Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(55)

Dude, where is my calendar. I head toward the kitchen, wanting to count the days again, totally obsessive compulsive like. I’m turning into a freak.

I hear the door close and Boone’s heavy footfalls. “You don’t have a TV?”

Reaching into the fridge, I grab the orange juice. “Nope.”

I take a swig, cringing at the bitterness, “blah” then set the jug on the counter. “Want something to drink?” A shot of pure 100 percent liquor to chill you out? Then I immediately berate myself. I don’t even care that Boone’s so straightedge. I’m just really not in the mood to deal with his intensity tonight.

As I enter the living room, I note his stiff posture on my one piece of furniture. He’s sitting rigidly on the couch, his back straight, hands on thighs, feet planted evenly on the floor. He won’t look at me.

“I’ll stay until you come down. Make sure you don’t tweak too hard.” He runs a hand through his disheveled, spiky blond hair. “You’ve been clean long enough now that you could wig pretty hard…but you’ll be fine. Just in case…” He raises his eyes to me. “I’ll make sure.”

My heart thuds anxiously in my chest. My lips thin into a pursed, hard smile. I don’t want sobriety super hero Boone right now, swooping in and being all good guy, trying to save me and shit. I don’t want to feel bad about myself for getting high, for doing what I do, for being who I am.

“I’m not some junkie,” I say, leaning my back against the cool wall for support. “I’m not all cracked out, picking at sores on my face, begging for change on the side of the road. Sleeping with nasty trucker dudes to score a bag.” I bite my lip, stopping my rant. But the justified anger continues to rise.

He lets a smile slip. “You paint a vivid picture.”

I mock laugh. “Yeah, well. Sometimes I try a little too hard.” Staring down at the scuffed hardwood floor, I think about the journal next to Dar’s bandana on my wobbly nightstand. The random thoughts I’ve put on paper since my first week at Stoney. For whatever reason—therapeutic or boredom—I’ve continued to write. Short poems transforming into longer stories.

The most recent one: a ride Dar and I took a year ago to the falls. One of our secret spots that we call our own. Five little waterfalls funneling into a small, windy stream. The red and orange clay slick against our feet. We covered ourselves with the stuff, bragging it was better than a snazzy mud wrap. Our bikinis caked with the clay, we looked like two super tanned naked chicks biking down the highway when we left.

A pang hits my chest, and I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to repress the memory. I can feel the baggie of crank burning a hole in my pocket, calling me. Summoning me to sniff the f*ck out of it and halt the flow of memories threatening to pull me under.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, nodding toward the bathroom.

I lock the door behind me. The wooden barrier separating Boone from me doesn’t feel like enough. Like he can sense what I’m about to do; judging, disappointed. My reflection in the mirror mocks me; wild, windblown burgundy and black hair, pinhole pupils, flushed skin. I need an added layer of protection against his disapproval. Something to dull the sting.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the baggie. Set it on the counter. Christ! What am I doing? I step away from the sink, hands fisting in my hair, pulling it away from my face.

Slowly, calmly, I talk myself through it. Just another line. Just to take the edge off, to stop the past from creeping up. I suddenly see Dar’s dopey smile as she winks at me, laughing at something totally random and stupid. My dad, bent over a mirror, snorting a line of white powder. Him tossing his head back, seeing me…and winking.

The two memories collide. Flickering like an old movie reel.

Everything was always in the open. No one in my life held back dirty secrets. It was life, normal, who we were. All this rehab and counseling shit, and Boone’s constant, uptight presence in my life is what’s skewing my perception.

And I don’t even know why I care. I’ve never cared what anyone thought of me—especially some temporary guy. And really, if I’m f*cked up in his book, just what does that make him? He f*cking wails on people, inflicting pain, trying to inflict it on himself, as some form of punishment or redemption.

That shit is far worse than getting a high on and not wanting to settle down anywhere. Who the hell wants to be just like all the rest of the lame asses out there? All tied down to some loser who comes home late every night, two kids on either hip, miserable, discontent.

Fuck that.

I march toward the counter and grab the baggie. Wiping away any dust from the yellow marble, I clear a spot and empty half the contents onto the hard slab. I reach into my back pocket and tweak out my photo ID (my license still in the process of being suspended).

I don’t think while I chop. The hard plastic card cutting through the tiny white nuggets, turning them into fine powder, makes me sweat. I feel it beading along the back of my neck. Anxious to taste the bitter numbness.

My life is no harder than the average Joe working a nine-to-five—it’s just…a different kind of hard. People come in and out of my life. Floating along the timeline like little warped butterflies. Some I care for, some I love, some I even despise. But at some point—

Everyone leaves.

I drop my head and snort right off the counter.