Page 43 of Becoming Us
“I said we’re not doing that.” His voice was firm now. “We’re going to deal with this. You and me. I’m not letting you throw your life away. I won’t let this eat you up. And you are not going to lie to me. Tell me you understand.”
I stared at my lap and gave a weak nod.
“No. Tell me you understand.”
“I understand.” The words came out barely audible, but he didn’t make me repeat them.
“No more modeling.”
I looked up. His expression didn’t change.
“But—”
“I’ve already spoken with the lawyers. I’m getting you out of the contract, and I’ll talk to your mother. No. More. Modeling.”
I nodded, a faint breath of relief slipping out through the panic.
“You’re going back to therapy,” he continued. I must’ve made a face because he added, “I don’t care if you don’t like the one you’ve got. We’ll go through a hundred if we have to. But you’re going back.”
I sniffled. “Okay.”
“I don’t want you skipping any more classes. And when we get back from the holidays, you’re picking a sport and joining a team.”
I frowned. “Why would I?—”
“This isn’t a negotiation, Noah. You’re joining a team.”
“Fine.”
“Good. Where’s your phone?”
I raised a brow, but at the look on his face, I reached into my bed and rummaged until I found it. I held it out to him, but he shook his head.
“I want you to go through your contacts. Find the person who gave you that”—he nodded toward the nightstand—“block them, and delete their number. Right now.”
I found River’s number and did as he asked. “Done.”
“This only works if you don’t lie to me, Noah. I don’t want it—not even a tiny white lie.”
“I won’t lie. I promise,” I said.
His expression softened slightly, and I sank back into the chair.
“How long have you been doing it?”
“Two weeks,” I answered without hesitation.
The tension drained from his shoulders. He rubbed both hands over his face, and when they dropped back to his lap, he looked older. Worn down.
Your fault again.
“You’re so smart, hijo.So much smarter than this. You have everything in life going for you. So why? Was it just for fun?”
I didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t exactly for fun—not really. It wasn’t even about the blow; that part didn’t do much for me. What really helped was being out of the house—getting wasted, losing myself in the throngs of bodies, letting the music take over until my head went quiet. And the coke… it just kept the night going a little longer.
But no, it wasn’t particularly fun. I was just tired of drowning. Tired of the thoughts. Tired of circling my own mind, replaying her words until they sank deeper, cutting sharper every time. He was wrong, and I could name a hundred reasons why. I didn’t have anything going for me. But at least this way, I didn’t have to face it all the fucking time.
I sniffled and tugged the hem of my T-shirt over my face, scrubbing it dry before I could make things worse by crying. “No, not just for fun.”
