Page 10 of False Start
The first time we met, a friend convinced me to skip school to trip on acid. I had never done LSD before, nor had I any idea what it would do, what to expect. Clueless, I followed, and I spent the majority of the day rolling around in the grass, staring at the clouds in Devil Town Skatepark. Our dealer had been Ryan Lee, and he soon became one of my best friends.
Now, the skatepark is a parking lot.
Ryan Lee still looks the same, maybe a few lines around the corners of his eyes that wasn’t there before, but the overall image hasn’t changed. I’m nearly twenty-eight now, and he, thirty-four. He’s donning the same shaggy, mousy-brown hair that some beauty school dropout probably cut in exchange for a teener of coke, and wearing the samecargo pants with just enough pockets to hide everything he needs.
Not bothering to take my shoes off at the door, I run to him and jump into his lap, gracing his cheek with a sloppy, wet kiss.
“Motherfucker,” he grumbles, wiping it off with the back of his sleeve. “Where’ve you been, squirt? You disappeared.”
“Ryan, it’s been five years. I went to college.” I laugh, pushing off him and walking toward his kitchen.
Cups in the second cabinet to the left, plates on the right. Bread in the drawer for some reason, and pills under the microwave. Hard drugs in the bedroom, of course—the cocaine in a fake version ofLittle Women, the hard stuff in aLion KingVHS. Those are only his personal stashes; the stuff he sells he keeps in the walls, inside safes hiding in plain sight, disguised as paintings and family portraits.
“Could have visited.” He huffs, propping his foot up on the opposite knee as he watches me open the fridge and grab a can soda.
I’m probably the only person alive with the balls to walk this freely in his house, the only person who can do it without being accused of stealing.
“I wasn’t sure this was still home. My parents moved to New York the same year I left for school,” I try justifying.
“I’m not family?” he taunts, a disingenuous hurt look on his face.
I deadpan, unblinking as I pop the tab on the can, “I texted you a million times without an answer, and you know how I feel about rejection.”
He furrows his eyebrows, the line in the middle growing deeper by the second before he pullshis phone out to prove me wrong. Scrolling, the wrinkles on his nose soften as he bites his lip, trying to mask any sign of defeat.
“Told you.” I chuckle, dropping to the couch across from him and propping my feet on the coffee table. “I thought you were in prison, honestly.”
He gives me a scolding look, like the insult might have actually hurt him.
“What? You didn’t answer me! What was I supposed to think?” I set my can down.
“That I’m a better dealer than some shithead who’d get caught and go to prison.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend, buddy.” Batting my eyelashes, I try to charm my way out of a tussle between old friends. “But you never answered.”
“You know how I feel about pointless talk.” He grabs his glass off the table, whiskey, neat, probably something standard like Jack, but if someone was visiting, he’d tell them it was Johnny Walker Gold Label.
No one in this town can tell the difference anyway. He doesn’t bother spending money to impress others. It’s not his style.
“Should have visited,” he deflects.
“Ass.” I chuckle, reaching across and grabbing the remote from his hand to switch the show.
“Proud of you.” He says it quietly, like he’s not sure if it’s an okay thing to say.
Weird relationship to have with your drug dealer, but if I’m good at anything, it’s parentifying anyone a day older than me. It’s almost like they can sense my mommy issues from a mile away, can’t fight the biological need to nurture me, even those who don’t have a single nurturing bone in their body.
“Don’t be.” I snort. “Why do you think I came to see you?”
He sighs, not acknowledging me yet somehow not ignoring me either. Reaching under the coffee table, he pulls out a mirror about the size of a book. On it are already four lines, measured out perfectly equal alongside a small pile of the powder.
“What’s your poison these days?” he asks, knowing my first addiction is escaping reality.
“I just ran out of Roxys,” I confess, always feeling icky when we interrupt personal shit for business.
“The fuck for?” He grimaces, his disdain for prescription pills still stronger than ever.
“Car accident.” I turn my head to show him the scar.
