’s also taking pieces of me in the process. I don’t remind him that the last time he’d been in this house, I found him overdosing in the bathroom while our mother set down the last of the Thanksgiving meal she had spent an entire day preparing. I don’t tell him how angry I am. Or how scared. Instead, I clean up his mess. I take him to the guesthouse, make him shower, and force him to choke down half of a peanut butter sandwich between sips of water.

My phone is nowhere to be found. I must have left it in the car when I jumped out. Jace’s screen is shattered, but it still works, so I spend the next hour calling outpatient programs until I find one in Rocky Falls that takes state insurance. They refer me to a men’s shelter there. I call to see if they have any room. They do, but they require drug testing, so I walk up to the main house and convince my parents to let him stay in the guesthouse until he gets the drugs out of his system. They’re hesitant, but they finally agree.

It’s dark by the time Jace finally falls asleep. I’ll get clothes from campus and come back later tonight. I only have one final left, and I can’t leave him alone to detox.

The cold December air hits my face as I step outside, and almost immediately, a wave of nausea rolls through me. Normally, I’d blame the stress, but this has been happening almost every day for the past week. I swallow hard. It doesn’t help. Another wave crashes over me, stronger this time. I barely make it to the grass before emptying the contents of my stomach. What’s there, anyway? Just the muffin I’d eaten that morning.

After a minute, the nausea eases enough for me to stand, and I climb into my car, resting my forehead against the cool steering wheel. My phone lights up on the passenger seat. At first I ignore it, but it vibrates again. And again.

Finally, I pick it up, bringing it in front of my face. Ten text messages. Five missed calls. Every single one of them from Nate.

Jace’s voice drags me back to the present. “I didn’t use,” he says again. “I promise, Harps.”

My gaze drops to the crumpled liquor store bag sticking out of the pocket of his sweatshirt. Then to the split in his lip. A faint bruise is forming under his right eye; his knuckles are red and swollen.

The mattress dips as he shifts his weight. “Some guy was starting shit.”

Jace isn’t a violent man. If anything, he has this innate desire to help people. Except when he’s drunk or high.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I say.