Page 124 of A Love That Broke Us
So you’re not coming?
I drop my phone on the counter and take a second to steady myself.
Is he even telling the truth?
Goddammit. I hate that my brain just went there. Of course he’s telling the truth. I saw him leave yesterday. His bag was packed, and he was wearing work clothes. I watched him walk out the door. He loves Zach and Joey just as much as I do.
But what if he took something while he was there? What if he’s spiraling? What if he was in pain and couldn’t handle the pressure?
Fear plants itself deep in my chest, and suddenly I’m a mess of nerves. My breathing turns shallow, my hands start to shake, and an overwhelming urge to play detective crashes through me.
My phone lights up again.
Jensen
I know this sucks, Al. I was really looking forward to it. I’ll let you know if something changes. Call you later.
Doom and gloom settles over me.Why won’t he answer his phone? Why won’t he call me now?
This isn’t some child’s birthday party he’s missing. It’s abig deal.
I turn on my heel and storm into our closet, yanking open drawers, shuffling through shelves. Don’t ask what I’m looking for. I don’t even know. Pills, bags, a receipt, a clue. Anything to tell me he’s full of shit.
I dig through pants pockets, shoes, boxes, the safe. I’m praying—begging that I don’t find anything.
He’s clean. He has to be. Iknowhe is.
Next I’m in the office, tearing through drawers like I’m insane. I feel completely unhinged. The irony is almost laughable. I look like the addict right now—strung out, searching for a fix. The desperation is radiating off me in waves.
I’m crouched in front of the bottom drawer, everything pulled out and scattered on the floor.
Nothing.
I start pulling the drawers out again, one at a time, running my hands along the undersides. Nothing’s off-limits. I know how this works—what lengths an addict will go to. I grew up with it. I’ve seen what my dad was capable of. I’ve read enough blogs and forums. I’ve heard the horror stories. Youneverunderestimate an addict.
They are masters of deception.
I get to the top left drawer. I pull it out and run my fingers underneath. My fingers bump into something hard.What the hell?There’s a container of some sort Velcroed to the bottom of the drawer. I rip it off and stare at it. It’s black, small, and looks like a tackle box. I freeze, staring at it for a full ten seconds before I move. Like if I don’t touch it, it’s not real.
Popping the lid open, I almost laugh out loud when I see what’s inside. Even though it’s not funny.
Not even a little.
It’s organized. I’ll give him that: Q-tips, Neosporin, an old hotel key card, a razor blade, a metal tray with white residue, cut straws. All the paraphernalia you’d need to snort something up your nose.
And the worst part? The part that screams guilty? The pills. And the little baggie of white powder.
If those weren’t here, maybe I could gaslight myself into believing this was old. Something he forgot to throw out.
But it’s not.
He has drugs.
In the house.
Right now.
I grab the whole kit becausefuck him.How dare he?
