Wreck Me (Nova #4)(42)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

When I arrive at my final decision, I rise to my feet. Then I offer Tristan my hand. I’m not saying that I’m going to start dating him or even kiss him. I’m just trying to help him the only way that I can. He has to take it, though.

“What?” he asks, glancing from my hand to my eyes.

I shrug with my hand still extended. “I really have no idea what I’m doing, but I thought we could go somewhere, like maybe to lunch. Let’s get you out of this room and get some fresh air.”

“What about your no guys rule?” he asks guardedly.

“I’m making an exception right now.”

His intense gaze notes every one of my piercings and ink. “Never pegged you for a rule breaker.” His voice drips with sarcasm.

“Ha, ha, you’re a riot,” I retort, equally as sarcastic. “Now come on. And maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll let you know a thing or two about me.”

He stares at me and then my hand. At me. Then my hand. Me. My hand. Torn between what to do, until finally, he decides.

He laces his fingers through mine and for the briefest, most terrifying moment, they kind of feel like they belong in my hand, like I need his hand as well.

I’m not sure what to do with that. Or what to do with how easy this is. Or if I should do anything at all. So I do the only thing I can do.

I take his hand too.

Reminding myself that he’ll only be here until the house is finished.

Not forever.

I just hope I’m not making another mistake.

Three years ago….

Chapter 17

Bottom of the bottle.

Avery

Music blares from the living room and cigarette smoke snakes through the air. I’m attempting to curl my hair in the bathroom so I can go to a job interview at the gas station, which is pretty much the only place that would consider hiring me without a diploma or GED. But I end up abandoning my attempt to do my hair when my two-year-old son starts crying from his bedroom, probably because the music woke him up.

“God fucking dammit,” I curse as I burn myself while setting the curling iron down on the countertop. I bang my elbow on the wall on the way out of the tiny bathroom then stub my toe on the foot of the bed because there are only about six inches between it and the doorway. “Conner, turn the music down please!” I shout as I hobble down the narrow hallway and into the small and narrow living room.

My already aggravated mood spins out of control as I realize the smoke I’ve smelled isn’t cigarette smoke but a much more pungent substance. Conner is sitting on the shabby sofa with a lit joint in his hand. He looks so unlike the guy I fell in love with; his brown hair cropped to his skull, his muscles thinning, and his body covered in art we can’t afford.

“Don’t smoke that shit in here!” I call out over the music as I throw open the window. The sounds of the freeway rush into the house as I make my way over to the stereo and turn the music off. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask, snatching the joint from his hand and setting it in the ashtray. “Mason’s just down the hallway, for God’s sake.”

He blinks up at me with bloodshot eyes. “I closed his door.”

I shake my head, frustrated. “What was the point of moving clear across the country so you could get away from that shit”—I point at the joint—“and clean up your act if you’re not really going to clean yourself up?”

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 fuck 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 fuck 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 asshole,” 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.”