Page 56 of Worse Than Wicked
“I’m sorry,” I say at last. “I didn’t know it would hook you like that.”
“I’m not hooked,” he says, his tone defensive. “I told you, I haven’t had any in days, and I’m fine.”
“When we get back home, you won’t be on production. Not being around it so much should help.”
“I told you, I’m fine,” he snaps. “Let it go.”
“You’re not fine,” I say quietly.
We stare at each other a long moment.
I don’t understand why he doesn’t understand, and that’s the most frustrating part of all of it. Duke is the most important person in my world. There’s never been any question in anyone’s mind—not mine, not his, and not anyone else’s. It’s a fact as true as the earth turning and the sun rising. I never thought anyone would question it, that I’d have to find ways to prove something so unquestionably factual, not to mention obvious.
But now there’s a question, and it’s the one person who should never have to question it. I need to fix it, but I don’t know how. That’s the part that fucks with me. I could always fix anything, but I don’t know how to fix this. I never felt the need to prove anything to anyone before, have never cared enough totry. But Duke should always, always know he’s the best part of me, the best humanity has to offer, the best person in any room, no matter who else is there.
It seems impossible to show someone that, if they won’t simply take the words as the truth that they are. The earth can’t see the sunrise that shows that it’s turning.
“Then give me some,” Duke says at last. “If you think I’m not fine without it, I’ll take some more. Is that what you want?”
“No,” I say, scowling at him.
“Come on,” he says. “You must have some with you. You made it.”
“Wemade it,” I correct. “And I don’t have any.”
I’ve taken it of course. I want to know how my creation affects people. But I don’t enjoy it the way most people do, and I wouldn’t carry it across state lines without a good reason.
“I’m sure you can get some,” he says. “Anyone in town would give it to you.”
“I’m not getting you Alice.”
“Why?” he demands. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”
“Of course I want you to be happy,” I say. “But I don’t think that’s how you get there.”
“Why not?” he asks, coming to sit down at last. “Who gets to say what makes other people happy, or what way is the right and wrong way to be happy?”
I shrug. “Maybe you’re right. I’m not sure what that word means, what it entails, and why it’s so important to people. Why do you need to be happy?”
“Because it feels good,” he says, like I’m missing the obvious. “And if I’m happy when I’m high, isn’t that better than never being happy at all? Why should I be miserable all the time just because society says that’s not an acceptable way to be happy?”
“I don’t want you to be miserable,” I say. “But I also don’t want you to OD and kill yourself.”
“What do you want me to say?” he asks at last. “You want me to go to rehab like Colt?”
“No.”
“Good. Because I can handle myself. I’m not a fucking pussy.”
“I know that.”
“Dad would never want me to do something like that,” he says. “He’d say that all it takes is discipline and self-control.”
“You can’t know what he’d say,” I point out. “He’s not here. He didn’t see you like this.”
“He saw me fucked up plenty,” he argues. “You know how he was.Real men don’t go to therapy, real men tough it out, real men take care of their own business.”
“Therapy is bullshit,” I say.
