Page 113 of A Love That Broke Us
My heart pounds as I stare at the powder. Just a bump. Half, even. Just enough to wake me up, to pull me out of this hole, get my fucking dick hard for Christ’s sake.
I haven’t touched this shit in over ten years. I don’t even remember what a normal bump looks like. But I know better than to overdo it. Just a sliver.
I tap out a tiny line. Barely anything. Just a push.
I grab my wallet, slide out my credit card, and a twenty-dollar bill. My hands shake as I press the powder back and forth, forming a cleanline. I roll the bill, muscle memory taking over like I’ve done this a hundred times. I lean in, hovering—doubt creeping in.
What if it makes it worse? What if I can’t keep my shit together?
Too late for that.
I snort it fast. A sharp, chemical burn fires up my nose and down the back of my throat. The rush is instant. My face tingles, eyes water, and my heart hammers like a goddamn drumline.
There I am.
I feel awake. Present. Capable.
My head buzzes. Everything sharpens. Colors are brighter. Thoughts are clearer.
A rattling at the door whips me back to reality.
“Jensen? What are you doing?” Alley’s pounding on the door, trying to come in.
Jesus. Give me a fucking minute.
“Why is the door locked?”
My pulse spikes again, this time with panic. I scramble, folding the bill and sliding it back into my wallet, along with the card.
“Jensen. Open the damn door!”
“I’m coming!” I call back. I grab a Q-tip from the drawer and swipe each nostril, clearing the residue. I toss it in the trash, my hands steadying, thoughts aligning.
For the first time all day, I don’t feel like shit. I actually feel good. Like I could sit across from my wife without disappointing her. Maybe even get it up.
I shove the baggie into my pocket, just in case.
In case the feeling fades.
In case I lose this edge—this version of me that might actually make her smile, that might actually fuck her like I used to.
Because I can’t disappoint Alley any more than I already have.
Chapter Thirty-Five
ALLEY
THEN
My eyes flickto Jensen in the back of the cab. I feel awful. I said some really hurtful things back at home. But he’s here. He’s with me. And he seems—happy. Which is rare these days.
He did run into his office before we left. I know what’s in there. I know what he went in there to do. He locked the door so he could get high.
That’s what he does now. It’s not just about pain anymore. He’s chasing something. A feeling. His new normal. He takes something every day. How much or how often? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s using.
Using.Something a drug addict does. And that’s what he is. An addict.
Just like my father.
