Page 82 of False Start
“How am I supposed to trust you when you’ve been keeping this from me, Cat?” And there they go, the weepy withdrawal tears ruining any chance of me maintaining my composure.
Making me weak instead of righteous in my fury.
“The same way I’m supposed to trust you to stay sober when you’ve already proven to me that you can’t.” She says it so plainly, but her truth is a leather belt leaving raised welts on skin.
She tugs at the gold loop of the collar like it’s a reminder.
“Let’s go home,” I whisper, no longer wanting everyone’s eyes on me.
It’sthe first time I’ve been in the car with Cat with the music off. The drive feels three times as long, and all I want to do is reach over and hold her hand. In just a matter of weeks, she became my entire universe.
No.
Shemadeherself my entire universe, and I can’t help but let my mind tell me it was all part of some plan. Thiswas orchestrated. Because itis. It is entirely in her nature to plan something out like this so craftily. Everything hurts, and I no longer care to be sober, to be hers, to be anything.
I pull my phone out and send the text.
PICK ME UP
I sendthe address just as I walk inside, heading to the bedroom for whatever I deem essential. The collar itches at my neck, feeling too tight and suffocating. I don’t ignore the symbolism of it as I fumble with the buckle, but I give up once I can’t take it off one-handed.
She’s still sitting on the couch when I come out of the room. This feels like more than just a fight, but I don’t have it in me to lug around all my possessions. At this point, she can just toss all my shit into Skateland for all I care.
I only bring my backpack with me.
Feeling the buzz in my back pocket, I don’t have to check to see who it is. The headlights against the window tell me Bobby’s already here.
“Don’t go, Nia,” she says as I walk toward the door. Her voice sounds dry, cracked, and it's enough to make me turn toward her.
She’s crying.
Typical.
I break everything.
Except for once, I don’t feel as bad. Like a child who threw a toy at a wall too many times, I see the consequence of my actions.
I walk out the door, practically running into Bobby’s car so I have no chance of stopping myself, no chance of ruining this perfect opportunity for self-sabotage. I haven’t fucked myself over in a while, so let’s make this onereallygood.
I wait at the passenger door for a split second, forgetting whose car it is and that the door works before I get inside. “Hey, pretty lady,” he says, all smiles before his face really sets in on mine.
“Let’s go.” I wave him off, trying to get the fuck out of here as fast as possible. I can’t help it; my eyes dart to the passenger mirror where I see Cat standing outside her door just as we leave.
“You look rough, girl,” he confirms the obvious.
“Yeah, I know.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead.
He nods towards the glovebox. “In there.”
I open it, but there’s nothing except car documents inside. “Manila folder,” he says.
Maybe he’s not as dumb as I thought he was. I shuffle through some of the documents before I find the bag of powder between the registration and the manual. I don’t wait for the car to slow down or for us to stop at a light. I drop it to the back of my hand and shove the tiny mountain of dust into my nostril.
“Fuck,” I whisper, pressing on the Ziploc and tossing it back into its hiding place in the glovebox.
The relief is immediate.
The physical.
