Grace sashayed up to the couch and planted her hands on her hips. Under a wrinkled poster of Kurt Cobain sat a guy with a poorly kept goatee and earrings. “Where are the good drinks?”
A smirk crept over his face. It widened to a grin when he caught sight of Faith.
“You brought your sister,” he noted as he pushed onto his feet.
“Look with your eyes,” Grace warned.
He didn’t respond but instead beckoned them toward the hallway. Digging a key out of his pocket, he unlocked a room and flipped on a black light. Faith followed her sister inside. Strange pops of color glowed on the walls. A mattress in the corner doubled as an unmade bed. The whole room belonged in one of those videos they showed to scare kids in health class. Faith had watched those videos and now she was here.
Before she could decide if she wanted to leave—if that mattress scared her or excited her—Grace passed her a bottle of vodka. It looked like water, but as she brought it to her lips, it stung her nostrils. Their eyes were on her, watching to see what she’d do. She pressed the glass rim to her mouth and tipped her head back. Through sheer force of will she kept herself from gagging. There was something satisfying about how it burned her throat and built a fire in her belly. After a few more shots, she felt confident—fearless. It was how she imagined Grace felt most of the time. Shy Faith was gone. Good girl Faith was gone. At least, for a few hours. It was liberating.
Drink by drink, she set herself free as she built her own prison.
Chapter 4
Anne isn’t doing well. After spying on her private moment with Jude, I shouldn’t be surprised. Somehow I still am. Maybe because I always thought she had her shit together. Successful career. Well-dressed. I’d seen her in the restaurant with her equally together husband and their two point five kids. She was the American dream on the outside, but judging from the circles rimming her eyes and the wrinkles she hadn’t bothered to press from her suit jacket, she’s back living the American nightmare with the rest of us.
Not the junkie life. That’s not what any of us really fear. No, we’re scared of ourselves. We fear that we aren’t capable–that our weaknesses are mortal flaws and that our addiction will lure us back with promises of oblivion or allow us to wallow in the self-loathing we crave. Because that’s the secret. The drugs and alcohol, they don’t make us feel better. When you’re high you hate yourself freely, and it’s okay, because you’re not accountable in that moment. You’re free to be your own worst enemy–free to be the person hiding inside you. The person that is less than. Less than you’d planned to be. Less than you could be. I think everyone feels that way, even people who aren’t addicts. Or not addicts in the support group meaning of the term. Exercise. Coffee. Netflix. People. Everybody is an addict; we all have our drug. It’s just that some of our poisons are more costly than others.
Anne crosses and uncrosses her legs. She shakes her head when Stephanie asks her to share. She’s shutting down, and there isn’t a damn thing any of us can do about it. At least, she’s here. Unlike other people. Like Jude. He’s not here, which proves that I was right about him.
Bad news.
After our encounter in the grocery store, Amie has spent the last few days begging me to give Jude a chance. I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that. He wasn’t banging down my door to go out or calling me. I highly doubted our run-in by the frozen foods prophesied wedding bells. Amie disagreed. Loudly. In front of wait staff. In front of customers. Via text. On my voicemail. I expect she’ll get a billboard any day.
He enters as if on cue, as though my thoughts were a voiceover prompting him to return to the stage. He looks different today. No t-shirt. Instead he’s wearing a button-down that has been ironed. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows as if he doesn’t know what to do with business attire. And yet I can see him in it. Suit and tie headed into the office to…What? What does this man who has descended into our sleepy, little port do? He told Amie he moved here, but I haven’t seen him downtown. That’s where most of us work. There’s not much on the outskirts. Maybe he has one of those offices above the shops and restaurants that are always for rent. A lawyer? CPA? Nothing fits him. I’m so distracted by Jude fucking Mercer that I don’t realize Stephanie has chosen to pick on me.
“Faith.” Stephanie’s annoyance breaks through my thoughts.
Every eye is on me but I feel his penetrating through my skin. “Oh, I’m sorry. Um, what?”
“Would you like to talk?” she prompts. This time I’m the one who’s frustrated.
“No,” I snap. “I’ll let you know when and if I want to share, Stephanie.”
Silence falls over the room. No one breathes or moves. And then he clears his throat.