Yeah, maybe.” I give Denise a smile and then say, “Same time next week?”
“Of course. Take care, Boone.” She pats my shoulder, giving it a squeeze, then heads off toward the staff members circling the refreshment table.
Now I’m faced with a choice: track down glaring, snarling, bandana chick, or talk to the few stragglers who always hang around afterward to chat. Or, I could slip out and leave. Go back to my empty apartment and flip through channels. Sober. Alone.
Sucking in a breath, I plant my back against the wall. Like it’s the only steady thing keeping me upright. I’ve yet to try the last steps of my treatment. One of the biggest ones for me: making new friends. Finding new hobbies, lifestyle, etcetera. Going it alone has worked so far.
But it damn sure hasn’t been easy. Living in the same city your whole life, where friends are more like brothers, and girls call you— still —making it about impossible to escape. I could move. I could change my number. That’s part of the punishment, though, I guess. Everywhere I go, I bump into old friends who I’ve used with before, girls I’ve fucked…people who know the truth. Reminders.
I don’t deserve to get that fresh start.
But that girl Melody, for whatever reason, is the first person to spark my interest in a long time—that makes me wish I could take that step. That I wasn’t so full of shit. She’s just the type I’d be all over, hustling to get digits and into her panties…back before . But something tells me her story is just as sorry as mine. And hooking up with a user? That’s the last thing that needs to happen.
Two loser addicts reminiscing on the good ol’ times. Because once they’re gone, they’re gone.
And now, so am I.
Melody
For a prayer is not heard
WHAT A CROCK OF SHIT.
Stale cookies, pissy apple juice, and what looks like turd dip with tortilla chips spread around it in an array of off-yellows and browns. This is what thousands of dollars spent on rehab gets you? Come on. Somebody’s pockets are getting lined, because it certainly isn’t being spent on our cuisine. I’m just glad it’s not my non-existent money.
I pick through the remaining cookies on the tray, looking for anything with chocolate. That’s one craving I can’t deny while I’m holed up in here. And if I don’t get my chocolate fix soon, there will be murder.
“So you about killed me up there.”
My shoulders tense and the cookie in my hand drops. “Dammit. That was the only chocolate chip.” I fetch it from the pile again and quickly take a bite, savoring the whole two chips of chocolate in the dry, crumbly baked mess.
Turning my head to glimpse the guy who was just talking out his ass to the room, I nod once. “Nice tats,” I say around a mouthful. “You get them while in lock-up here? They tag you?” His face screws up into an adorable half-smile. Damn, he has a dimple—but of course he does. I look away. “Besides, I didn’t name you. You need to take that one up with the one who did.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch him shove his hands into his pockets. “Right. Well, this convo was over before it started, so I’ll let you get back to your cookie hunt.”
My words hit me. Smack in the face. “Shit.” Then I literally smack my head. “Look, sorry...I didn’t mean that the way…”
His forehead creases in confusion before he says, “It’s all right. No worries.” He’s excusing my asinine comment regarding his mother—the one he just finished explaining he lost to an OD—and I’m mentally surveying the quickest escape route. That was above my usual snark, a whole new level of bitch, even for me. “I didn’t take it personally,” he adds.
He turns to go, then pauses. Looks over his shoulder. “Nice bandanna, by the way. That your gang affiliation, Pink Lady?”
I smile inwardly. Nice way to fully let me off the hook, and really, he did have a quick comeback; that Rizzo shit almost made me laugh.
“Of course. Take care, Boone.” She pats my shoulder, giving it a squeeze, then heads off toward the staff members circling the refreshment table.
Now I’m faced with a choice: track down glaring, snarling, bandana chick, or talk to the few stragglers who always hang around afterward to chat. Or, I could slip out and leave. Go back to my empty apartment and flip through channels. Sober. Alone.
Sucking in a breath, I plant my back against the wall. Like it’s the only steady thing keeping me upright. I’ve yet to try the last steps of my treatment. One of the biggest ones for me: making new friends. Finding new hobbies, lifestyle, etcetera. Going it alone has worked so far.
But it damn sure hasn’t been easy. Living in the same city your whole life, where friends are more like brothers, and girls call you— still —making it about impossible to escape. I could move. I could change my number. That’s part of the punishment, though, I guess. Everywhere I go, I bump into old friends who I’ve used with before, girls I’ve fucked…people who know the truth. Reminders.
I don’t deserve to get that fresh start.
But that girl Melody, for whatever reason, is the first person to spark my interest in a long time—that makes me wish I could take that step. That I wasn’t so full of shit. She’s just the type I’d be all over, hustling to get digits and into her panties…back before . But something tells me her story is just as sorry as mine. And hooking up with a user? That’s the last thing that needs to happen.
Two loser addicts reminiscing on the good ol’ times. Because once they’re gone, they’re gone.
And now, so am I.
Melody
For a prayer is not heard
WHAT A CROCK OF SHIT.
Stale cookies, pissy apple juice, and what looks like turd dip with tortilla chips spread around it in an array of off-yellows and browns. This is what thousands of dollars spent on rehab gets you? Come on. Somebody’s pockets are getting lined, because it certainly isn’t being spent on our cuisine. I’m just glad it’s not my non-existent money.
I pick through the remaining cookies on the tray, looking for anything with chocolate. That’s one craving I can’t deny while I’m holed up in here. And if I don’t get my chocolate fix soon, there will be murder.
“So you about killed me up there.”
My shoulders tense and the cookie in my hand drops. “Dammit. That was the only chocolate chip.” I fetch it from the pile again and quickly take a bite, savoring the whole two chips of chocolate in the dry, crumbly baked mess.
Turning my head to glimpse the guy who was just talking out his ass to the room, I nod once. “Nice tats,” I say around a mouthful. “You get them while in lock-up here? They tag you?” His face screws up into an adorable half-smile. Damn, he has a dimple—but of course he does. I look away. “Besides, I didn’t name you. You need to take that one up with the one who did.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch him shove his hands into his pockets. “Right. Well, this convo was over before it started, so I’ll let you get back to your cookie hunt.”
My words hit me. Smack in the face. “Shit.” Then I literally smack my head. “Look, sorry...I didn’t mean that the way…”
His forehead creases in confusion before he says, “It’s all right. No worries.” He’s excusing my asinine comment regarding his mother—the one he just finished explaining he lost to an OD—and I’m mentally surveying the quickest escape route. That was above my usual snark, a whole new level of bitch, even for me. “I didn’t take it personally,” he adds.
He turns to go, then pauses. Looks over his shoulder. “Nice bandanna, by the way. That your gang affiliation, Pink Lady?”
I smile inwardly. Nice way to fully let me off the hook, and really, he did have a quick comeback; that Rizzo shit almost made me laugh.
Similar Books
True Love and Other Disasters
Rachel Gibson
Horrible Harry Moves up to the Third Grade
Suzy Kline
Dark Age
Felix O. Hartmann
A Preacher's Passion
Lutishia Lovely
Devourer
Liu Cixin
Honeybee
Naomi Shihab Nye
Deadly Obsession
Mary Duncan
The Year of the Jackpot
Robert Heinlein
