He looked up at that, something shifting in his face. "At least that's honest."
"You asked."
We stood there in the narrow kitchen, tension thick enough to cut. Outside, the sun had dropped all the way down, leaving the cabin dim. I should turn on more lights. Should suggest we move to the living room, do something to break this standoff.
Instead, I asked, "You want to tell me about the pills? How long you've been taking them?"
His jaw clenched. "Does it matter?"
"Might help me understand what we're dealing with."
He was quiet for a long stretch, and I thought he might tell me to fuck off. Then he sighed, shoulders dropping. "It's been almost four weeks since the injury now. Started with the prescribed dose. Then... I don't know. It stopped being about the pain and started being about not thinking."
"About what?"
"About everything." He pushed off the counter, agitation flooding back. "About my career being over. About coming out destroying everything I worked for. All the merch with my name on it, getting pulled from stores because no one was gonna buy their kid the jersey of a faggot." He swallowed hard. "Being that guy… the one who couldn't hack it when things got hard."
The rawness in his voice made my chest tight. I wanted to say something comforting, something to take away even a fraction of that pain, but empty bullshit would just piss him off more.
"The pills made it quieter?" I asked.
"Yeah. Everything got... soft around the edges. Manageable." He started pacing again, this time in the small space between kitchen and living room. "Without them, it's just noise. Constant noise in my head about everything I've lost."
I watched him pace, cataloging the restless energy, the way he kept rolling his injured shoulder like he couldn't get comfortable. His pupils were bigger than they should be, and sweat covered his forehead even though it wasn't warm in here.
"We should probably figure out sleeping arrangements," I said, even though it was barely past eight. "You look exhausted."
"I'm not tired. I'm wired." He stopped pacing to look at me. "This is what I was trying to avoid, you know. Feeling everything all at once. It's too much."
"I know."
"Do you?" The challenge was clear. "Have you ever felt like your entire identity just... evaporated? Like you woke up one day and everything you thought you were was just gone?"
The question hit closer than he knew. I thought about my dad dying, about being the kid who couldn't read well, about seven years of helping other people figure out their lives while putting my own on hold.
"Not exactly the same way," I said carefully. "But yeah, I've felt lost before."
He studied my face, and for a second the agitation seemed to ease. "Sorry. I'm being an asshole."
"You're going through some shit. There's a difference."
"Is there?" He laughed without any humor in it. "Feels like just more proof that I can't handle my shit without chemical assistance."
"That's not—"
"I'm going to check out the bedroom," he cut me off, moving past me toward the narrow hallway. "See if I can at least lie down, even if I can't sleep."
I let him go, not sure if following would help or just piss him off more. I cleaned up the mostly uneaten sandwiches, put the food away, wiped down the counter with more attention than it needed.
My phone buzzed again. Another reminder text from my credit union about loan paperwork that needed signatures.
Great. Adulting.
I pocketed the phone and stared at the closed bedroom door. From inside, I could hear Cord moving around—the bed frame creaking, footsteps on old wood, something getting set down hard on the nightstand.
This had seemed straightforward back at The Ranch. Give Cord space to deal with his shit without the pressure of being around other people, help him through the worst of it. Simple.
Nothing about this felt simple now.
