Page 20 of The Chance

Like he was supposed to be, and not just because of his job, but instead because hechoseto be. He took the chance to be. As my best friend and partner in crime from the time he joined our crazy little family of found fuckers.

Doesn’t that mean more?

To me … it means everything.

And yet it can’t mean anything.

Huffing out a breath, I blow on the wet paint in half a daze, though I know it doesn’t do much to speed up the drying process.

I go through the motions of changing into what my sister-in-law gives me without much thought, the rest of the room falling away like a backdrop on the stage. No one’s looking at it, but it’s still there. Still filling out the space in hopes of drawing attention.

My mind deep dives into introspection as we drive, a winding path of thoughts making each step feel like I’m running through water and getting nowhere fast.

I need this, I remind myself for the thousandth time when my Chucks hit the dance floor, the flashing lights and pounding base filling the club up like it’s a living thing. Something breathing. Something pulsing with life, and bodies, and freedom.

The autonomy feels so foreign and far away that when I physically reach out to grab it, to hold onto it, my hand filled with a cup instead.

I smash back the contents, though I have no clue what was in it. I don’t taste a thing. I don’t feel shit, either. Nothing but a tingling numbness that takes over my entire body like a cage that I can’t break out of.

The lights all bleed together until there’s nothing but one giant bright strobe shining right on me, the beat melding each note as one, leaving nothing but one long rush of static.

Not even the music sounds the same.

My stomach rolls when I feel pressure of a hand on my hip.

An invitation I turn away from.

It’s not his.

I swallow back another drink.

Step out from another’s grip.

“Mac.”

It’s like I’ve left my body behind, my mind watching from a dark corner somewhere as arms that don’t belong on me try to box me in. I maneuver away with bile rising up the back of my throat.

I think I’m dancing, but I probably just look like a madman as I swat against another grabby grip.

They aren’t him.

I’m swaying, stepping out of embraces and away from sweaty bodies on a beeline to the bathroom when I spot the sign through the haze.

My chest is pumping double time when I all but crash into the vanity held together by stickers and duct tape.

“I need this,” I say without any heat to the reflection in the spider-webbed mirror, but not even the words can change the man staring back.

It looks like me, but he’s got black smudges under his dead green-blue eyes. Pale skin that’s dimmed by a sheen of sweat. A bandana with curly hair spilling from the top that’s weighed down by the pressure making me hunch over the sink.

I need this.

The seams are bursting, the demons held back by the strength of the fraying strings getting the better of me.

Just breathe.

Funny how the words sound just like Jordan’s in my head that hangs between my stiff shoulders.

“In and out. One breath at a time.”

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