Page 29

By day two, my body stops trying to kill me.

By day three, I almost trust it again. Even if I still don’t trust myself.

The apartment is quiet when I can finally sit up without the world spinning. My throat’s raw, stomach hollow, and there’s this awful awareness in my chest—like the fallout settling in. I'll have to actually face the shitstorm I caused at some point, but for the first time in days, I’m upright. Sucking in a breath doesn't hurt… at least, not in my lungs. My fucking nostrils, on the other hand…

Wrinkling my nose, I sniff at my underarms and gag. Nearly a week without a shower—plus sweating out all the shit in my system—made me rank.

With a grimace, I stand on shaky legs and shuffle to the sink for a glass of water. Not sure where everyone's at. From what I've gathered over the last few days, Logan works for a big corporate bank now and his boyfriend—Owen—doesn’t work at all. Rich little fuck. His parents pay all his bills.

Must be nice.

Salem’s got a full-time photography gig for the band Symbiotic, and Christian works at a bar with Taylor. The very bar where I now work as well, apparently.

Swallowing down the guilt in my chest with the rest of my water, I set the glass in the sink and head for the bathroom. Christian’s scent immediately envelops me when I step inside, warm and ambery. One glance in the small oval mirror has me wishing I hadn’t looked. Days of patchy stubble cover my jaw, eyes tired and bruised. I’m pretty sure someone could deep fry a chicken with the amount of grease in my hair.

I peel off my clothes, noting how prominent my ribs are as I step inside the shower and turn it on. Freezing water hits my skin, making me hiss, but I welcome the sting. It heats quickly anyway, and I stand under the stream for a long while, just… processing.

This isn't the first time I've gotten sober. Probably won't be the last, either. Every time I try to pull myself out of that dark pit, it just wraps itself around me again, tighter than before. It’s almost like my downfall is inevitable. No matter what I do, I just can't get clean…

Speaking of clean. My lips twitch slightly when I pour a healthy amount of Christian’s soap onto a washcloth and scrub myself down. Then I use his shampoo after, massaging it into my unkempt strands. Definitely time for a haircut, I think. And a shave. Might as well use his razor while I'm in here, too.

By the time I step out, I've washed all of the sweat and sickness off my body, feeling more like myself and less of… whoever I turn into when I'm using. He’s someone I don't recognize.

It isn't until I've fully dried off with Christian’s towel that I realize I have no fucking clothes, so all I can do is wrap the soft material around my waist before stepping out of the bathroom⁠—

And smash right into Christian’s chest.

“Watch it,” he growls, nostrils flaring as his gaze tracks down my torso. Light flares in his hazel eyes. “Did you use my shit?”

I shrug, skirting by him into the kitchen. “I had nothing else to use and I'm pretty sure my stench was making the paint peel.”

His footsteps follow close behind, the heat of his body warming my back when I open the fridge. A bag of shredded cheese catches my attention, and I rip it open to dump a handful into my mouth.

“Sure, make yourself at home,” he mutters, crossing his arms.

“Thanks, I will.”

Christian scoffs under his breath, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he almost steps… closer. I keep my eyes on the cheese bag even though my heart’s hammering in my chest. Without the crutch of booze or coke to lean on, I feel exposed. Anxious—uncomfortable in my own skin. It's half the reason why I started using in the first place.

“You smell like me,” he accuses.

My fingers freeze mid-cheese-scoop. “Yeah.”

“It’s weird.”

“Hmm. Guess I could have used Logan’s soap instead.”

His eyes narrow into slits. “And you used the razor I shave my asshole with.”

I choke on my next mouthful and slap at my chest, unable to answer. What the fuck?

“Guess you look better,” he continues begrudgingly. “Not good, but less… Skeletor.”

That's probably the nicest thing he’s said to me in over a year.

“Thanks,” I answer dryly, licking cheese dust off my thumb. “You know how to make a guy feel special.”

It was mostly a joke, but Christian braces one hand on the fridge door, effectively boxing me in. “You think you're special?” he murmurs, eyes on my mouth.