Page 61 of False Start
“Can I ask what you do then?” She turns around, now facing me. “Do you not get turned on, or do you just miserably deal with a puddle in your underwear?”
I run my fingers along the side of her head. “Oh, I getturned on,” I say, gripping at a handful of hair to garner her attention. “And I take care of it.”
“Hmm,” she hums. “Sounds hot. Can I watch?” She bites her lip, but then her confidence shatters. “Erm—unless that’s crossing a boundary for you.”
I give her a crooked smile. “No, I think we can arrange that.”
She’s not therewhen I wake up. I try not to think about where she’s disappeared to, and I’m hoping she’s gone back to her own place. I think about texting Stella, about asking for Nia’s number. She left because she didn’t want to stay. What the fuck would I even say?
Instead, I scroll through the Roller Derby roster index Lonnie had created for us last year. I text someone else.
DID NIA MAKE IT HOME?
SHE’S NOT WITH YOU?
Fuck.
I only need one guess to know what she’s doing. Except I don’t actually have a clue where.
26
NIA
Ifound Bobby C’s number saved in my phone under “Bboby wit beard,” and all it took was a singular “Hey, it’s Nia” text for him to invite me over. I think I’ve been here for two days now. I don’t really know, because my phone is dead, and Bobby keeps his windows covered in aluminum foil.
“Was that the last of it?” he mumbles, fingers raising at a glacial pace as he leans slightly forward. He’s trying to point to the missing pile of heroin on the table, where only specks of dust lie now.
I dip my head in a yes, but the movement is so small, I’m not sure he can catch it. It’s not the last of it; the rest is back in a bag in my pocket, but we’ve both had enough, and ifI’mthe one saying it, it’s gotta be true. His eyes are barely open, and he keeps nodding off, falling slightly forward and catching himself abruptly as he wakes. I reach for a phone charger and plug my phone in, hoping the end of the cord is attached to a wall somewhere.
I watch Bobby in a trance of my own, too high to wipe the drool that’s starting to linger at the corner of mymouth as I spectate the way he fights the drugs coursing through his system. The tv is playing some old cartoon, the one with the road runner and the coyote who never catches him. Just as I hear themeep meep, Bobby does one final nod, and I’m positive he’s gone too far.
My phone vibrates, and I confirm it’s Tuesday, past noon. The text is from Kade again.
ARE YOU COMING HOME?
Home.Home was a time, not a place. Home was a feeling I’ll never get back again. Home was my youth, the ability to be reckless without consequences because there were people to catch me. Home was having somewhere to land regardless of how hard I fucked up. It was in Lonnie’s presence, in their love and in their care. Home was a person.
I can never go home again.
I stumble my way to a stand, but I fall down with my next step. I decide crawling is fine— crawling gets me where I need to be. I shuffle on all fours to Bobby’s kitchen, where he’d shown me he kept a generous stock of Narcan in a drawer. Smart addicts are addicts who stay alive.
One knee in front of the other, I struggle my way back to Bobby, though it takes twice as long as the journey to the kitchen. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, I yank, pulling back his head to expose his face. I shove the little nozzle into his nostril and press, delivering the opioid-reversing medicine to his system. Nothing happens, so I wait a little longer and deliver themedicine again.
It takes him a few minutes to come to, but when he opens his eyes, he doesn’t bother getting up or moving to relieve himself. He throws up exactly where he sits, on top of his own chest.
Bile rises to my throat, and I fight the urge to vomit too.
“Fucking fentanyl bullshit,” he mumbles angrily.
“Ryan doesn’t cut his stuff.” I furrow my eyebrows. We may not be on speaking terms, but I’m offended at what he’s implying.
“I didn’t get this from Ryan,” he explains.
I try to swallow, but the lump in my throat feels impossible to work through. I can’t stay here anymore, the stench of his vomit somehow waking my senses up, every smell in the house now impossible to bear. Something like fermentation, mildewy towels, and old pee. But Bobby has no pets.
I grab my things and head for the door to see my car isn’t here.
Jesus fuck.
