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I glance to Shawn.
No, I didn’t get that far, not as far as him…
But addiction is nothing if not a one-way trip south, with a very steep, jagged climb back up. Not everyone finds a way out of the pit. Not everyone survives the journey back to the top.
And as I learned the hard and swift way last year, not everyone stays on top.
“Anyway,” Waylon says, before changing the subject to what we got up to last night. Shawn chimes in at some point, and we shoot the shit, finishing out cigarettes before heading back in.
Shawn grabs some mugs, and starts pouring out coffees.
Waylon grabs the milk and sugar, before joining me at my side, where I lean up against the island, forgoing taking a seat on one of the stools.
I study him for a long moment. His profile is relaxed, jaw smooth, like he might’ve shaved it earlier. His black hair’s still damp, drying into a wavy mess over his brow.
In the morning light spearing through the windows, his nose ring glints.
He got that last year.
Back when I was in rehab, and he was holed up at some motel, hiding from his dad, from Will, from the world…
From himself.
Like with Jeremy, with Phoebe, with just about everyone in my life, that familiar remorse rises up, turning my stomach.
I wasn’t there for him.
But you are now,a voice reminds me.
This time, it’s Izzy’s. Or the distorted, forgotten version of it. It’s soft, gentle even. Softer and far more gentle than how she spoke when she was alive, but I suppose that’s just how this sort of thing goes.
Swallowing, I look down, rolling my lip ring around.
And then I glance up at one of my oldest friends—my brother, and I ask roughly, “Did you have fun yesterday?”
He snaps his hazel gaze to me, and smiles. And it’s the kind of smile that not only sinks in his cheeks, but reaches his eyes in a way I’m still so unaccustomed to. How I went years not seeing just how badly he was suffering…
I have no idea.
How much else have I missed, being so absorbed in my own shit?
“Yeah,” he says nodding. He bites his lip like he’s trying to contain it—how…happy he is. “It was…it was a good day.”
I smile back. “Good. You deserve it.”
Waylon rolls his eyes at that, but I don’t miss the slight hint of color creeping up his neck when he hangs his head, diverts his gaze.
And then as if summoned, the main source of this newfound peace of his appears in the threshold, looking like he literally just crawled out of bed. Which I suppose he did.
And the guy at my side…
Well, someone might as well have taken a cattle prod to his spine.
Will hardly seems to notice, trapped in a yawn. He glances toward the coffee pot through squinted eyes.
Shawn sets two mug brimming with black coffee in front of Waylon and I.
“Come here,” Waylon says, pouring a shit ton of cream into his before sliding it toward a staggering Will.
