Page 90 of A Tragic Melody

“Until you’re low on supplies and think what’s one more time, and then another, and then suddenly you want it. Get rid of it, Tues. Now.”

“I’m not that stupid.” I glare at him.

“You mean not as stupid as me?” He lifts a brow.

“Exactly.”

“Then get rid of it,” he says.

“No. You don’t get to tell me what to do. Remember how this works? I tell you to jump, and you ask how high.”

“Then ask me to jump,” he snaps.

“I’m going to let you two handle this,” Quinn says, holding up his hands before leaving the room.

“Move out of my way, Wyatt,” I say, pushing at his arm. He barely moves. “Now.”

“Get rid of the drugs, Tues.”

“You just want them gone because you want some.”

“Would you get rid of them if I said that was true?”

“No.” I smirk at him. “I’d do more.” He grabs my bag from my hand, yanking it from my grip. “Hey!” I protest. He starts pulling stuff out of it. My clothes, my hairbrush, straightener, my makeup bag. He unzips that, glancing in it, before grabbing the other makeup bag. “Wyatt, don’t you dare.” He grabs the bag, smiling as he unzips it. “You don’t have any right to do this.” I go to reach for it, but he pulls it back.

“Which vial?” he asks, digging through it.

“I’m not answering that.”

“I’ll dump it all.”

“You are being ridiculous.”

“I’m not asking you to stop completely,” he snaps. “I’m getting rid of the fucking meth so you don’t end up as bad as I was, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“You are so fucking close, Tues. Don’t you fucking see it?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because someone has to!”

“Why does it have to be you?” I yell back.

His mouth opens, but then shuts. “You’re right.” He drops the bag. “Do whatever you want, Tues.” He grabs his bag off the floor. “I just thought…you’d want me to care. My bad.”

He walks out, letting the dressing room door slam shut behind him.

Something breaks inside me. Tears spill out of my eyes as I drop to my knees. I begin throwing my stuff back in my bag as I cry. My lungs seize as I cry so hard I shake.

I grab the bag he dropped, pulling out the vial of the coke I did. I eye it, twisting the cap off, and pulling out the tiny handle with a spoon on the end. I scoop some out of it, lifting it towards my nose, before pausing.

His words bounce around my head. He doesn’t want me to get as bad as he was. He cares. It shouldn’t hurt, but it hurts so bad. I blow the powder off the spoon and push myself to my feet. I dump the vial into the sink, turning the water on to wash it down.

I stuff the bag in my backpack and wipe at my eyes before marching out of the room.

When I walk onto the bus, I march down towards his bunk. I pull the curtain back, and his head turns to me.