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"No."
"Then it can't be that bad."
He shakes his head. "Wasn't one thing. Was a million little things." Kit's voice gets soft. "What do you think about most nights, before you fall asleep?"
My cheeks flush. I think about him. I think about his body on top of mine.
He reads my mind. "Besides that."
"I don't know. School. My friends. What I'm doing the next day."
"You know what I think about?"
"Besides sex?"
He nods. "I think about how badly I want to be high. I've been using, on and off, since I was fifteen. It was under control until the band really blew up. Then the pressure, the shows at the big clubs and the arenas— I couldn't take it. I needed more than a mild numb. I needed to be out of my head."
I want to argue with him, but something stops me. There's this mix of regret and hurt in his dark eyes. And the way he's looking at the ground—I can tell it's a big deal he's sharing this with me.
Kit presses his palms into his quads. "Joel's always been a good friend, probably a better friend then I ever deserved. He's always been nosy. But I'd been using for ten years. It was like with your friend— you don't notice how much something has changed when it only changes a little bit every day. I didn't realize how bad it was. Nobody did. It wasn't until I really started fucking shit up—missing shows or recording sessions—that anybody asked if I had a problem. Wasn't like the guys could really talk. We all drank too much and fucked around too much back then."
"Except Mal."
He nods. "Except Mal. Me, Ethan, and Joel were always partying. But they knew when to stop, knew how to stay sober. For a while, I convinced them I did too. But then..." Kit looks to the sky. "One day, Joel came to me with all this evidence. He looked at me like I ripped his heart out. I probably did, lying to him for that long... He had everyone in agreement. Either I could go to rehab, or I'd be out of the band. That's my family, my livelihood, only place I've ever belonged. And I still took a month to decide. I still want to throw that away to feel good for a few hours."
I hold his gaze until he's back from his memory, until he's here with me. "Do you get high?"
"No."
"Then what's it matter?"
He leans back into his seat and looks to the sky. He's quiet for a long time. When he speaks, his voice is soft. It's like he can barely get this out. "You know what I did the first time I found my mom's stash?"
"No, but I doubt it's going to convince me you're an asshole."
"We were at the mall, trying on jeans. I got out of the dressing room and she was different. It was like she wasn't there."
"How old were you?"
"Fifteen."
"That's young."
He stares back at me. "I got her home, cleaned her up, put her to bed. Then I went looking in her medicine cabinet. She had a fucking cornucopia. Oxy, Percocet, Xanax, Ativan. Any painkiller or anti-anxiety med. You name it, she had it."
"And?"
"I should have flushed her stash. Or called my dad. Or told the maid."
"You were a kid."
"I took one, to see what it was like. To see what she chose over being with me." He looks to the ground. "And I got it right away. I understood right away. I understood so well I could barely stay mad."
I move closer. I know he's trying to push me away, but it's not going to work. He's my friend and I can tell he's hurting right now.
I slide my arm around his waist and pull him into a hug. "I'm sorry about your mom."
His posture softens. He presses his palm between my shoulder blades. "You shouldn't hang out with me."
