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The kind of help easily solved by a rideshare app.
Half a dozen voicemail messages in the last two hours. It's late on a Friday. She's probably at some shitty bar with some asshole.
I'm not rescuing her again.
It isn't happening.
I press my back against the beige wall. The bathroom is empty. The two silver stalls are unlocked. The wide sink is clean. Dry. The shiny mirror reflects my inability to cut Bree off back at me.
It's going to be like this until she ODs and doesn't get help fast enough.
Are you going to run to her side until the day you get there and she's a fucking corpse?
Shit. I don't want to do this. But I have to.
I call my parents. First Mom. Her cell goes to voicemail. I try Dad. His message greets me.
Hello, you've reached Robert Williams. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you.
It's all business. Like him.
"Dad, call me. We need to talk about Bree." I hang up.
It's late, nearly two a.m. They're sleeping. This isn't the time for this conversation.
But then it never is.
I shoot my sister a text.
Walker: You want to make it up to me? Take an Uber home.
I plant one hand on the counter and stare back at my reflection.
It continues mocking me.
This could be it. I can tell her to get lost right now. I can tell her she's out of my life forever, block her number, and never hear from her again.
It would mean ceasing most communication with my parents.
And all her old friends.
And more or less sentencing her to die with a syringe in her hand.
But it's been a fucking eternity and I haven't been able to do much about that.
It takes a few minutes for her to text back.
Sabrina: You're mad.
No shit, I'm mad.
She's like a child.
Walker: It's nearly two, Bree. Go home. Sleep it off. Call me when you're sober.
That's all I can take tonight.
I turn my cell off, slide it into my pocket, and make my way back to Iris.
