Page 7 of Chaos

Lux sucks in a breath so sharp, it whistles through her gritted teeth. Red flushing her light brown complexion, she hisses, “Don’t you ever say that.”

As that furious gaze turns my stomach, I avert my own, staring at the frayed seams of the blanket covering my lower half instead. “What, then? You just forgot about me?”

“Of course not,” she says like it’s obvious, like I’m unhinged for thinking otherwise. “I didn’t look right away, but I did look.”

A hefty dose of dread whacks me upside the head because fuck if I don’t know exactly what she found. “I’m fine.”

“Court-ordered rehab is notfine.”

Fuck. I shift uncomfortably, fisting the bedsheets tightly. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

A scoff disagrees. “You’re an alcoholic, Lottie.”

“Iwas,” I correct defensively, jaw locking with irritation. “I recovered.”

“You work in a bar. You weredrunkwhen they brought you in here.”

“I had two glasses of wine.” And I never claimed to be sober. I neverwantedto be sober—I just didn’t want to go to fucking jail. I didn’t want to wake up every morning anymore and reach for alcohol instead of coffee.

I didn’t want to be the kind of person who gets behind the wheel wasted out of my fucking mind.

And I’m not anymore. I suffered my sober sentencing, I passed every single one of those mandatory sobriety tests in the first couple of months after I left rehab, and I earned myself a pretty purple chip that I traded in for a celebratory glass of merlot.

I can admit I had a problem, but that’s the key word;had. I don’t anymore. I drink like a normal person drinks. I can control myself.

Last night wasn’t a slip. I wasn’t blackout drunk, I wasn’t behind the wheel, I wasn’t the problem. But Lux is never going to believe that. It’s real fucking clear she doesn’t as she stares at me with that hard, solemn face, all disappointed and judgemental andsad, and where the fuck does she get off, looking me like that?

“Don’t,” I demand—I might even beg, if I was willing to admit such a thing. “That was a year ago, Lux. You’re a little too late for an intervention.”

“Yeah,” she agrees with a humorless laugh. “That’s what I thought when I called the facility and they told me you completed your treatment. I thought that meant you were okay. I thought that barging back into your life would only hurt you, that you’d relapse and run away again.”

I can’t even deny it—that’s exactly what I would’ve done.

“Obviously,” Lux continues, swiping her palms down her jean-clad thighs before propping them on her hips. “I was wrong. I chose wrong. I’m not gonna do that again.”

The foreboding promise I don’t quite understand makes me squint. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She leaves the room without answering, leaving me with an ominous pit in my gut and the itchy promise of tears behind my eyes.

I repeat—fuck.

We don’t talk on the drive back to my apartment.

I know that I should be thanking Lux; I know it’s only because of her and her wallet that there aren’t any charges being pressed against me.

I’m not sure when she managed to speak to the people whose house was partially destroyed—whose house partially destroyed me right back, when you take my busted fucking ankle into consideration—but she must’ve. Because as the same sullen police officer who arrested me once I was freed from my crumpled car uncuffed me, there was no talk of jail, of a court date, of anything legal.

I should be grateful, but I can’t quite manage it. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Lux scoffs, white-knuckling the steering wheel of the same truck she’s had since she was a teenager. “Oh, I should’ve just let you rot in jail for God knows how long?”

“I wouldn’t have gone to jail,” I rebut, though I’m not all that sure.

Lux doesn’t look sure either. “This isn’t your first offense, Lottie. You already had one foot in a cell.”

Well, shit. When she puts it like that.

In my head, I kiss my teeth and snark something about not needing her.

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