Page 35 of Never Say Die
Aiden swallowed around a jagged lump.
“You could’ve called me. Could’ve sent a text—something, anything. This isn’t some. . . some. . . random asshole we knew in high school. This is Aiden, okay? I would’ve dropped everything, I would’ve, I—I would’ve been there.” She stomped out a cigarette. “What happened? Like, what did he actuallydo?”he asked, breathless.
Jacob sighed. Dylan did, too.
“Took enough oxy to kill a horse,” Georgia mumbled. “Chased it with a fifth of Grey Goose. Coma for two days, ditched rehab, promised he’d chill out. We thought he might’ve hit a rut last week. He got wasted again—like,wastedwasted—wasn’t sleeping, started gettin’ angry. You know how he is, but he bounced back. Always does.”
“Jesus,” Shay whispered.
Aiden sniffled. Pawed at his nose and pushed his sunglassesinto place, shielding his eyes. They could talk about his vulnerabilities. Wallow in the wreckage his accidental-suicide-attempt had left behind. But he didn’t have the energy to cry about it, to beg for forgiveness, to look at Shay and lie.I was just partying,like he hadn’t been searching for an escape hatch.No big deal, like he didn’t remember his muscles seizing and twitching.Shit happens, like he hadn’t swallowed his own vomit to make sure the drugs stayed in his system.I’m fine,like he didn’t wish he could go back, turn his overdose into a ritual, and return with black eyes. He walked around the back of the RV and flashed a toothy grin. “Still alive, guys,” he said, faking laughter, and climbed into the dented motorhome. “Are we going or not?”
Shay itched his chin. “Let’s just go, c’mon.”
Jacob clapped. “Enjoy the bus, play icebreaker games, bond as a semi-legitimate rockband, do whatever the hell you want, but write some new goddamn songs. New music, new album—new album, radio retention. Understood?”
“Easy, Jake. We’ll get you some music soon,” Georgia said.
“Soon as innow,” Jacob snapped. “Pru, shoot ‘em if they get crazy.”
Pru popped her chewing gum. “Got it, boss.”
Dylan cooed at the ferret. “Can I hold him. . . ?” And made another baby noise as Pru handed over the slinky weasel. “Oh, you’re totally our mascot—hey, guys, Sherlock’s the band mascot!”
The living space inside the RV wasn’t terrible. A sunken brown couch stretched behind the driver’s seat, followed by a booth-table beneath a curtained window. The dollhouse kitchenette housed a shallow sink and a narrow refrigerator. Aiden peeked into the bathroom on his way to the bedroom, separated by a fold-out door with a loose lock, where an unpackaged set of white sheets sat atop a ratty mattress. He immediately tore open the packaging and pulled the bottom sheet into place.
Behind him, the folding door shut.
“Can we talk?” Shay asked.
Aiden kicked off his boots and crawled onto the bed. “Nope.”
The motorhome rumbled to life, lurching as Pru hit the gas. Light came through the retro windows and warmed his back. Aiden turned his face toward the passing desert. Ignored the bed dipping under Shay’s weight and the residual embarrassment churning in his gut. Music played from the stereo, and Georgia and Dylan talked with Pru in the front cabin. He was well acquainted with their hushed voices and low whispers, the sad sighs and explanations. He draped his jacket over himself like a blanket, hiding his face under the collar.
“Aiden, c’mon.” Shay flopped on his back and blew out an irritated breath. “So, you OD’d.”
“So, I OD’d,” Aiden mumbled, and refused to acknowledge the spider-light crawl of Shay’s eyes on his bomber jacket. “It was stupid, okay? I know, I get it. I’ve heard the speech already, like, twenty different times.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“When was I supposed to tell you? Before I stabbed you, when you broke into my apartment, or last night? It’s not important. It happened, it’s done, I’m fine.”
“Are you? Because Georgia said?—”
“Georgia doesn’t know shit.”
“Look, GeorgiaandDylan?—”
Aiden ripped the jacket away and flipped over. “Saw me, literally, lose my mind, okay? That was then, this is now. It’s not like I ran off to find oxy. I had a nervous fucking breakdown in my apartment. The end. Case closed.”
“A nervous breakdown?”
“Yes, Shay. Gross-crying, white girl wasted, puking in the shower, nervous breakdown. I’m not fucking proud of it, but I’d…” He paused, swallowing hard. “Made the worst mistake of mylife, and you were gone, and I wanted to tear my own skin off because of it. They saw the result, not the reason. Can we be done? I’m done.”
Shay frowned. “Don’t rituals need, like, solid intent to work? Like, don’t you have tonotregret it to?—”
“Yes, dumbass. That’s why you didn’t stay dead,” Aiden snapped. I needed you more.He turned onto his back and glared at the smooth, wood-paneled ceiling. “Anyway, I don’t fuck with opiates anymore, so everyone can chill. Happy?”
“Not really.” Shay grabbed his wrist, holding him. “You act like I suddenly stopped knowing you. You don’t like downers, you never have. So, why oxy?”
