Page 75 of Escaping Our Reality

He finishes ringing everything in my basket and leans over the counter, nodding at the drink in my hand. “That too?”

I lift the tea bottle in the air. “I’ll be checking out with this one separately.” That comment piques his interest.

I pay for the groceries with my credit card. Shoving the plastic bags to the side of the counter, I set the drink in between us. Condensation rolls onto the Formica. I reach into my wallet and grab the money I carefully folded.

I guess it’s hard to propose my actions are spur of the moment, when I folded my money weeks ago in case the situation ever presented itself.

Sliding it across to Trash, I choke on my words. My throat makes a weird gargling sound like I’m trying not to swallow mouthwash. “I’ll take that in a paper bag, please.”

Did I really just say please? At least I’m polite when I buy drugs.

Trash studies the $20 bill folded in front of him. Before he grabs it, I lay three pennies across the top. Eyes shining, he grabs my drink and money, walking quickly to the backroom. “Let me just grab one from the back.” He’s so excited, he’s practically skipping.

Douche.

He returns just a few seconds later with only the $20 cover bill in his hand. The rest of the money that was folded inside is gone. He quickly makes change and hands the bag to me. “Enjoy. I think you’re gonna love it. I’m sure I’ll see you back real soon.”

Gathering the bags in my hand, I make my way to the door, side-sweeping my view from one end of the store to the other. What if the lady behind me is an undercover cop? What if those cameras are a live feed to Trey and he sees that I just bought drugs? What if Trash planted a bomb in my paper bag instead of drugs?

I lift up the small brown bag. It just looks like someone’s lunch bag. I put it to my ear. I don’t hear anything suspicious.

The door chimes again, when I butt it with my hip to walk out. Trash’s voice follows me outside. “Hey, Ella. I was right about your legs.”

I don’t even turn around to look at him. I run-walk back over to the garage, my heart slapping against my ribcage in adrenaline. The knowledge I did something wrong is floating in my head like seaweed in the ocean, clogging my thoughts.

Ry’s finished the customer’s car, and he’s already slid underneath another one. His boots slap against the floor as he rolls his body and the creeper into a better position. Harlan is chatting with the guy at the register in the far corner.

“I’m back. I’ll put everything away.” I rush into the small kitchen, quickly tossing the groceries into the cabinets and fridge. Quietly racing into Ry’s small bedroom, I lock the door. Leaning against it, I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself. Sitting on his bed, I lay the paper bag in front of me. Grabbing his pillow, I clutch it against my chest.

Was Carrie this nervous the first time she bought drugs?

When ‘normal’ people have a major surgery, they take pain pills. When those pain pills run out, they stop taking them. What makes a person cross over the invisible threshold? What makes them think they need more pain pills? What breaks the border between ‘normal medical patient’ and ‘drug user’? And what made Carrie the latter versus the former? Was she always meant to be an addict? Is it in her body’s chemistry?

What about me? If I took one pill, could I stop? Or would I be an addict too?

Flopping the pillow on my lap, I reach into the bag. My fingers grab the drink first. I lay it on Ry’s quilt. At first, I don’t feel the small plastic bag and I think Trash has played a horrible trick on me.

And then I feel it.

I lay it on the bed next to the tea bottle.

I can’t touch it. It burns my fingertips like a hot iron.

I stare at the small pills—white, pink, and blue. Ry called it the Holy Trinity, before. Oxy, Soma, and Xanax. Nothing seems holy about it. In fact, I feel like I’m staring at the Devil himself. I sniffle, trying to keep the tears in my eyes. It’s a completely moot point, my eyes are apparently operating under direct order from my stupid, stupid brain.

I cry and I cry and I cry, silently praying that Ry and Harlan don’t hear me. I don’t see any tissues, so I reach in the top drawer of the small nightstand next to me. Grabbing a pair of Ry’s clean boxer briefs, I wipe my runny nose and try to dry my falling tears.

And then Ry walks in.

I guess the door doesn’t actually lock.

And I’m too sad to even be shocked.

He stares at me, his eyes roaming back and forth between me and the pill baggie. I’m surprised I can even hear his whisper. It’s quiet. Like a feather blowing on the wind. “What the fuck is going on?” When I don’t answer, his voice grows louder. “You bought pills?”

I nod, rubbing the crotch of his underwear across my face.

He takes a step toward me, clenching and unclenching his fist in anger. His jaw tightens. “Why? Why would you buy pills, Lulu? Please tell me you weren’t thinking about taking them.”

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