Chapter 41

ASHER

“Pick out anything you want, and I’ll get it for you,” I say to Addison. My gaze drifts to the other girl who’s lost in the world outside the window.

I yearn to approach her, to ask her about her life, her name, how she’s managing without the hard stuff, but something holds me back. It’s a voice I heed despite my usual disregard for advice.

This girl is broken. She’s been through hell, and I don’t want to intrude on her privacy.

I wish there were a guidebook, a clear path on how to help her, but I’m just making it up as I go along.

I’m navigating each moment with extreme caution, hoping not to set off any emotional landmines.

I’ve seen it before with Mama, how a single trigger could set her off, and I don’t want to be the reason these girls relive their traumas.

So, I just stand there at the kitchen counter, watching her.

Observing her steady breathing, her stillness, and I can’t help but wonder.

I recall the unbearable itch under my skin the last time I was on heroin.

That torturous hour when my body screamed for more, but I was too paralyzed to get it.

It took me two days to give in to the craving.

Those were the longest two days of my life.

Is she battling the same demon?

Is she suffering even though she seems perfectly fine on the outside?

I wish I knew, but I doubt I’ll ever find out.

So, I just watch her, my gaze lingering on her every move, making the atmosphere a bit uncomfortable.

Addison coughs lightly, pushing the laptop toward me.

I scan through the items she’s added to the online cart—lingerie, nightgowns, jeans, shirts, blouses, workout clothes, even some Vans and Doc Martens.

It’s a hefty sum, but I don’t hesitate as I proceed to checkout for express delivery.

These girls deserve something of their own.

If I can provide even the smallest comfort by buying them clothes they like, then who am I to deny them that?

Who am I to refuse them one of the basic human rights?

I gladly pay for the items before closing the laptop and looking at Addison.

She meets my gaze silently, neither of us uttering a word.

But I can tell she’s holding something back—something that will eventually surface when she’s ready.

What that something is, I can’t tell yet, but I’m determined to understand these girls better.

I start to get up to leave, but she stops me, glancing at the other girl before sighing.

“She’s really struggling,” she reiterates.

“I won’t give her that stuff again,” I mutter, feeling a wave of shame wash over me.

I’m ashamed of giving her drugs last night and leaving her with no choice but to go cold turkey or find a dealer to feed her addiction.

Addison doesn’t respond, just looks at the girl by the window, nods, and leaves me standing at the counter.

I feel torn, my emotions pulling me in opposite directions as I start listing reasons why I shouldn’t give her more drugs.

It’s illegal.

It’s harmful.

She’d be better off without them.

I can’t in good conscience give her something that’s destroying her from the inside.

She needs to quit sooner rather than later.

Her future depends on her sobriety.

And then it hits me—I’m a hypocrite.

Here I am, listing reasons why she shouldn’t be an addict when I’m an addict myself, using drugs every day.

Looking at the girl sitting so still, I feel a pang of guilt.

If I’m expecting her to embark on this journey of sobriety, then maybe I should do the same.

I know it’s hard—I’ve tried and failed before.

But I’ve never had someone to hold me accountable for my addiction.

My fathers ignore it, and my mother is too gentle to enforce any threats she makes in the heat of the moment.

But this girl might be my ticket to freedom, and maybe, just maybe, I’m willing to give it another shot.

Maybe I’m just trying to guilt myself into staying clean because I’m pushing her to do the same.

I leave the girls and retreat to my room, sinking onto my bed as I wrestle with my thoughts.

My mind spirals into overthinking, which inevitably leads me to contemplate the one thing that can silence the chaos.

But I’ve just been mulling over the idea of quitting, especially if I’m expecting her to do the same.

So, I hesitate to open the bedside drawer where my stash—a little bit of everything I’ve ever been willing to try—lies hidden.

The thought of it teases me, the idea of the very things that can lead to oblivion.

To peace and serenity.

I hate to admit that I sit here for a long time, battling the urge to open that drawer.

I daydream about it, about pulling open the drawer and retrieving a perfectly rolled joint, placing it between my lips as I flick the lighter on my bedside table.

Taking the first hit, the burning cannabis fills my mouth with smoke that I inhale deeply into my lungs, holding it there until I can’t anymore.

Only then would I exhale, releasing a cloud of smoke above me, entranced by the fact that this very smoke is what gives me the high I crave and seek multiple times a day.

My leg bounces anxiously as my mind pleads with me to give in to the very thing I’m picturing.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I lean forward, on the verge of reaching into my drawer.

But I’m saved by the buzz of my phone. The sudden noise and vibration jolt me back to reality, distracting me from my cravings long enough to check who’s calling me.