Page 77 of His Heart

I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

She squeezed back. “Oh my god, I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I said. “But how did you find me here?”

“A certain big muscular bearded guy,” she said.

“Sebastian?”

“Yep. He called my mom a couple of days ago. She was going to fly out here, but I insisted I would come.”

“Why did he call your mom?” I asked. Now I was completely confused.

“Because he’s worried about you,” she said. “But you need to let me ask the questions for a minute. I love you, but you have a lot to answer for, you crazy bitch. Why didn’t you tell anyone you moved out here?”

“Because it was nuts,” I said.

“Shit yeah, it was nuts. Although I’ve met Sebastian, so…” She paused, her eyes on me. “Are you on drugs?”

Her question caught me off guard, like a shove from behind I wasn’t expecting. “What? No. Why would you ask me that?”

“Because Sebastian is worried that you’re using,” she said.

“I’m not using drugs,” I said, my voice sharp.

“Be straight with me, Brooke,” Olivia said. “With your history… I need to know if I’m here for an intervention or what.”

“My history?” I asked. “You mean my mom.”

“Well, yeah, growing up with an addict makes you more susceptible. But mostly I’m asking you because Sebastian told me what you did the other night.”

I hesitated, staring into my tea. I felt like I was at a crossroads with Olivia. I believed her when she said she was sorry. Both of us had been angry that day, our anger fueled by grief. And if I pushed her away again now, I’d never get another chance. She’d been like a sister to me once, and I still loved her like one. I always had.

I met her eyes. “Last week I took some Vicodin. And Saturday night I got wasted out of my mind on Xanax and alcohol. But before that, I hadn’t touched a thing since I moved here. Not even a single drink. I swear.”

“Where’d you get the pills?” she asked.

“In Phoenix before I left.”

“Do you have more?”

It took me a second to answer, a lie sitting unspoken on my tongue. It bothered me that my first instinct was to protect my stash. That wasn’t a good sign. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“There’s more Vicodin in my sock drawer. I have a bottle in my purse that says Advil, but that’s not what’s in it. I’m not even sure what those are; there’s a few different things. And I took the last of the Xanax. I promise, that’s it.”

She raised her eyebrows and got up. I waited on the couch while she dug through my purse and pulled out the bottle. She went to my room and I heard her go through my things. I let her do it.

The toilet flushed and she came out, brushing her hands together. “Gone. We cool?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have any booze?” she asked.

“No.”

“Damn,” she said, and one corner of her mouth lifted. “I could really use a drink.”

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