Three days ago.
The revelation makes me think of all those shows and documentaries about drug users. Crystal meth, in particular, is a nasty drug to be addicted to, because apparently the high doesn’t last long at all. Which leads users to take more and more, going on binges in order to maintain the high. And that’s what Eric Royce had been doing, bingeing for seventy-two hours straight. But now he’s crashing. He left his friend’s house to walk home, became completely disoriented, and wound up in a stranger’s bushes.
This was a number one draft pick.
I can’t even wrap my head around that. One minute someone is on top of the world. The next, they’re hitting rock bottom. It’s terrifying how fast and how far people can fall.
“I knew you’d come,” Eric is mumbling. “And now you’re here, and maybe you can give me fifty bucks and—”
My eyebrows shoot up.
“Well, that took a turn,” Brooks mutters to me.
“No.” Her sharp tone invites no argument. “I’m not giving you money. I drove almost an hour to—no, not just me. I dragged my friends out in the rain to come find you, to help you, and now you’re hitting me up for money? So you can buy more drugs, which are the reason you’re in this situation to begin with? What is wrong with you?”
He starts to whine. “After everything we’ve been through—”
“Exactly!” she thunders, and both Brooks and I flinch at her vehemence. “After everything we’ve been through, I don’t owe you a thing. I don’t owe you a goddamn thing, Eric.”
“But I still love you,” he whispers.
“Hoo boy,” Weston says under his breath.
I swallow a sigh. I’ve never met a more pathetic person, and I force myself to remember that this man clearly has addiction issues. But from the sounds of it, he’s the one refusing to go to rehab. Refusing to save himself.
Either way, I’m more than a little relieved when we arrive at his house. “Let me talk to his mom before we take him in,” Brenna says. “I need to warn Louisa.”
She hops out and hurries toward the two-story home. It has a white wraparound porch, big bay windows, and a welcoming red door. It’s hard to picture a meth addict living there.
I wait for Brenna to reach the porch, then twist around in my seat to address Eric. “Listen, I don’t know what your history with Brenna is,” I say in a low voice. “But this is the last time you’re going to be calling her.”
Confusion fills his eyes. “But I have to call her. She’s my friend and—”
“She’s not your friend, pal.” My jaw goes so tight I can barely get a word out. “You just risked her life, made her drive in a storm to rescue you from some bender, and then thanked her by asking for drug money. You are not her friend.”
I think a sliver of guilt manages to penetrate the high, because his lips start trembling. “She’s my friend,” he says again, but it doesn’t hold as much conviction as before.
Brenna returns to the car, accompanied by a dark-haired woman in a flannel robe and rain boots. She looks like she was dragged out of bed.
The woman throws open the back door. “Eric, honey, come here. Get in the house.”
He manages to slide out of the backseat on his own. Once he staggers to his feet, his mother latches on to his arm. “Come on, honey, let’s go inside.” She glances toward the driver’s seat. “Thank you so much for bringing him home.”
As she guides him away, a dismayed Brenna peers at Brooks’s open window. “Your coat,” she reminds him.
“Let him keep it. I’ll buy another.” A response that reveals just how badly he wants to disentangle himself from this entire situation.
I don’t blame him.
When Brenna is buckled up in the backseat, I twist around and prompt, “Hastings?”
She slowly shakes her head, and I’m startled when I glimpse unshed tears clinging to her long eyelashes. “Can I spend the night at your place?”
27
Brenna
“I’m so embarrassed.” I flop down in the center of Jake’s bed, wearing one of his T-shirts, a pair of his thick socks, and nothing else. My cheeks are still burning from the humiliation of scouring the streets of New Hampshire for my druggie ex-boyfriend—and dragging two other people along for the ride.
Jake closes the door. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. We all have our shit.”
“Really? So you have a meth-addicted ex-girlfriend lurking in the shadows who might require rescuing at any moment? Sweet! We have so much in common!”
His lips quirk up. “Fine. Maybe my shit isn’t quite as exciting as yours.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is still damp from the shower.
We both showered—separately—the second we got back to Jake’s apartment. After being out in the cold April rain with Eric and then driving home in wet clothes, we desperately needed warming up. A part of me is still floored that Jake and Brooks did this for me tonight. It’s definitely going above and beyond.
I can’t get Eric’s face out of my mind. His enlarged pupils, the rapid-fire jabbering. It’s horrifying to know that he smoked meth for three days straight, got lost in a quiet residential neighborhood, and passed out in the bushes. Afraid. Alone. Thank God his mother continues to pay for his cell phone so that he has the means to communicate and call for help.
I just wish he hadn’t called me.
“I can’t believe that’s the same Eric Royce who almost played for Chicago,” Jake says, and there’s a flash of pity in his eyes.
“I know.”
He joins me on the bed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with him.” I have to amend that. “Not to this extent, though. Usually he wants money. Last year I made the mistake of giving him some, so now he thinks it’s okay to keep asking.”
“You dated for how long?”
“About a year and a half.”
“And you broke up with him.”
I nod.
“Why?”
“Because it was too much.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “It got too intense, and we weren’t good for each other anymore. Plus, my dad hated him by that point.”
“Doesn’t your dad hate everyone?”
“Pretty much.” I smile faintly. “But he especially hates Eric.”
“I’m not sure I fault him for that.”
“Me neither, but you weren’t there. We went through some stuff and it hit Eric hard. He was immature and didn’t know how to properly deal with his emotions. He made a lot of mistakes.” I shrug. “Dad doesn’t allow for mistakes.”
My voice cracks and I hope Jake doesn’t notice. Because that’s the problem—there’s no such thing as forgiveness with my father. He hasn’t forgiven me for my relationship with Eric and all the trouble it caused. I don’t think he ever will.
Once again I feel my cheeks heat up. “See, I told you that you didn’t want to get involved with me. I’m way too fucked up.”