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He sighed and stood, staring up at the star-laden sky overhead. The sky was dropping, pushing down on him and swallowing the air. If this was her idea of relaxing, she was more messed up than he’d realized. This sucked. Stars were moving. Or was he moving?
“You think your dad is up there?” Diana asked, swaying slightly and holding out the joint.
He took another hit, breathed in deep before eventually answering. “Nope.” His legs were giving out so he sat at the edge of the pipe, the sky slowly descending until he couldn’t move. Was his dad there? Close now, close enough to touch—if he could reach out. He didn’t. “No way.”
She sat down, hard, beside him. “My mom is.”
He nodded. The ground was moving. “Your mom was awesome. Her peanut butter cookies. The b
est.” He wanted one. No, he wanted a plate of them. All the memories he had of Mrs. Murphy were good. She was up there in the stars. Stars that were falling, leaving big white streaks in the sky. “Think she can see us?”
Diana leaned back, resting on her elbows. “I sure as hell hope not.”
“Diana,” Lane Aisley called out. “Come here.”
Diana sat up. “The boyfriend calls.”
Diana had self-destructive tendencies, but… That tool was her boyfriend? Maybe she didn’t know he was all about hooking up and sharing the details with anyone who would listen. The guy was a douche. She needed to know that. He should have beaten the crap out of the loser when he had the chance. “Bad idea,” was the only warning he managed. Everything was heavy. It was hard to focus on anything.
“I’m all about the bad ideas, Nick.” She was blurry and wavering, but she was staring at him. “We both know being good is a dead-end street.” She sighed. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”
Weed? No. Never. But he didn’t make a sound.
“You gonna be okay?” she asked, reaching up to ruffle his hair.
Those words again. Why did people ask when no one wanted an answer? No. He wasn’t okay. No frigging way. But no one wanted to hear him scream or see him punch the wall of this concrete pipe until his knuckles were shredded and breathing was possible again. Right now, the world was spinning too much for him to do either. All he could do was hold on to the edge of the concrete tube, hold on or fall.
“Here,” Diana said, nudging him enough to throw him off-balance. “Shit, Nick… Lean against the wall.”
Somehow, he made it to the side of the pipe. Head back, eyes closed, he held the cigarette she’d pressed into his hand but didn’t take another drag. Through the fog, the same shit was waiting for him. His father, Jack, his mom and sister, his inability to make things better or get away from everything. And sadness. He wanted to run, to keep running until he couldn’t think or run anymore. But movement, now, was an impossibility. And it scared the shit out of him. He was too high to leave, too high to drag Diana home, too high to stop the hot, angry tears from spilling down his cheeks.
…
Honor rolled over and looked at her phone. It was almost five a.m., and Owen Nelson was calling her? “Are you kidding me?” she groaned. Did he not get the whole silent treatment thing? Fine. If he needed her to say the words outright, she would. “Hello?”
“Good morning, sunshine. I found something that belongs to you.” He was whispering.
“Are you drunk?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
He chuckled. “I’m not. But your brother is. Wanna let me in before that old lady next door calls the cops on us?”
“What?” Honor sat up and covered her other ear. “Nick?” she whispered, pushing her tangled red hair from her face. “He’s been drinking? With you?”
“Yes, to the first one. No, to the second. I found him when I was out running.” He paused. “We’re outside and he’s heavy.”
“Back door,” she heard Nick add, voice slurred and thick.
“Coming.” She was already hurrying across the landing, down the stairs, dodging Pecan and Praline as they leaped up hoping for breakfast, and through the living room to the french doors at the back of the house. Outside was Nick, his arm draped around Owen’s neck, bleary-eyed and looking like hell.
“What’s going on?” she asked, opening the door. “Nickie, are you okay?”
Nick glared at her. “Seriously?” he growled.
“He’s stoned. Whiskey, too—I can smell,” Owen said, practically dragging her brother inside. “Threw up a few times on the way.”
“Sorry, man,” Nick mumbled.
“My shirt.” Owen glanced down. “And my shoes. But he’s doing better since he downed my water bottle.”
