Wreck Me

by Jessica Sorensen

  "Why did you give me a choice that night?"

  I rest back on my hands and stare out the window at the sunlight. "Because giving you a choice made you think about what you really wanted to do."

  He reclines back on his elbows and stares out the window with me. "How did you get so wise?"

  I shrug, trying not to feel too elated at the fact that I seem to be cheering him up. "Life."

  He angles his head to the side and looks at me. "You seem older than twenty-two."

  "Gee, thanks," I say dryly. "Looking old. Just what every girl wants to hear."

  He shakes his head and then sits up straight. "No, you don't look old. At all..." His attention is locked on me, but I'm not sure if he's looking at me or trying to get a glimpse of what I keep buried inside me. "You just seem like you know more about life than most twenty-two-year-olds do. Most would want to run away from my problems." He narrows his eyes. "Are you here to join me? Is that why you're really here, Avery? To get high? To get fucked? What is it?"

  He's being an ass again on purpose--I think to try to push me away--but I maintain his gaze, even though it's tough, knowing that he has to be the first to look away if this is going to work. He's challenging me right now, daring me to give up first, but I'm not going to.

  "No, that's not why I'm here," I tell him. "And I look like I know more about life because I probably do."

  One...

  Two...

  Three seconds go by.

  His gaze grows more heated.

  I grow more uneasy.

  Still I don't look away.

  Even though with Conner I would have.

  But with Tristan I can't.

  And finally he gives up.

  Something Conner would never do.

  "I drank," he admits, looking away from me. "I got shit faced for three nights then went searching for a bump." His head slumps forward and he massages his temples with his fingertips. "I'm honestly not sure what happened but..." He shoves his hand into the pocket of his jeans. When he pulls his hand out, his fingers are wrapped around a bag of tiny white crystals. Meth. Conner's drug of choice and my mother loved it too. "I found this in my pocket the next morning."

  I'm shocked. Appalled. Disappointed. Terrified. Worried. "Did you--"

  He rapidly shakes his head. "No, I could tell when I woke up I hadn't done it, mainly because I had to fall asleep in order to wake up." He flicks the bag with his finger, staring at it with hunger gleaming in his eyes. "And I couldn't have fallen asleep with this shit in my system."

  "Who knows you have that?"

  "No one but you knows." He stares at the stained carpet in front of our feet.

  "So, why do you have it?" I'm anxious. It's not like being around drugs is new to me, but it's always made me uneasy; the danger, the uncertainty, the instability it brings into one's life.

  "I told you, I have no idea. Nor do I have a fucking clue why I didn't do it."

  I swallow the massive lump in my throat. "Why do you still have it?"

  His expression swarms with uncertainty. "I don't know."

  "Do you..." I fidget nervously, plucking at a loose string on the hem of my shorts. "Do you want me to get rid of it for you?"

  "I'm a little worried," he admits as he sets the bag down on his knee. "I don't know how I got it, and I'm not missing any money, so I don't know how I paid for it. And I'm afraid..." He winces as he glances down at the bag and then at me again. "But anyway, I don't think... I don't think I want to do it."

  I wonder what he's afraid of. Part of me believes I should run away. Right now. In fact, every instinct of mine is begging me not to go down this road again, but Tristan isn't Conner and I've always believed there are two sides to every person. Although very rarely do most people show more than one side.

  Right now I think I may be seeing Tristan's other side--vulnerability. I'm not sure what to do with it, or why he's choosing to let me see it. However, the fact that he trusted me enough not to lie to me when he's clearly been lying to Nova and Quinton makes me not want to bail right now, not when this might be why I'm here.

  "You have no clue where you got it from?" I ask. "At all?"

  "I was pretty drunk," he confesses with a shrug. "But I'm guessing from the neighbors. I saw them spun the other day, and I can vaguely remember being outside the motel for a while."

  "You could always go return it just to make sure you won't get into trouble with them."

  He chuckles, but his eyes are filled with sadness. "You're cute."

  I feel like he's making fun of me for some reason. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means I think it's cute you'd believe there was some sort of return policy for drugs." He presses his hands against his eyes. "God, I can't believe this is happening again."

  "How many times has this happened?"

  "Too many times."

  I realize just how little I know about him and also how much I want to learn about him.

  "So what do we do?" I ask, glancing out the window as Quinton walks by.

  Tristan tips his head to the side and glares at me. "We aren't doing anything. This is my problem."

  I open my mouth to protest when he abruptly stands up. My gaze follows him as he walks back into the bathroom. Moments later, I hear the toilet flush, then he returns to the room and throws the now empty bag into the trash can.

  "There, problem taken care of." He flops down on the bed across from me. "Now, you can go."

  "What if you did get it from your neighbors and they come looking for you? What if you owe them something?" When he glances up at me, confounded, I add, "I know more about this stuff than you think."

  He scowls. "That's my problem. Now go."

  I shake my head. "I'm not ready to leave yet. And I'm really proud of you, for dumping it."

  His scowl hardens. "Well it doesn't mean I won't ever do it again."

  "So, it still means you chose not to do it for the second time," I say and if looks could kill, I'd be dead. "What? Am I being too calm for you? You want me to leave instead? Run out of here crying because you messed up? Yell at you? What do you want from me Tristan?"

  He sighs, lowering his hands to his lap. "I honestly don't know what I want from you, but you've got me curious." He swallows hard. "You got me curious three months ago too."

  I smash my lips together and really consider what I'm about to do with all of this because that's where I've always made my mistakes. Before the fire, I never thought three steps ahead, never thought about the future.

  Now I think about it a lot.

  All the time, actually.

  It's what's made me so cautious with guys and people in general.

  Regardless I have a feeling I'm supposed to be here. Even when I blew off the kiss, it felt like I shouldn't have let Tristan walk away. Call it a life purpose. Call it fate. Call it madness. Call it stupid attraction. Call it whatever you like, but in the end I know what I need--want to do. Something that I've needed to do since before I even met him.

  When I arrive at my final decision, I rise to my feet. Then I offer Tristan my hand. I'm not saying that I'm going to start dating him or even kiss him. I'm just trying to help him the only way that I can. He has to take it, though.

  "What?" he asks, glancing from my hand to my eyes.

  I shrug with my hand still extended. "I really have no idea what I'm doing, but I thought we could go somewhere, like maybe to lunch. Let's get you out of this room and get some fresh air."

  "What about your no guys rule?" he asks guardedly.

  "I'm making an exception right now."

  His intense gaze notes every one of my piercings and ink. "Never pegged you for a rule breaker." His voice drips with sarcasm.

  "Ha, ha, you're a riot," I retort, equally as sarcastic. "Now come on. And maybe if you're lucky, I'll let you know a thing or two about me."

  He stares at me and then my hand. At me. Then my hand. Me. My hand. Torn between what to do, until finally, he decides.<
br />
  He laces his fingers through mine and for the briefest, most terrifying moment, they kind of feel like they belong in my hand, like I need his hand as well.

  I'm not sure what to do with that. Or what to do with how easy this is. Or if I should do anything at all. So I do the only thing I can do.

  I take his hand too.

  Reminding myself that he'll only be here until the house is finished.

  Not forever.

  I just hope I'm not making another mistake.

  Three years ago....

  Chapter 17

  Bottom of the bottle.

  Avery

  Music blares from the living room and cigarette smoke snakes through the air. I'm attempting to curl my hair in the bathroom so I can go to a job interview at the gas station, which is pretty much the only place that would consider hiring me without a diploma or GED. But I end up abandoning my attempt to do my hair when my two-year-old son starts crying from his bedroom, probably because the music woke him up.

  "God fucking dammit," I curse as I burn myself while setting the curling iron down on the countertop. I bang my elbow on the wall on the way out of the tiny bathroom then stub my toe on the foot of the bed because there are only about six inches between it and the doorway. "Conner, turn the music down please!" I shout as I hobble down the narrow hallway and into the small and narrow living room.

  My already aggravated mood spins out of control as I realize the smoke I've smelled isn't cigarette smoke but a much more pungent substance. Conner is sitting on the shabby sofa with a lit joint in his hand. He looks so unlike the guy I fell in love with; his brown hair cropped to his skull, his muscles thinning, and his body covered in art we can't afford.

  "Don't smoke that shit in here!" I call out over the music as I throw open the window. The sounds of the freeway rush into the house as I make my way over to the stereo and turn the music off. "What the hell are you doing?" I ask, snatching the joint from his hand and setting it in the ashtray. "Mason's just down the hallway, for God's sake."

  He blinks up at me with bloodshot eyes. "I closed his door."

  I shake my head, frustrated. "What was the point of moving clear across the country so you could get away from that shit"--I point at the joint--"and clean up your act if you're not really going to clean yourself up?"

  He rolls his eyes as he slumps back in the torn sofa. "Would you chill out? It's just a little pot. Not meth or anything."

  It's the same thing he's been saying to me since he lost his job and I found out that he had a drug habit that had been going on for well over a year, starting right after Mason was born. I have no idea how I'd been so blind not to see it, other than maybe I didn't want to.

  But I should have seen it.

  When he didn't show up for Mason's delivery.

  When he'd stay out for nights at a time.

  When the cars he loved disappeared.

  When money started disappearing.

  When he started disappearing.

  When he'd love me.

  Then hate me.

  Love.

  Then hate.

  But I see it now.

  I see too much now and it hurts.

  "You're losing weight again," I note as I pick up the ashtray.

  He narrows his eyes at me. "Fuck you. I'm not doing crystal again. I told you I can't--that I react to it poorly."

  "Yeah, but you say a lot of things." I dump the contents of the ashtray into the trashcan and his eyes widen. "Like you'll get a job."

  "What the fuck are you doing?" He springs from the sofa and shoves me out of the way to reach into the trash. "That was half a joint."

  "You promised me you wouldn't do it anymore." I set the ashtray down on the armrest of the sofa.

  He curses under his breath as he retrieves the joint. "Yeah, but we could get money for this. And we need money."

  "We need jobs," I say, aggravated. "And I had an interview tonight but how am I supposed to leave Mason with you when you're high and smoking weed in the house?"

  "I'm perfectly capable of watching my son. Besides, you drink while you watch him."

  "I have a beer or two," I argue. "To relax."

  He rolls his eyes again and I start to get pissed off, but it's nothing new. This is what we do.

  All the freaking time.

  "Sure. It has nothing to do with the fact that your mother's an alcoholic and you've turned out just like her," Conner snaps hotly, getting in my face.

  "Shut the fuck up," I growl in response, leaning back.

  "Why? Does the truth hurt?" he seethes maliciously.

  I try to remain composed because deep down I know this isn't about who's an alcoholic or who's high right now. It's about the fact that we're broke, jobless, and sleep deprived.

  "You're such an asshole," I mutter, turning to walk away from another argument, but anger bites at me. I'm angry because I'm here and I'm not happy and I'm not what I wanted to be. Angry because this wasn't just his fault, it was mine. That anger creates a vile taste in my mouth and words slip out without any forethought about the aftermath.

  "How did I ever marry such a loser?" I wince as soon as I say it, knowing I should be better than that. "Sorry," I hurry and say as I twist to face him. "I didn't mean that."

  "Fuck you," he snaps, reaching for his jacket on the sofa. "You're such a little cunt."

  I ignore his rude remark and step in front of him. "You can't leave. I have to go to this interview."

  He slips on his jacket. "Get out of my way, Avery."

  I shake my head. "I need you here."

  "Why? I'm high, so I'm useless." He zips up his jacket, ready to bail. It's the last year playing all over again, painful, ugly events stuck on repeat.

  I shove my hand in his direction. "Then give me your car keys?"

  "No fucking way."

  "I'm not letting you drive high."

  He snorts a laugh. "Like you could really stop me."

  I stand my ground, keeping my feet planted to the floor. "Mason needs his father alive." I figure that'll get him but instead it seems to push him further over the edge.

  "Avery, I'm warning you, move now before things get ugly."

  "Things are already ugly," I say, gesturing around the living room that consists of a torn leather sofa, a broken stereo, a shelf, and a few boxes. That's it. That's all we've managed to accumulate over the last few years. "There's no way things could get worse."

  "Bullshit." Shaking his head, he rushes forward and clocks his shoulder into my neck. I wince, but don't budge. "Fuck!" he shouts so hard the veins in his neck and forehead bulge. "I'm in fucking hell!" He looks at me like everything's my fault.

  That he never wanted any of this.

  That he never wanted me.

  Or this life.

  This nightmare.

  Then he shoves me without warning. Hard.

  I stumble and smack the side of my face against a nearby shelf, right on the corner. My head throbs as the world spins around me.

  "Dammit, that hurt," I say, clutching my head.

  For a fleeting instant, he looks guilty, shocked, and appalled with himself. But all the remorse vanishes from his face and then he's storming out the door, slamming it so hard behind him that the entire trailer rumbles.

  After I hear the tires peel away, I sink down on the sofa and cradle my head, staring at the floor while Mason cries from his room. Part of me wants to remain this way and never move again. But a second later, I drag myself to my feet and walk back into the room to comfort Mason. I lie down in his bed and sing him a song, holding onto him for dear life because it feels like I've failed, like I failed Jax when I left him behind in Wyoming.

  "I love you, Mama," Mason mutters sleepily right before he drifts off to sleep.

  Then I start to sob noiselessly as I hug him closer to me.

  That day in the hospital when I had him, I vowed I would take care of him. Vowed I'd do anything for him. Vowed that he'd never have to go through
what I went through. But I've broken all those vows and it hurts so god damn bad. I love him more than anything and I'm screwing up.

  But how do I fix it?

  I finally slip out of his room and into the bathroom to look at my reflection in the mirror. The entire side of my face is red and swollen from where it hit the shelf. I hadn't realized how hard I'd hit it until now, nor did I acknowledge how bad it hurt.

  But now it aches.

  More than I realized.

  Everything aches.

  "Jesus," I mutter as I turn away from the mirror.

  In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge and gently press it to the side of my face. Then I try to figure out what to do when Conner comes back home. Get angry? Try to talk about it? Honestly, part of me just wants to leave this shithole and go back. But to where? The Subs and live with my mother? God, I can't do that. Can't subject Mason to that kind of environment? Yet as I glance around the near empty house, collapsing from age, I have to wonder.