“It’s not Conner, is it?” He sounds so disappointed in me. “Because if it is then—”

“What? No! Like I would ever get near that ass**le again after what happened.”

“Sorry, but I had to check. Sometimes that happens, you know. People go back to people even when they’ve done unthinkable things to them… like Mom and me. Even I think about going back to her sometimes. I used to go back to her all the time when I was living with her and she begged for my help. I’d always say it was the last time, but it never was until she was gone.”

“You think about going back to her still?” I’m shocked and kind of appalled.

“Not to live with her or anything,” He quickly says, “just to see if I can find her and see if she’s okay. I mean, I know she did a lot of f**ked up stuff, but it’d be nice to know if she was dead or alive.”

“I know,” I agree quietly. “I wish I could find out where she is too, without actually having to talk to her. I wish you never had to go through that stuff with her.”

Silence stretches between us. I’m uncertain what Jax is thinking of but I’m remembering that night I got a phone call from him, the one where I decided it was time for him to come live with me. He sounded so broken, so unlike Jax, and I felt so guilty—still do—for the stuff he went through. Stuff he sometimes talks to me about but I’m sure I haven’t heard all of it.

I finally clear my throat and break the silence. “Well, I’m not going to go back to Conner. I can promise you that.”

“I know you’re not,” he says. “I just… worry.”

“Me too.” I touch a small scar on my upper arm. It’s so faint that hardly anyone notices it unless they look really hard. I notice it all the time, though, never forgetting. “It’s this guy I met at Habitat for Humanity. His name is Tristan and he… Well, I barely know him, yet I feel like I need to help him for reasons I can’t explain to you right now.”

As a gap of silence passes between us again, I wonder if he thinks I’m crazy. If I worried him even more.

I don’t want him to worry.

He should never have to worry.

“Tristan… the guy who wrote on our cupboard?” he finally asks. “Was that the guy you had a dream about last night?”

“Yeah. You know about him and the cupboard?” I’m stunned again by his awareness of what’s going on in my life.

“Yeah, just like I know you fall asleep in front of it all the time.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure how I feel about Jax knowing so much. Just what else does he know? “Well… Yeah, it’s the same guy.”

“Okay, so what do you need to help him with exactly?” he treads cautiously. “I can’t give advice without more details, Av.”

“With sobriety stuff. He has some problems.”

Silence.

And I wonder what he’s thinking again.

Or if he’s remembering…

Everything.

“Even though I love you, and you’re super good at taking care of stuff,” he says. “You’re not a sponsor. Nor do I think you have time to be one. You already have too much on your plate.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” What am I supposed to say? That I had this dream about Tristan needing my help. That ever since I came back to life, I’ve felt like I was brought back to help somebody. That I had to in order to pay for what I did. That I’m starting to think Tristan might be that somebody I’m supposed to help. “What if I want to help him? Not just for him, but for myself? Call it selfish, but what if helping him gives me self-gratification?”

“Then I’d say it was a whole different story because you deserve some self-gratification,” Jax replies. “But you should make sure.”

“Make sure of what exactly?”

“That it’s what you want to do. You already do a shitload of stuff for other people. One of these days, I’m worried you’re going to fall apart or something.”

“I’m never going to fall apart like that again,” I promise him in a harsh tone. “I’m not that girl anymore.”

“I’m not talking about that night. I’m just talking about life and making sure you take care of yourself before you take care of others.”

“I will. I promise. I just need to do this… for whatever the reason may be.”

“Then let me know if you need any help.”

“I will.” I hear someone say something in the background. “I’ll let you go. Want to go out to dinner later? I know the cupboards are in desperate need of restocking.”

“Sounds like a plan, but only if you let me pay.”

“No way—”

“Avery.”

“Fine,” I grimace. “But next time it’s on me. Deal?”

“Deal. See you at home.”

“Okay. And Jax?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the talk. You give good advice.”

“Anytime.” He sounds happy, and I don’t feel as bad for spilling my problems to him, but still wish I had someone else, someone older, someone who I didn’t mind relying on so much. “I feel like I don’t help enough.”

“You do. I promise.” We say our goodbyes and hang up.

I feel the slightest bit better after the phone conversation, but getting out of the car still proves to be problematic. Somehow though, I manage to get the door open and plant my feet on the ground. Then I grab the box of cupcakes and approach the door to his room. With a deep breath, I straighten my shoulders, then knock.

I can hear someone on the other side and I cross my fingers that no one else is here except Quinton and Tristan, like say, a drug dealer, druggies, or anything else that has to do with drugs.

Seconds later, the curtain on the window next to the door is drawn back and Quinton glances out. After I wave at him, he releases the curtain. Then I hear the chain drag and the door swings open.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Quinton asks. He’s wearing a tank top and I notice a tattoo on his arm that lists names along with: no one.

I wonder what it means.

I shift my attention away from his tattoo when he covers it with his hand, lifting my gaze to him. “I came here to see Tristan,” I tell him and then present the box of cupcakes. “And I brought treats.”

He glances at the unmade beds behind him then back at me. “I don’t think now’s a good time, Avery.”

I lower the box of cupcakes. “Nova sent me.”

His forehead furrows. “She did?” He retrieves his phone and checks the screen. “Yeah, okay. I guess I missed it when she texted me.” He peers over his shoulder at the beds again.

I wonder what Nova told him exactly.

“Is Tristan here?” I glance over his shoulder at the empty room.

“He’s in the shower.” He seems torn over something. “You sure you want to get into this, Avery? I mean, this kind of stuff is hard to deal with for most people.”

“You mean drug related stuff?” I ask, and he nods. Here’s your out, Avery. Take it and run. “I’ve never done drugs myself, but my mother’s drug of choice was heroin.” The words pour out of my mouth under no control of my own. “And crystal. And weed. And anything and everything that you could possibly smoke, shoot up, or snort.” I trace my collarbone along the inked words that bring me strength whenever I think about opening a bottle. Never forget the strength it took to free yourself. “And mine was, well it was alcohol.” I’m not sure why I’m telling him this other than it seems like the best place to start.

His attention lingers on the tattoo as I lower my fingers from the ink. “You sound a lot like Nova,” he says and by the admiration in his voice, I take it as a good thing.

“Nova’s had alcohol issues too?” I ask, adjusting the box of cupcakes to my side.

“No, she just has strength.” He backs away from the doorway and extends his arm out behind him to turn the television off. “And a lot of determination to help people like…” He trails off, scratching at the back of his neck with uneasiness.

“Like Tristan?”

“Yeah and others.”

I think he might be referring to himself, but I tell myself to deal with one person at a time. “So are you going to let me in or what?” I ask in an upbeat tone, attempting to improve the gloomy mood. “I’ll let you have one if you let me in.” I wiggle the box of cupcakes at him, trying to entice him with frosty goodness. “They even have little heart candies on them.”

He cracks a smile then moves back and motions me in. “Sure. Come on in.”

My feet feel as heavy as a bag of bricks as I enter the compact room. I can hear the shower running behind a closed door toward the back. Clothes are thrown about the floor and the dresser is cluttered with deodorant, perfume, cologne, and makeup. “Do you and Nova stay here too?” I ask Quinton as he closes the door.

He nods then takes a seat on a table in front of the window, drawing back the curtain, and letting warm sunlight trickle into the room. “Yeah, we bunk up to save money.”

“That’s pretty smart. Although it probably sucks for a few reasons.” I elevate my brows as I glance at the bed.

Quinton chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, just a little bit.”

After that, it grows awkwardly quiet, and when I hear the shower shut off, I almost feel thankful. Still, minutes tick by where no one speaks so I finally open the box of cupcakes, take one out for myself, and offer Quinton one. He grabs one then picks off the pink frosting before devouring the cake part.

“You ruined the best part,” I remark then lick a mouthful of frosting off mine.

He shrugs, peeling the wrapper down. “It’s too sweet…” He drifts off as the bathroom door opens up.

A cloud of steam exits first and then Tristan follows. He’s shirtless, all carved muscles and tattoos that are damp from the moisture in the air. His jeans sit low on his hips, and he has a towel in his hand that he’s using to dry his hair. He looks exhausted, bags under his bloodshot eyes, his shoulders hunched over. He also seems distracted, his gaze fixed on the brown carpet as he makes his way toward the bed.

“The showerhead fell off again,” he mutters before looking up. He immediately stops dead in his tracks, his expression hardening. “What the f**k are you doing here?”

Okay, so maybe this was about me.

“Don’t be an ass**le, Tristan,” Quinton cautions, getting to his feet. “You always get like this after…”

Tristan glares at Quinton. “I’ll be whatever I want to be.”

Quinton opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off.

“Can you give us a moment?” I ask Quinton. When he hesitates, I wave my hand at him, signaling for him to get a move on. I can handle this, I mouth.

Quinton wavers at my confidence and I don’t blame him. He doesn’t know me, so he doesn’t understand how familiar I am with hung over ass**les.

“Okay, but if you need me, I’ll be right outside.” Quinton grabs a pack of cigarettes from the table before heading out the door.

Once he’s outside, I face Tristan who’s now sitting on the bed and scowling at me, hung over and cranky. “So, are you going to glare at me or ask me why I’m here?”

He drops the towel on the bed, crosses his arms, and cocks his head to the side. “Why are you here? I mean, I thought you made it pretty clear you weren’t interested the other night.”

“No, I made it clear that I wasn’t ready to kiss you like that.” I set the box of cupcakes down on the empty bed then take a seat beside him. “And then you just disappeared for three days.”

“Well, it didn’t seem to bother you when I disappeared for three months,” he mutters grumpily. He flops down on the bed and drapes his arm over his head, shutting his eyes. “Now go away.”

My gaze travels to the door and I contemplate doing what he said.

Instead, I lie down by him.

“So what’d you do?” I ask, resting my arm on my stomach while holding the cupcake in my hand.

He peeks at me from underneath his arm. “What do you mean, what did I do?”

“I mean, did you drink? Get high? Spun? What?”

His lips part as he gapes at me. “Wow, you get right to the f**king point, don’t you?”

I shrug. “Sometimes you have to if you want to get anywhere in life.”

“How do you even know I was on anything… Quinton told you, didn’t he?” He shakes his head as he lifts his arm away from his face. “Or was it Nova?” He sits up and roughly rakes his fingers through his hair. “She sent you here, didn’t she? God damn her, always trying to fix me.”

“Nova might have mentioned where you were, but I would have figured it out anyway,” I say, my gaze roving to his back.

Thin red lines mark his shoulder blades, as if someone scratched him. Oh my God. Did I do that in the alley? I can vaguely remember stabbing my fingernails into his shirt… as we kissed... and touched…

“And how would you have figured it out?” he asks condescendingly. “You think you know me that well?”

“No, but I know the effects of alcohol really well, and you’re eyes are bloodshot. And you look worn out from too much partying.” I sit up. “You forget I’m a recovering alcoholic. I know the signs of too much partying. Plus, my mother was an alcoholic and a druggie pretty much from the day I was born, so…” I shrug.