After going through at least six ways I could have done the whole call differently—like, HELLO, having the address handy!—I started up the car.
I rested my head on the steering wheel and breathed deeply through my nose. The bass of a rap song pulsed through my body as I tried to let the music take me away, like it usually did. But even that couldn’t calm my nerves. Ever since I cracked the perfectly molded armor of my I have my life together fa?ade by getting caught up in Adderall, pieces kept flaking off, exposing every flaw. All those years spent creating an image I couldn’t uphold completely wasted.
My throat constricted as tears blurred my vision. Maybe I should focus on biology, get a job in a lab, away from society.
You’d probably contaminate some vials and start a SARS epidemic.
This pep talk was so not helping.
No, this called for the big guns. Payton. Best friend extraordinaire. She’d know what to do; maybe she’d have some suggestions on how to get over these post-emergency jitters. I put my car in gear and made the fifteen-minute trip back to our Whisky Creek apartment complex.
When I burst through the door, Payton lay sprawled across the couch, skimming through a running magazine. She must’ve still been mulling over which races to enter for July and August, like she had been all week. In terms of running, she was Grade A badass, running faster than I could ever attempt, even if my favorite celeb was at the finish line offering to be my baby daddy.
“Sup, bitch?” I threw my keys and purse on the counter and made my way to the sofa.
She looked up from the magazine and smiled. “Not much, skank. How was work?”
Payton had been my roommate since last summer. We’d bonded over our mutual caffeine and chocolate addiction, and the fact we were both med majors. Eat chocolate. Drink coffee. Study. Sleep. Repeat. Except it was currently summer, so studying was pushed off for a few more months.
I gave her a hug and then collapsed on the edge of the couch she wasn’t occupying. “Sucked. My coworker had a heart attack.”
“What?” She sat up and rolled the magazine in her hands, one eyebrow jetting up her forehead. “For real?”
“Yeah.” I put my shaking hands on display. “This hasn’t stopped since he went down for the count. Poor guy, I called down to the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell me how he was doing.”
“How are you doing?”
Horrible? Like curling up in the fetal position and eating a whole sleeve of Oreos.
“Fine.” I knew what she meant, though, even if she didn’t say it outright. She was asking if I was thinking about relapsing.
I was damn proud of my six months sober status. Did a pick-me-up sound hella good right about now? Heck yes. But I was better than that. I broke up with Adderall a long time ago, and didn’t want to go down that road again. But convincing people of this proved to be a tougher feat. Especially Mom and Dad. I had my lowlife brother, Eric, to thank for that one.
I’d been trying to compensate for his mistakes since I was fifteen and, last year, drove myself into the ground. Between work and school, I didn’t have enough time to keep up with everything. When a guy in my class offered to hook me up with some “study aids” I jumped at the chance—and voilà, first class ticket to rehab.
The need to juggle fifty things at once like Martha Stewart planning a holiday party at the White House still clawed at the back of my brain. An annoying itch that I couldn’t scratch. So instead of having copious amounts of artificial energy to perform, I chugged coffee by the gallon and struggled to make it work.
Payton stared at me with an arched brow. She totally didn’t buy what I was selling.
“Just a little shaken up. I see my counselor tomorrow; I’ll talk about it then.” Part of the agreement for finishing my rehab included weekly counseling sessions. At first, I hated seeing a psychologist, but now? I liked talking about my problems to someone who wasn’t going to judge me.
She nodded and squeezed my hand. “I’m so proud of you.”
I blew out a breath, my bangs fanning over my forehead. “Thanks.” I just wished she was proud of me for something other than not popping pills.
Chapter Two
Ryan
My plane landed, the massive hunk of metal rocketing across the tarmac at McKinleyville. I pressed my head against the back of my seat and blew out a sigh as the flight attendant announced our early arrival. Great, more time for Dad to really take a dig at my performance at Baylor. Perfect start to the summer.
I pulled out my cell phone and powered it up. Seven unread messages from Lex rapid-fired across the screen. How many times could someone say they were sorry? She was up to two hundred and thirty-one. I quickly typed in Go fuck yourself but then deleted it. No use giving her the satisfaction of a response. Silence said it all. You messed up, now deal with it.
As I clicked out of her message, a text rang in from Dad.
In short-term parking. See u soon.