Page 51 of Bitter Lies

It’s game day, so the house is quiet, Max having disappeared not long after Griff. Escaping my room, I make myself a small meal and settle it down in front of the television.

Truthfully, Max’s concern, if you can call it that about my eating habits, is not unwarranted because these days, food is an afterthought, something I have to remind myself of on the daily.

Of course, as I scroll the channels, the first one I land on is the game, and like a moron, I can’t turn away. Griff as a freshman isn’t the starting quarterback, but he’s allowed to play toward the end, and he’s a sight to behold. For Griff, the ball is an extension of him, and he plays the game with a fluid grace that’s mesmerizing to see.

Watching him play reminds me of all the times we passed the ball around because even then, he had a fierce love for the game. He walked around with a damn football under his hand everywhere we went, and back then, I thought it was cute. Now I just don’t know.

Okay, yes, I do. It’s hot.

Turning the television off with a sigh, I glance at the portrait on the wall beside it. It’s one of the two paintings my mom brought and Griffin suggested we hang, the other behind me on the opposite wall. I wanted no part of seeing them ever again, but in this I was shot down, and here they are.

They’re matching portraits of a woman in shadow, with her back to the artist. She’s open and vulnerable as she leans over and clutches her knees with her head hung low and a sigh on her parted lips.

At the time, I thought of her as me, but now I wonder if that wasn’t a lie that I constructed in my head. For the me who painted those renditions wasn’t a pretty lost girl with a slender neck—no, she was a train wreck barreling down the tracks to her eventual doom, and now they mock me with their innocence.

A thumping noise down the hall breaks me from my thoughts, and I cock my head to the side, trying to determine where it came from.

And when it comes again, I jump a foot and stand on shaky limbs, rounding the corner and peeking down the hall. I thought I was alone, but I guess not, and I hope it’s Max because clearly, it’s not Griffin, who’s currently tossing the ball on national television.

Hesitantly, I stand at the end of the hall and contemplate what to do. Check it out or lock myself in my bedroom?

Something tumbles to the floor, and I jump again with a gasp, before rolling my eyes because I’m being paranoid, for fuck’s sake.

With this thought, I venture closer, stopping before Max’s door as it swings open, and he appears at the threshold.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were at the game?” I ask, sagging with relief.

He shifts on his feet, and I strain to hear his words, mumbled in a low, indistinct tone. “Not this time.”

Glancing behind him, I note his private bathroom sourly before my eyes fall to the floor at the end of his bed, where there’s a pipe and baggies of white powdery stuff that sure as shit isn’t weed lying on the floor.

“What do you want?” Max grunts.

Stepping back with shock, I note his eye is twitching again, his pupils dilated, as sweat pours down his temple, and he taps his hand against his thigh.

He’s so high that he can’t even focus on my face. Fuck me.

“I—”

“I don’t have time for this shit. Get out of my way.” He brushes past me and after he’s gone, I glance at his retreating back hesitantly before stepping into his room. Picking up one of the baggies, I run my fingers over the powder inside.

I can hardly wrap my brain around the fact that my brother is doing blow—here in the house, as pretty as you please.

“Hey,” he growls, slapping the bag out of my hand. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

“Max,” I breathe, my heart hurting for him because we may not connect anymore, but he’s still my brother, and at one time, he was my friend, even if he’s pushed me unpleasantly away. I can’t stand to see this, and I’m afraid to know just how long he’s been doing it.

What happened to him? And how did I miss the signs? With shame, I realize I was too caught up in my own shit, and I let him down, just like everyone else.

“What?” He swings toward me, his face screwing up with an ugly sneer. “Oh, don’t even fucking start. At least I’m not popping pills from the psycho hospital.”

“Those are prescribed,” I say softly.

“Fuck off. This is none of your business.”

“But…Max, this isn’t good. How long—”

“I said mind your own fucking business,” he yells, getting in my face, and cautiously I step back.

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