He knows the truth about me, and any chance I had with Bailey and with him is gone.
The pain in my chest is so severe it feels like I’m being stabbed in the heart. I knew this was coming, but the anger on his features cleaves my heart in two.
Somehow, I thought last night might make things different. The connection we shared and the mind blowing sex that was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I was going to tell him the truth today, and I stupidly hoped he might understand.
But one look at Grant’s lined brow and clenched fists has my heart breaking. He knows, and it’s over.
Grant’s not bothered to get dressed and even though his anger is turned on me, my gaze takes in his muscular body, covered in tattoos and scars, and his impressive length swinging between his legs.
At least we had last night.
I scoop Bailey up, and as I carry her to her dad, I give her a kiss on the top of her head, burying my face in her soft curls and savoring her milky scent.
“Goodbye, sweet girl.”
I hold her out to their father, and he takes her from my arms. Relief floods his face, and he holds her so tight that she squirms.
“I’ll get my things.” I walk past him and into the house.
There’s no point trying to explain myself. I hate myself for what I am, and there’s no reasonable explanation for my addiction. For the darkness that took me after the accident. The prescription painkillers that dried up once my insurance ran out, but not without first taking their hold on me. The strong opioids that got me through back surgery and recovery but left me reliant on them and addicted to their warmth and the golden glow they surrounded me with. The clawing feeling when I didn’t have them. The way my skin itched and my back ached and my insides burnt so intensely that I had to find a substitute on the street.
A “friend” introduced me to Fentanyl. He gave me a pill, and it was no different to the prescription opioids I’d been on. At least that’s what I told myself. No different.
Except it was different. It was stronger, and more addictive, and illegal.
Somehow, it’s okay for my doctor to prescribe me opioids and leave me addicted, but if I try to feed that addiction on the street, I’m nothing but a junkie. Another statistic of the West Virginia opioid epidemic.
I head into the house and grab my backpack from the living room. I’m zipping it up when I hear Grant come into the room behind me.
He sets Bailey down on her play mat and she gets busy pushing large colorful beads around a metal loop.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I pick up my bag and shoulder it.
“Would it have made a difference? I got one night with you and a day with Bailey. At least I got that.”
He’s frowning at me.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving. You obviously know, somehow, about what I am. So I’m leaving before you kick me out.”
Grant looks at me, and he shakes his head slowly. “I’m not kicking you out, April.”
He says it gently, and it takes me a moment to register what he’s really saying.
“I’m mad because you didn’t tell me. You didn’t trust me.”
There’s hurt in his eyes and genuine concern.
“I tried to. But it’s hard to admit that you’re a former addict.’
He cocks his head. “Former?”
“I’ve been clean for eight weeks, three days, and seven hours.”
It comes out bitter, because I’m still at the stage where every hour feels like a victory. Where the days stretch long ahead of me, and each one I get through without using is an achievement.
