In the Basement, In the Sky

Seventeen

You go to NA on Wednesday. You don't talk much. You're not sure if it's helping or not. Everyone is nice enough, and nobody judges you, and it's not like you and Ronan are the only ones in your age group. There are plenty of people in their 20s. The youngest is 17, the oldest is 61. You meet people who were addicted to heroin for years, who served jail time, who were disowned by their families, who lost their homes. It makes you feel spoiled and selfish, like your problems are unimportant by comparison, because you were just a party kid who was too full of himself to see how you were hurting the people who loved you.

Love you. Don't think in past tenses. Maybe Kylie still does.

This all seems so stupid, sometimes, going through all this bullshit on the off-chance Kylie will take you back. What if he's moved on? What if he finds someone better? A guy who has a good job and takes care of him and brings him out on dates? Who doesn't let the gas get shut off because he spent too much on molly and acid?

If nothing else, it's your payment to Ronan and Angie for letting you stay. You try to tell yourself that. Even if... oh, god, you can't even think it more than once in a sitting.

He has to take you back. You're working so hard, and you love him, and he loves you. Or, at least he did at one point.

You can't expect him to wait. Logically, you know that. He doesn't owe you a second chance.

But that doesn't keep you from hoping he might choose to give you one.

On the drive back to the apartment, Ronan asks if you'd be interested in getting matched with a sponsor. It doesn't have to be him, he says, if there's someone else you're more comfortable with.

But you're not comfortable with anyone. Maybe you should ask Ronan to be your sponsor, if he's up for it, but. It seems like too much to ask of anyone. Like you'd just be wasting their time.

Finally, finally, Friday comes. Ronan's in class when you leave. Angie's working from home today. If she notices you watching the clock on your phone, she doesn't call you on it.

You're not sure how long the trip will take. You kind of remember seeing something about construction on the line, but was it before or after your stop? If you're late getting home, whatever. But you can't be late for your appointment. You need that fucking Adderall and every time they tell you to jump through another hoop to get it, all you're going to ask is, "How high?"

You're so goddamn tired.

Eventually you decide you'll leave an hour early, to give yourself plenty of time to get lost and still arrive to do your paperwork in time. Your insurance card hasn't come in, but you still have your letter, crinkled up from your fingers gripping it so tightly so often, when you pull it out to reread it again and again and again, just to make sure it's real. You grab it now from the little table beside the couch, fold it up and stick it in your pocket. Angie looks up from her laptop at the sound of paper crumpling.

"Are you on your way out?" she asks. You nod, stand, all sharp angles and too long limbs, shoulders hunched too much, toes turned in. Phone goes in the opposite pocket, you grab your wallet and shove it into the one with the letter, squawk unceremoniously when your jeans start to slip down. It's been about a month and a half, and even though Angie and Ronan are feeding you, your already skinny frame has shed even more weight.

You grab your belt loops and tug your jeans back up.

"Do you need to borrow a belt, honey?" Angie asks.

You rub at your cheek, notice the stubble there. You haven't shaved in a few days. Have you even bathed at all? You've brushed your teeth, right?

You run your tongue along your teeth. They feel clean.