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“It can wait,” I tried to buy myself more time by saying. “Until lunch, or after school, maybe?” I rambled nervously, hands flapping aimlessly. “After work is fine, too. Or tomorrow. Hell, tomorrow’s good for me, too. It doesn’t have to be right this second.”
“Listen, I already know how this conversation is going to go,” Joey interrupted me by saying. “You’ve got shit to say to me, shit I deserve to hear, so just lay it on me.”
“Lay it on you?” Confusion swept through me. “Joe, I don’t think we’re on the same page here.”
“Yesterday,” he blurted out, expelling a heavy sigh and rubbing his jaw. “The way I was? What you saw? I know that I let you down, okay? I fucked up and I get that, but you don’t need to worry. It’s not like it was before, Molloy. I am not the same person that I was before Christmas, and I have no intention of going back to that place. I’ve got a handle on it this time, okay?”
Drugs.
He was talking about drugs.
And while his behavior yesterday certainly needed to be addressed, it wasn’t on the top of today’s fucked-up agenda.
Because, as ridiculous as it sounded, we had an even bigger problem.
“When you say that you’ve got a handle on it,” I said warily, “what you actually mean to say is that you had a momentary slip in sanity for a few weeks, but you’ve come to your senses and will never do it again, right?”
Say it.
Please just say it.
Tell me that you’re trying again.
All I need you to do is keep trying.
“I’m good, Molloy,” he insisted, tone light. “It’s all good. You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m in control here.”
I’m in control here.
Devastation flooded me. My heart cracked in my chest.
“That’s not what I asked you, Joey.”
“Everything’s fine.”
Pain.
It threatened to swallow me whole.
“Say it,” I demanded hoarsely. “Tell me that you’re trying again.”
He didn’t respond.
“Tell me that you’re stopping, Joe. Better yet, tell me that you’ve already stopped.”
“I just told you that I’m good,” he replied, tone sharp as he stood up, walked to the other side of my room, and made a half-assed attempt at inspecting one of the doors he’d hung on my wardrobe. “Stop worrying, okay? It’s all good.”
“Good?” I hissed, reaching for my school skirt and pulling it on. “I’ve been here before with you, remember? I’ve walked this path with you a thousand times, and if you’re using again, then you’re not good, and if yesterday’s anything to go by, then you sure as hell aren’t in control.”
“You’re wrong,” he bit out, still inspecting the door. “You’re overreacting here.”
“And you’re delusional,” I snapped, pulling my school jumper over my head. “And a goddamn liar.”
“Molloy.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Don’t Molloy me, asshole. You can’t sweet-talk yourself out of this one. I am not okay with this, I have never been okay with this, and I never will be.”
Shrugging, he closed my wardrobe door and turned to face me. “Then I don’t know what to tell you.”
