13. Phoenix

Phoenix

Nightmares

Y ou know where this goes.

How could you let this happen?

He doesn’t fucking CARE!

My thoughts are a million grenades, all detonating simultaneously while I hide in my bunk. Like always, Eli used his body to make me forget the real problems pushing us further apart. I don’t know what is wrong with me or why I didn’t go jack off. Nothing feels better. And now there’s another casualty just waiting to discover they’re dead. He said he didn’t care about Leon—that he didn’t matter.

Do I?

I’m trying to decide if he was high earlier. If I could detect it or if I let my dick make all my decisions. Let my desperation to be close to him blind me like it used to. That’s the fucked up thing. I can’t tell. Sometimes, in the past, I could. I could look into his eyes and know if he was high. Other times, he appeared so normal. I guess I got used to him on good days when he could move through the world unphased and smile. Oli does the same.

Eli isn’t my brother.

They’re on two very different spectrums concerning drugs. Oliver knows he has a problem. He purchases his shit illegally and has the appearance to prove it. Eli is in denial—calls it his medicine —thinks because he can get a prescription for narcotics that it makes it all okay. I want to know how he can sleep at night—how he keeps going with the body count constantly growing.

Nothing about what happened earlier is okay. He says sex is all we are, but I know that to be false. I think he forgets the past or likes to cherry-pick from it because it’s easier than to admit he threw away a real relationship. We never talked about the hard stuff. That’s true. His parents overdosing? Yeah, I didn’t know that. But all the other shit you do with your partner, we did that. The distance was rough often, so we had to speed through things most couples have years to get around to.

We are so much more than physical, but that’s also a pretty good chunk of what makes us up.

Here I go again. Romantascizing.

Coming up with excuses to justify my addiction to him.

I’m just like them—a fiend for something that’ll ultimately kill me. I reach up and brush my fingers over my scalp, feeling the scar that’s there. It was such a superficial injury but an eye-opener. It’s what kept me away this long. It’s what made me understand just how selfish Eli can be. And how it ultimately led to the end of us.

My phone buzzes, and I check it because, at this point, I don’t really care who is reaching out. I feel so alone.

Nyx: Peep the threads.

Underneath is a picture of Helios with a flashy new collar. I don’t have the heart to tell her he will rip it off by tomorrow. Saving the picture and my throat bobbing because I miss my cat, I quickly write back that he’s adorable. I miss familiarity. This tour is becoming the worst decision of my life.

I text Jorge.

I fucked up.

He writes back a few minutes later. He’s literally five feet away from me in his bunk, but I don’t want to say this stuff out loud.

You fucked him, didn’t you?

I knew you were gonna…

I didn’t…fuck him.

But

Still did something I shouldn’t have.

Because you love him.

Are you crying?

I swipe at my face quickly.

No.

I can hear you sniffling. I’m coming.

Ten seconds later, he’s in my bunk, and I’m being held like a baby…again. But I snuggle into him greedily. I thought my heart was dead—long gone and forgotten about, but it beats rapidly and hurts. It still bleeds and trembles.

Silent cries come out while Jorge rubs my upper back.

“Do you ever wonder if maybe he was just as scared as you were? The cops arrested him, man.”

“Because he was drinking,” I mumble.

“Yeah…and he took out a fucking stop sign.”

I shudder. Hating the flashbacks shooting to the front of my mind.

“How long!” I yell again, watching Eli’s jaw clench tighter as he makes a sharp left turn.

The tires squeal over the asphalt. He’s driving recklessly, speeding, and bound to cause an accident, but I’m so upset that I don’t care.

“The whole time!” he finally screams, slamming his palm on the wheel and setting off the horn. “It’s my medicine, you ass. Medicine,” he says like I’m stupid.

“I don’t know of any medicine crushed up in a dime bag.” I’m huffing like a bull, so blinded by betrayal, I want to strangle him.

“You don’t know shit. That’s the problem. You with your perfect fucking life. Perfect everything. You don’t know a fucking thing.”

I dive over the center console, reaching into his pocket for the bag. “If it’s just medicine, I can take some too.”

“Phoenix, stop,” he yells, taking his eyes off the road and clawing at my hand.

“It won’t hurt me if I stuff it up my nose. It’s just medicine. Just fucking MEDICINE!”

I shake in Jorge’s arms.

“I’d be scared, too,” he whispers. “I’d push everyone away, too.”

“Since when do youdefend him?”

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I’m trying to help you…process this shit, man.”

I wipe my face and scoot away from him. It's only about two inches, but still. I flip on my back and cover my eyes with my hands, willing the tears to stop. “Ever since Oli overdosed, I can’t even fathom a reason why someone would do it to themselves. Why take the risk? Prescription or not?”

“Says the guy who can’t go anywhere without his vape.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Look,” he shifts onto his elbow, looking down at me, “I’m not giving you shit. But you have to see the hypocrisy there. Nicotine is just as addicting, just as terrible for you as any drug. You feel like shit when you can’t have it, feel better when you do.”

I glare at him through my fingers. “Sounds a lot like you’re defending my ex right now.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I did some research.”

Dropping my hands, mouth gaping, I ask, “Research?”

My best friend glances down at our feet, oddly quiet, considering he talks more than an excited four-year-old. “Did you know Hawthorne isn’t even his last name?”

“Woah, hold the fuck on.” I push him flat and lean over him to poke my head out of the bunk. Besides Terry listening to a podcast at a low volume, the bus is quiet. Everyone is asleep. I shut the curtain again and flip on my side to face him. “It’s not his last name?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the P. Whispering, he continues, “It’s Madden.”

I narrow my eyes into slits. “How do you know that’s not just another guy the same age?”

Now Jorge looks flat-out guilty. “Might’ve looked in his wallet the first time you brought him around. Might’ve…accidentally remembered his social security number.”

“You psycho,” I shove at his chest, “that’s got to be illegal.”

“Maybe, but…you’re my best friend. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t a convicted rapist or something.”

My mind is reeling right now. “And you're just now telling me this?”

“He wasn't a rapist. And I didn't want to be up in the business. I figured he'd tell you about his fake last name.”

Obviously, he didn’t.

I take a breath, realizing he’s lied about far more than just his habit. I try to recall anything he might’ve said hinting at this, but I’m coming up blank. Frowning deeply, I consider the invasion of his privacy. I weigh it on an invisible scale before deciding my sanity is heavier.

“Alright, stalker. What did you find?”

Fluttering his eyelashes at me and pouting, he says, “I left my phone in my bunk. And you’re super warm.”

I roll my eyes and get my phone. He takes it from me, types something into the search bar, and then hands it back. At first, I don’t know what I’m looking at because it’s an old news article from the 90s.

The headline reads: LOCAL COUPLE OVERDOSES. CHILD TRAPPED IN CARSEAT.

I glance at Jorge, his eyes downcast and his lips thin.

On June 7th, 1997, Washington Park, Illinois, locals Emery Madden and Lillian Madden were found deceased in their vehicle at approximately 10:40 am. The couple was discovered by a pedestrian who alerted the police. Within the vehicle, the couple’s two-year-old son, Elijah Madden, was buckled in his car seat. The child was taken via ambulance and was reported to have been dehydrated, soiled, and inconsolable.

I stop reading because I can’t see the damn screen through my tears.

Jorge is quiet as he says, “I didn’t know about this before…I kind of started digging after Thanksgiving. I’ve meant to show you, but I don’t know how to bring up something like this.”

“He said they overdosed. He told me, and I didn’t even ask how. Didn’t ask anything. Eli never tells me anything, and the one time he did, I ignored him.” My throat closes as I drop my phone. “I ignored him.” The sob is guttural as I cry into my hands, Jorge grabbing hold of me like I’m going to shatter.

“Phoenix?” I hear Devon’s voice, followed by the shuffling of him leaving his bed.

I cry harder. Michael is next to wake up. He snorts loudly. “What’s happening?”

“Wake up. It’s Phoenix,” Devon says to Kelly, probably, and the bus slows down.

“Get his Oreos,” Jorge tells someone. “Shh, it’s okay, bebe. You didn’t know. Fuck, Kelly, get over here.”

This bunk can’t fit three people, but she wiggles in mine anyway, covering me with her body. “We’re right here, Fe. We’re all here.” Her petite frame latches on to me, warmth surrounds me, and I can only imagine Eli trapped in that car seat as a baby.

How he allowed me to know him—to see him and I pissed on it. I think…I think I’m worse than he will ever be.

A fter eating an entire row of Oreos, the tour bus pulled over on the side of the highway, and all my friends stared at me like I was going crazy, I calmed down enough to form thoughts.

I think I’m losing my mind. Using my tongue to get the little bit of cookie out of my teeth, I am back in my bunk, going through all I’ve learned and comparing it to what I know about Eli. Once, and only once, he’d mentioned an aunt.

I had been bitching about my dad and how cranky he was. It’s no secret my dad struggles with my sexuality, but that day in particular, we were watching a show, and he scoffed at one of the characters. The one that was queer. He didn’t say anything because my mom would rip him a new asshole, but I caught his disgust. I told Eli about it, and that’s how the aunt came up—a brief, quick comment about how relatives are shitty.

If I add that to the mix, I can guess that this aunt must have taken care of him after his parents died. She might’ve even raised him. Maybe it was bad…maybe things were worse than bad. I don’t know any of that. After the breakup, Veronica told me that it would’ve happened eventually because the foundation of our relationship was built from popsicle sticks. It's a stupid metaphor, but I understand the meaning.

We bonded over sex, superficial things like movies and food, and our appreciation of cherry blossoms. I fell in love with how he moved and spoke, how he’d show me through actions how he felt about me. He’d do my laundry, feed my cat, bring me coffee in bed, and kiss me despite my morning breath. I’d gotten sick once and shit myself. He helped me through it, never once making me feel embarrassed. We never talked about the past or our childhood baggage, but we shared so much more than our bodies and passionate kisses.

I know in my heart that what we had was real—toxic, maybe, but real. I want it back—and everything he didn’t give me.

Wanting it and making it happen are two different things, though. I tried before, kept my mouth shut, and ignored everything. I tried to understand and be patient, hoping he’d come to me like Oli didn’t. But at my sister’s wedding, with a sea of happy people all around us and my heart’s deepest desires being fulfilled by another couple…I couldn’t anymore. What I wanted wasn’t going to happen. And no one knows this because I’m ashamed even to think it, but it’s my fault.

It’s my fault Eli broke up with me.

My temper, which rarely sees the light of day, was fully released. I was a hideous monster that day. I treated him worse than I’d ever felt in the months leading up to it. And I saw it the moment he realized what had to happen. God, I hate him for it and myself, too. Something has to give because I can’t keep doing this.