He rolls his eyes as he slumps back in the torn sofa. “Would you chill out? It’s just a little pot. Not meth or anything.”

It’s the same thing he’s been saying to me since he lost his job and I found out that he had a drug habit that had been going on for well over a year, starting right after Mason was born. I have no idea how I’d been so blind not to see it, other than maybe I didn’t want to.

But I should have seen it.

When he didn’t show up for Mason’s delivery.

When he’d stay out for nights at a time.

When the cars he loved disappeared.

When money started disappearing.

When he started disappearing.

When he’d love me.

Then hate me.

Love.

Then hate.

But I see it now.

I see too much now and it hurts.

“You’re losing weight again,” I note as I pick up the ashtray.

He narrows his eyes at me. “Fuck you. I’m not doing crystal again. I told you I can’t—that I react to it poorly.”

“Yeah, but you say a lot of things.” I dump the contents of the ashtray into the trashcan and his eyes widen. “Like you’ll get a job.”

“What the f**k are you doing?” He springs from the sofa and shoves me out of the way to reach into the trash. “That was half a joint.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t do it anymore.” I set the ashtray down on the armrest of the sofa.

He curses under his breath as he retrieves the joint. “Yeah, but we could get money for this. And we need money.”

“We need jobs,” I say, aggravated. “And I had an interview tonight but how am I supposed to leave Mason with you when you’re high and smoking weed in the house?”

“I’m perfectly capable of watching my son. Besides, you drink while you watch him.”

“I have a beer or two,” I argue. “To relax.”

He rolls his eyes again and I start to get pissed off, but it’s nothing new. This is what we do.

All the freaking time.

“Sure. It has nothing to do with the fact that your mother’s an alcoholic and you’ve turned out just like her,” Conner snaps hotly, getting in my face.

“Shut the f**k up,” I growl in response, leaning back.

“Why? Does the truth hurt?” he seethes maliciously.

I try to remain composed because deep down I know this isn’t about who’s an alcoholic or who’s high right now. It’s about the fact that we’re broke, jobless, and sleep deprived.

“You’re such an ass**le,” I mutter, turning to walk away from another argument, but anger bites at me. I’m angry because I’m here and I’m not happy and I’m not what I wanted to be. Angry because this wasn’t just his fault, it was mine. That anger creates a vile taste in my mouth and words slip out without any forethought about the aftermath.

“How did I ever marry such a loser?” I wince as soon as I say it, knowing I should be better than that. “Sorry,” I hurry and say as I twist to face him. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Fuck you,” he snaps, reaching for his jacket on the sofa. “You’re such a little cunt.”

I ignore his rude remark and step in front of him. “You can’t leave. I have to go to this interview.”

He slips on his jacket. “Get out of my way, Avery.”

I shake my head. “I need you here.”

“Why? I’m high, so I’m useless.” He zips up his jacket, ready to bail. It’s the last year playing all over again, painful, ugly events stuck on repeat.

I shove my hand in his direction. “Then give me your car keys?”

“No f**king way.”

“I’m not letting you drive high.”

He snorts a laugh. “Like you could really stop me.”

I stand my ground, keeping my feet planted to the floor. “Mason needs his father alive.” I figure that’ll get him but instead it seems to push him further over the edge.

“Avery, I’m warning you, move now before things get ugly.”

“Things are already ugly,” I say, gesturing around the living room that consists of a torn leather sofa, a broken stereo, a shelf, and a few boxes. That’s it. That’s all we’ve managed to accumulate over the last few years. “There’s no way things could get worse.”

“Bullshit.” Shaking his head, he rushes forward and clocks his shoulder into my neck. I wince, but don’t budge. “Fuck!” he shouts so hard the veins in his neck and forehead bulge. “I’m in f**king hell!” He looks at me like everything’s my fault.

That he never wanted any of this.

That he never wanted me.

Or this life.

This nightmare.

Then he shoves me without warning. Hard.

I stumble and smack the side of my face against a nearby shelf, right on the corner. My head throbs as the world spins around me.

“Dammit, that hurt,” I say, clutching my head.

For a fleeting instant, he looks guilty, shocked, and appalled with himself. But all the remorse vanishes from his face and then he’s storming out the door, slamming it so hard behind him that the entire trailer rumbles.

After I hear the tires peel away, I sink down on the sofa and cradle my head, staring at the floor while Mason cries from his room. Part of me wants to remain this way and never move again. But a second later, I drag myself to my feet and walk back into the room to comfort Mason. I lie down in his bed and sing him a song, holding onto him for dear life because it feels like I’ve failed, like I failed Jax when I left him behind in Wyoming.

“I love you, Mama,” Mason mutters sleepily right before he drifts off to sleep.

Then I start to sob noiselessly as I hug him closer to me.

That day in the hospital when I had him, I vowed I would take care of him. Vowed I’d do anything for him. Vowed that he’d never have to go through what I went through. But I’ve broken all those vows and it hurts so god damn bad. I love him more than anything and I’m screwing up.

But how do I fix it?

I finally slip out of his room and into the bathroom to look at my reflection in the mirror. The entire side of my face is red and swollen from where it hit the shelf. I hadn’t realized how hard I’d hit it until now, nor did I acknowledge how bad it hurt.

But now it aches.

More than I realized.

Everything aches.

“Jesus,” I mutter as I turn away from the mirror.

In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge and gently press it to the side of my face. Then I try to figure out what to do when Conner comes back home. Get angry? Try to talk about it? Honestly, part of me just wants to leave this shithole and go back. But to where? The Subs and live with my mother? God, I can’t do that. Can’t subject Mason to that kind of environment? Yet as I glance around the near empty house, collapsing from age, I have to wonder.

Is this life any better?

But what can I do to change it?

Maybe I could try to track down my father and ask him for help. But how would I even go about doing that? All I know about him is his name and the fact that he was as obsessed with the stars as I am. And really, it’d probably only lead to more disappointment. If he wanted to find me he could have over the years.

Disappointment drowns me. How did things get so bad? How could I let things get so bad? How can I fix this? Make things better?

Removing the bottle from my face, I glance out the window and at the stars, just like I used to do all the time when I was younger. When I had dreams. Hope. When I thought my father would come back and save me, but he never did, and now no one can save me.

I’m damned.

Ruined.

Wrecked.

Forever.

So instead of searching for answers in the stars, I pop the cap off the beer.

And search for answers at the bottom of the bottle.
Chapter 18

Not quite rock bottom, but close.

Tristan

Where am I? I don’t know. I don’t know anything other than the world is spinning. Or maybe it’s me that’s spinning.

“Tristan, can you hear me?” a woman asks as everything continues to spin and spin.

Round and round.

Out of control.

Just like me.

“What… Who’s there?” I moan.

“Baby, look at me,” she purrs. “Are you coming back?”

After blinking several times, my surroundings come into focus. A leaky ceiling is the first thing I see before I feel the pain.

“Where am I?” I mutter, cringing as the aching radiates through my head, like my skull is cracked.

“At your house, silly,” she giggles.

I rotate my throbbing head. An older woman is sitting on the floor with her shoes and shirt off. She has greasy brown hair, an overly thin body, and sunken-in eyes that I don’t recognize.

“Who are you?” I croak, my throat dry as hell.

“That doesn’t really matter, does it?” she says then reaches for a shiny object that’s on the floor in front of her feet.

I realize it’s a spoon and the last several, very blurry months come crashing back to me. I’m in my room in an apartment in Vegas where I’ve been living for months. I live here with Quinton and a few other people, spending all my time doing and dealing drugs. I’m sprawled out on the floor, and in serious pain, because I screwed over the wrong person and they punched me in the side of the head so hard I think I got a concussion. But instead of going to the hospital, I dragged my ass back to my room because I can’t afford a doctor nor do I care enough to fix myself.

I also remember all the other drugs I do.

The ass**le I am.

The people I’ve hurt.

The loneliness.

The self-hatred.

Why did I have to wake up?

“You ready for this?” the woman asks as she positions a lighter below the spoon. “It’ll take all the pain away and then you can pay me for it later.” She bites her chapped lip as she says it, her glazed eyes drifting from my chest to the top of my jeans.

I think about the path I’ve taken. About my past or lack of one. I think about my life.

“And how exactly am I going to pay you?” I ask, even though I know it doesn’t really matter. That regardless of the cost, I’ll do it—always do.

She grins at me with her yellow teeth. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle with you.”

I have no attraction to this woman at all. Don’t care about her. Only about what she’s going to give me, which might make me the worst and shittiest person in the world—might make me… well, me.

When no reason to decline her offer comes to mind, I say, “All right, let’s do this.” Then I stare at the dripping ceiling as I extend my arm toward her and my addiction.

Moments later, I feel the sting as the needle pierces my flesh.

Then I drift in and out of reality as the woman kisses me, touches me, uses me to please herself. I’m barely coherent by the time she leaves my room. Feeling hollow and dead inside, disgusted with myself, there’s nothing left to do, but sink.

Deep into the darkness.

Toward rock bottom.

Not quite reaching it.

But knowing it has to be close.

Present day…

Chapter 19

The no wrecking rules.

Tristan

After that night in the alleyway, I never expected to see Avery again. I’d taken off with big plans of getting high so I could forget all about her. And forget who I was. Instead, I never made it that far and that hesitancy gave Avery just enough time to find me again. She, I’m discovering, is my weakness... strength to drugs.

I’m not sure what to think about the fact that she made the effort to track me down, what it means, other than she’s the only person who’s ever really looked for me before.

My parents once tried to find me while I was living in Vegas. I thought it was because they cared, but when they’d gotten me home after my overdose, I discovered it was because my mother was having a meltdown, and my father thought me being there would help her. Fix me, and he thought he could fix her. He was wrong. My mom needs more help than just a temporarily mended son. She needs… What she thinks she needs is Ryder back, but that’s not ever going to happen.

“So what are you thinking?” Avery asks me from across the table.

She brought me to a restaurant where the tables are outside beneath a canopy. A Pink Floyd song is playing from the stereo and the air smells like salt and sunshine. The freshness of it seems to help my killer headache, caused by binge drinking and thoughts of what’s going to happen if my neighbors come looking for the drugs.

I wasn’t lying to Avery when I said I have no idea how I got the bag of crystal, but I know enough about myself to understand I could have easily stolen it or promised to do something very bad in order to get it.

I glance down at the menu then back up at her. “That I’m not really a fan of seafood.”

She smiles as she reaches across the table and flips over the page of the menu. “Then check this section out.” She taps her finger on a heading that reads: For the non-seafood lover.

I can’t help smiling. “Seriously?” I scan over the menu. “Chicken. Hamburgers. Fries. Okay, that I can totally handle.”

“You should try the burrito,” she says. “It’s the magical cure for a hangover. I promise after one bite, you’ll be happy and smiling.”

“But I’m already smiling because of you,” I reply. “So wouldn’t that make you the magical cure to my hangover?” What the f**k is wrong with me?

She stares at me, unimpressed. “Are you really going to keep that up?”