Page 42 of Becoming Us
Icouldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
No. That wasn’t entirely true.
There’d been Jell-O shots last night. Maybe some chips. I just couldn’t recall the last time I had something that counted as a proper meal. Vodka definitely didn’t make the cut. Especially not after I’d just finished trying to empty the contents of my stomach again.
River hadn’t been exactly right about that. Turns out, even after a couple of bumps, if you’ve passed the threshold for how much alcohol a body can take, you’ll still get wrecked.
I had no idea how I had gotten home last night. Opening my eyes to watch my bedroom wall spin had been a surprise.
The past couple of weeks had been a blur, ever since the fight with my mom. Since River. I might’ve gone to school once or twice. Mostly, I stayed in bed during the day and snuck out at night. I did a few shoots. Got invited to parties. Sometimes Hollycame with me, sometimes she didn’t. I wasn’t even sure if she’d been there last night.
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My eyes looked empty—just as hollow as I felt. When things got this bad, it was like the world went quiet. Sound dulled. Color drained. Everything faded into white noise. And somewhere in that static, the small voice always returned.
Whether I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, or making out with some stranger at a party, it whispered.
What’s the point?
What does it matter?
Nobody likes you.
You’re a waste of space.
You’re a bad person. Everyone’s going to figure it out—just like she did—and then you’ll be alone. Finally, all a?—
A knock at the door snapped me back.
I turned toward it, swiping a hand under my nose. It had been leaking nonstop. Maybe I was getting sick.
“Noah, are you in there?” my dad called.
“Yeah.” My voice came out hoarse. What the hell did I do last night? I cleared my throat.
“Come out here for a second. We need to talk.”
My stomach dropped. That pressure in my chest returned, hazy but heavy. I felt like a kid caught in a lie.
“Sure.”
I pulled on some sweats, brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and checked the mirror again. Not great. Not that it mattered.
He was sitting at the edge of my bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced. My eyes flicked to my closed bedroom door. The feeling intensified.
He looked up and met my gaze, then took in the rest of me. His face fell—not with anger, but sadness. And somehow, that was worse. My eyes burned.
I forced it away.
“Sit, hijo.”
I dropped into the desk chair in front of him. “What is it?”
His eyes shifted toward my nightstand. I followed them. The baggie sat there, half-empty and damning.
Panic hit me like a tidal wave. “Dad, I?—”
“We’re not playing that game, Noah,” he said, cutting me off. His gaze held steady until I nodded. “Jaz found it this morning while she was doing laundry.”
“It’s—”
