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I grab Courtland’s arm, unable to take my eyes off of her as I grip his forearm. He brings the car to a stop. “You see her?”
I nod, unable to form any words. A sense of relief floods my body, but the aching in my chest grows. Tears prick the corners of my eyes and I can’t distinguish whether they’re from happiness or from the fucking sadness that has hollowed out my soul. Ainsley doesn’t see us, but I see her, smoking a cigarette.
It’s hard to see through the darkness whether the bags still linger under her eyes. Whether or not she’s put on any weight or if her cheekbones are still prominent from her thin face. It hasn’t been long enough for anyone else to really notice a difference, but I know what she looks like sick and using. If she doesn’t look like she did when I betrayed her, then I know that she’s doing better.
Fuck, just seeing her alive and breathing is something in itself. She’s still here. That’s all that matters. I know now that I made the right call. We might never recover from this, but she’s on her way to recovery.
It was worth it all.
I watch as her head turns toward us and tilts slightly to the side. The panic rises inside me and I hastily pull my hand away from Courtland as I viciously wipe away the tears that roll down the sides of my face. I can’t see her face, but from the way she’s staring down here, I’m afraid that maybe she sees us.
“We gotta go, Kill,” Courtland says quietly, putting the car back in drive. “Before she sees us, bro.”
“I think she already does,” I whisper, still unable to tear my eyes away from the ghost that lingers in the window above.
Ainsley’s head abruptly straightens and she tosses the cigarette out into the driveway in a rush. Her head whips around, looking behind her before she quickly pushes the window back shut and disappears in her room.
“You saw what you needed to see. It’s time to go, Kill.”
I stare out the window of the car, feeling the hollowness in my chest. “Okay.”
Courtland lets off the brake, slowly stepping on the gas as he eases us away from Ainsley’s house without drawing any obvious attention to us. He turns his headlights on as we make our way down the street. I watch out the window, craning my neck, still staring at her house until it’s completely out of my sight.
He pulls the car out of the gated community and I close my eyes as I lean my head against the cool window. I saw her and it’s a relief, just knowing that she’s still breathing. It could have been so much worse. I don’t even want to think about all of the different scenarios that could have happened. Instead, she’s at home—safe and alive.
This is what I wanted—to see for myself how she was doing—so why don’t I feel any better about it?
TWENTY-FOUR
AINSLEY
The metal chair is cold against my thighs and it groans under my weight. They look like they’ve been around for centuries. They’ve probably been using these same exact chairs since the first meeting that they ever held here.
I keep to myself, sitting silently as I pick at the frayed hems of the bottom of my shorts as I watch the room fill up. It’s a weird kind of meeting. It’s like a Narcotics Anonymous meeting but they couple it with different therapy techniques and talking through your bullshit problems. I never share because I’m not here to tell my story.
Compared to some of these other people’s stories, mine isn’t shit. It’s pretty pathetic, thinking where I’m coming from and feeling like such shit and then hearing their stories and listening to what all they’ve endured.
I’m not fucking shit here, just like everywhere else that I’ve ever been in life.
I’m still waiting for an appointment with the doctor to try and get on some type of maintenance meds to help with the cravings from my addiction. I’ve been coming here for three weeks now. The first week was fucking hell, going through withdrawal. I’ve gotten past the sickness and some of the bullshit side effects, but it hasn’t made these last two weeks any easier.
The only thing that has been making it easier is the Oxys that I’ve been getting from Cartier, one of the girls that I met after my first week here. I know that it’s not what I’m here for, but until they can help me figure out some type of treatment, I’m not going through the withdrawal on my own here.
I can’t do it.
I waited for death and it never came. So, here I sit, with a slight buzz that comes nowhere close enough to touching my craving as I wait for my new friend to get here.
Cartier wasn’t someone that I would have expected to find here, but after seeing the different members of this program and seeing where they’ve come from, there’s one thing that is crystal clear. Addiction doesn’t give two shits about who you are or what your background is. Addiction knows no boundaries. If it wants you, sooner or later, it will get you.
And once it sinks its claws into you, you’re going to lose everything before you get through the depths of hell that it will drag you through.
“Hey girl.” Cartier’s velvet voice breaks through my thoughts as she drops down onto the metal chair beside me. She hands me a coffee from Starbucks that she’s made a habit of getting for me before every meeting.
Her raven-colored hair is perfectly straightened, pulled back in a high ponytail that hangs down to the center of her back. She winks one of her crystal blue eyes, batting a lush eye at me. She looks like she stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine.
Her skin is flawless, glowing even. She gets lip fillers, but just enough to enhance her already plump lips. Eyelash extensions and her nails done. She’s taller and slim, with legs for days. Cartier is literally every man or woman’s fantasy. She’s as classy as her name, with the designer brand clothing and accessories to match.
Yet, somehow, her demons surfaced and she fell victim to addiction. She doesn’t talk much about herself, so I haven’t gotten her full story, but it doesn’t change anything. We’re both here for the same reason. And we’re both clearly still fucked up, considering she’s bound to give me a few more Oxys before we part ways after our meeting.
