Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“I remember when you were sober,” I replied absently. Why had I come? Why had I bothered tracking him down?
It used to be just booze. Then he’d tried his ma’s pain meds. Then he was buying Tramadol on the street. Then benzo. Then he discovered oxy. And now…
He was one party away from shooting up fentanyl.
Who knew what he was on right now.
“Come on, Eric. Let’s go. You can crash in my room.”
He found that funny for some reason. “Like your dad’s gonna let me in.”
“We’ll wait till he’s gone to sleep.”
He shook his head and sprawled out across the cushions. “Life’s too good, Trace.”
The edges of my vision grew blurry and my lungs burned and… I sucked in a breath, the images faded, and I cursed and rolled over to bury my face in my pillow. God-fucking-dammit.
It’s just a bad dream.
Unfortunately, the memories pulled me back in.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
“What’s there to break up? I haven’t heard from you in weeks!” My voice bounced off the walls in the alley, and I had to get a grip. I was fucking working. I couldn’t deal with another ride on the Eric roller coaster. I was so done.
He glared at me, though it fell short ’cause he was still affected by whatever he’d been on. “What the fuck happened to you, Trace? We used to do everything together, but ever since your old man put a lock on your—”
“He didn’t put a lock on shit,” I seethed. “He offered me help—he gave me an out, and thank fuck I took it. Otherwise, I’d be you right now.”
I was so mad that I couldn’t see straight. How fucking dare he come here? Selfish motherfucker. He wasn’t even one of those friends who’d struggled with depression and never got help; he was an arrogant party animal who didn’t wanna stop. He’d stolen from his family, from me, and from his friends. He was an excellent manipulator, and he came and went as he pleased. Nothing was ever his fault.
Drugs had killed everything I’d once liked about him and amplified the shit I hated.
Trace, wake up.
I wrenched away from the voice, and the touch, and catapulted myself out of the nightmare in the process. What the fuck? I was in bed, it was still mostly dark out, but I could hear the faint sound of traffic. Sleep-laden anger and images of Eric morphed into disorientation and…there was Ben.
I sat up and scrubbed my hands over my face.
Why did I have to dream about that motherfucker? Eric belonged in my past—a part of my life that still made me cringe.
“Are you okay?” Ben asked quietly.
A breath gusted out of me, and I nodded and let my hands fall.
I was okay. Sort of.
“You wanna talk about it?”
That wasn’t what we did. Ben and I didn’t talk. Not on that level anyway. We were infuriatingly awesome at being friends in a more casual way. We could talk sports for hours. We could hang out and play pool, prepare soup kitchen kits, cook, play darts… He was too good at darts. In pool, we were evenly matched. I could lose track of time watching him work on the bar, which was almost finished. He could talk forever about Alvin.
We just didn’t dig into each other’s pasts or any topics that were sensitive.
“Not really.” I glanced over at him as he got ready to go to bed. He must’ve recently come home from his night shift. He’d showered and changed into a new tee and boxer briefs. “Busy night?”
He shook his head. “Just two calls, and I got the second right as I finished the first.”
That was better than the time he’d come home exhausted and got a call right as he’d slipped under the covers.
“Come on.” He nodded toward the doorway. “I’m hungry.”
How was that my problem? I grabbed my phone on the armrest of the couch. “It’s six thirty.”
“You could probably eat too. You didn’t touch my ma’s casserole last night.”
Because my emotions had devoured a whole bag of pretzel sticks!
Whatever.
I got out of bed and pulled on my sweats, and then I followed him out into the kitchen.
Ziggy was like, fuck that nonsense. He stayed on his stack of blankets.
The empty corner in the kitchen was a mess, ’cause Ben was restoring a kitchen table he’d found for free on Craigslist.
I yawned and aimed for the coffeemaker. I didn’t drink much of it, but that cup in the morning was vital.
Thank fuck it was Monday today. I was off. The bar was closed.
I had to go out and find a birthday present for Ben. May was here, and he turned forty-nine tomorrow. He’d made reservations downstairs for four. I was gonna meet his mother and son.
I’d already become well-versed in Elsie’s cooking, and it was next level. Actually, Ben was a great cook too. Whenever he had dinner in Elmwood Park, he came home with leftovers.