Until the night it all went wrong.
I’d played the what if game many, many times. What if she’d known? What if I’d been forced to admit my problem sooner? What if I’d slipped up in a small way, which prevented the ultimate disaster?
What if was a pointless exercise. Ask any addict.
Slowly, I lifted the dusty tank cover, peering over the edge as if there might be a serpent inside to bite me. And really, the pills I’d kept out of my life these past months were worse than any snake.
But there was nothing there. My old hiding place had been discovered, and whatever stash had been here on the worst night of my life were long gone—discovered by the police, and sitting in some evidence locker somewhere, with contraband impounded from all the other losers like me.
Thank God. Today I would not be truly tested.
Sure, I’d probably have managed to flush the pills down. But you don’t know until you’ve got them in your hand. There was a chance that I would have pocketed one, just in case of emergency. But to an addict like me, that emergency would inevitably have come within the hour.
The relapse rate for opiate addicts was over fifty percent. That depressing little statistic rattled through my mind all day long. “But that means almost half of us don’t relapse,” some cheerful soul had pointed out at rehab. “You can choose to be in that half.”
Easier said than done.
Feeling the first hit of relief since I’d rolled into town, I set the tank cover back in place. Then I got to work straightening up. When I stripped the bed, a cloud of dust rose up, making me cough. So I opened the window in spite of the November chill. I needed to air out my room. Air out my lungs. Air out my whole goddamned life.
It took me several hours to get the place halfway to inhabitable. I dragged the Shop-Vac up the stairs to attack the bulk of the dust. I made a trip to the laundromat, went to a drive-through at a fast-food place while my clothes dried, and then ate in my awful car. It wasn’t the home cooking I’d been eating on the Shipley farm, but it got the job done.
By nightfall, I was able to put clean sheets on the bed and then collapse onto it. I shut off the lamp and let my eyes adjust to the shadows of my old room. These days, falling asleep was always tricky and staying asleep was impossible. On the Shipley Farm, I’d roomed in a bunkhouse with three other guys. I used to lie awake listening to them snore.
My room at home would be much quieter—just quiet enough to make room for all the demons in my head. Lying here made me think of her, too.
Sophie.
I wondered where she was right now. New York City, probably. She’d have a small place somewhere, because singers who were just starting out didn’t make any money. She’d have roommates.
Or a boyfriend.
I forced myself to imagine who she might choose. He’d have to be my opposite, since Sophie wouldn’t want to be reminded of her unfortunate choices. That made him a dark-haired guy, maybe with olive skin, and wearing an Italian suit. Hopefully he had a high-paying job — in finance or real estate. He’d earn enough to live in a safe neighborhood and take Sophie out for expensive dinners.
Of course, the Sophie I knew wouldn’t want to date a banker. That smacked of her father’s choices for her. But maybe she’d met this guy during intermission at the Metropolitan Opera. Her banker had an artsy side, and season tickets in a private box. He probably invited her to watch from his excellent seats. And since Sophie had a standing-room ticket, she accepted…
My brain snagged on this detail. Were private boxes even real, or were those just in old movies?
In prison I’d had to entertain myself like this for hours. When there was nobody to talk to, I went on journeys inside my head. Before prison, I was a talker. Too much of a talker, probably. But these past three years, I hadn’t had a lot of conversation. Even at the Shipley Farm, when there were always people to talk to, I didn’t say a whole lot. They were such a nice, normal family. I preferred to listen. And who wanted to hear a lot of sentences that began, “In prison, we…”
Nobody, that’s who.
A single set of headlights illuminated an angled section of my ceiling from left to right. Then it was dark again. The nighttime sounds were different here. I was used to the call of the barred owls on the Shipley Farm, punctuated on some nights by coyotes howling nearby.
I missed the bunkhouse. Privacy was not a luxury for me. If I got out of this bed and went to find a fix, there was nobody who’d notice or care. I’d needed those six a.m. milkings to keep me on the straight and narrow. I needed the watchful eyes of Griffin Shipley on me while we worked the farmers’ market stall.
This was going to be so hard. Every minute. In Colebury, a fix was always in reach. Surely some of my druggie friends were within a mile of me right now. Still using. Still dealing. Colebury reeked of all my old mistakes and desires.
The itchy void in my chest gave a throb, and I rolled over to try to quash it. But that only reminded me of another absence. I stuck my nose in the pillow and took a deep breath, wondering if any scent of Sophie might remain.
But she was long gone.
Read Steadfast now…
Also by Sarina Bowen
TRUE NORTH
Steadfast (Jude & Sophie)
Keepsake (Zach & Lark)
Bountiful (Zara & Dave)
Speakeasy (May & Alec)
THE BROOKLYN BRUISERS
Rookie Move (#1)
Hard Hitter (#2)
Pipe Dreams (#3)
Brooklynaire
THE IVY YEARS
The Year We Fell Down #1
The Year We Hid Away #2
Blonde Date #2.5
The Understatement of the Year #3
The Shameless Hour #4
The Fifteenth Minute #5
GRAVITY
Coming In From the Cold #1
Falling From the Sky #2
Shooting for the Stars #3
AND
HIM by Sarina Bowen and Elle Kennedy
US by Sarina Bowen and Elle Kennedy
Acknowledgments & Copyright
Thank you to my early readers, Tawdra Kandle, Karen Stivali, Elle Kennedy, Melinda Utendorf and Keyanna Butler. Your feedback was so valuable! Thank you to Sandy L. for naming Angelo and Jack! That was fun. And thanks to Edie Danford, as always, for the savvy editing.
Thank you to Sarah Hansen for the gorgeous cover design. Cover image by Bigstock Photo.
This book is copyright Sarina Bowen 2016. This digital copy is for your own enjoyment only. It may not be shared or distributed in any form without the author’s express permission. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Sarina Bowen, [True North 01.0] Bittersweet
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