15. Nia

15

NIA

There are at least twelve things I could be doing other than driving. There's at least five things I should be doing other than driving here. And there's at least two things I need to be doing, but instead, I am parking.

Three blocks from his house, so as to not affect his relationship with his Karen neighbor, but I'm here nonetheless. Once again, at Ryan Lee's. I tell myself it's okay because I only got a couple of pills the last time. I tell myself it's fine because I don't need them. I just want them, and that's gotta count for something.

If it doesn't, I'm fucked.

I leave my phone in the car, grabbing only my wallet when I decide to make the three block trek on foot to his house. It's a nice day, spring on the horizon, which means from now until May, it could be anything from twenty to eighty-degree weather.

Layers are my friends.

I take the cardigan off just as I get to his mailbox, already dripping in sweat and regretting that I'll have to walk back to my car. I'm wrecked with soreness from yesterday's scrimmage, bruised to shit from every hit I took from Harvey, so conserving what little energy I have for the bout tonight is necessary.

I'm only not falling apart completely because I spent the last four weeks in physical therapy nearly every single day, rehabbing all the muscles in my body. The door opens before I can get to it, and the same dark-haired woman comes out, this time in a suit, all white from head to toe, except the red on the bottom of her heels. She doesn't spare me a second glance; she just unlocks her car and gets inside.

I try not to stare, but she's fucking gorgeous, and the car she's driving stands out in this neighborhood, despite Ryan wanting to blend in. I push my way inside the house to find a less-than-pleased drug dealer waiting for me.

"What? Was it me, or was it her?" I freeze at the door, unsure if my timing is bad.

"It's never you, squirt." He gets up to give me a hug, but once his arms are around me, I can hear the deadbolt locking. "What do you need?" He backs up and places the mask of a happy stoner back on his face.

I narrow my eyes in his direction, just so that he knows I'm well aware of how weird he's behaving. With a heavy sigh, I drop on the couch, kicking my shoes off at the last minute. "I don't know." I drag each word out.

"You always know what you want. You're just too embarrassed to ask," he corrects me.

"Fuck you. Always right about me and shit." I'm covering my face with both hands, but I manage to tuck some fingers in to flip him off at the same time.

"Should I be worried about you?" he asks.

He's never asked that before. I cut him a look, and he raises his hands up in defense. "You want a dealer, not a friend?"

That cuts to my core.

"No. That's not what I want, Ryan." I'm annoyed with myself. "I'm just…" I linger on the thought. "I'm just not ready to stop right now. Everything still hurts."

It's a lie.

"That hospital really got you hooked, huh? How long did they have you on that shit?" He's staring at me like any of that matters.

"It's like you don't even want my money. You insult me before I'm three feet in the door." I'm turning over on my back now, crossing my arms over my chest and staring at the ceiling. "The whole time. I mean, I guess four or five weeks if you're only counting after I woke up. I was probably not on pain pills while I was asleep."

"Your money? When's the last time you actually paid me for something, squirt?" He gives me a look full of a knowing superiority I can't fight.

"Run the tab, drug man. If you remember it." I laugh, turning back on my side to face him.

"What's eating at you?" He gets serious, like he might actually just play therapist for a bit to entertain himself.

"What isn't? I'm a fucking mess." I groan, rubbing my hands over my eyes.

"What do I always say, Nia?" He gives me that fucking overprotective look I despise.

"Only commit one crime at a time?" I grimace, knowing it's the wrong answer as I sit up and steal the bowl of popcorn from the coffee table.

I snag a handful and throw it in my mouth.

It's stale.

"Yes, but not that rule." He reaches for the bowl and takes it back to the kitchen.

Blowing air through my lips noisily, I give him the answer he truly wants. "We get high to celebrate, not to escape."

"I knew you weren't dumb enough to forget." He seems more proud of himself for ingraining it into me than anything. "So why are you forgetting?" His tone is sharper at the end.

"I'm not forgetting, Ryan. I'm doing it on purpose." I look away, uncomfortable keeping his gaze when the following words fall out of my mouth. "I don't like being here very much right now."

"I'm not keeping you a prisoner in my house, Ant?nia." He's offended, but that's not my intention.

"That's not what I meant." I shake my head.

"Oh." Ryan finally gets it.

I sit up. It's awkward now.

There are friends you can share your dark parts with, the ones who hold space for you, the ones who can walk you through the darkness back into the light. And some friends run from it because they can't be responsible for the weight of that heaviness. Neither is good, neither is bad.

But mixing up those two can complicate things.

And right now, I'm not sure if Ryan is the first kind of friend, because we've never tested that boundary before. Getting high together doesn't require such deep thoughts and turbulent feelings.

"I'm sorry. I don't know—" I go to lie, to cover it up with something else so we can move back to the light and funny stuff, but he cuts me off.

"My dad killed himself." He shares something with me he's never dared to before.

My eyes blur with tears, but I hold them back. This isn't about me. "I-I didn't know."

"I don't talk about it. I was just a kid. People leaving like that, it fucks you up, you know?" He's staring past me now, like it's too much to look at me while thinking about this.

"I'm sorry." I say, but it means nothing. There's nothing that can fix the pain he'll carry until his very last day.

"This life, you get used to people coming and going. People ripping you off, people trying to catch you slipping up, or worse, take your place. Some of my favorite customers died too soon, and some of my least favorite made me rich." His gaze finds mine again before he continues. "I'd be real fucking sorry to find out you died from something I gave you, Nia."

Now it's awkward.

He clears his throat. "Promise me." His eyebrow raises, that brotherly stare directed my way again. "Celebrations. Not escape."

"Fine." I don't know if I'm lying yet or not. He's not wrong, and I should know better.

The problem is, I've found myself in that mental state where I just can't seem to care.

"How many do you want?" he asks, even though he's well aware I'm toeing a dangerous line.

"I don't think I want the pills this time," I confess, and he freezes.

"I told you that stuff's not right for you. How about some weed?" He pulls out his personal jar.

"Don't do that." I shake my head. "I'll just look for it somewhere else." Shrugging, I grab my bag and stand.

It's a huge bluff; I don't really know anyone else, not anymore. Maybe once upon a time, when these were still my stomping grounds, but these days? I'm practically a stranger here now.

He's in front of me in less than a second, taking up more space than I remember him being capable of. Ryan's tall, probably six-foot-three, and now, in his thirties, he isn't some lanky little dealer, all bones from being high the whole day.

He's a big fucking dude.

"Do not fucking play with me, Nia." His hand is on my wrist, and it's squeezing hard. Too hard.

"Ow. Ryan," I whine but he doesn't let up. "You're hurting me."

"Swear you will not get this shit from anyone else. Now, you fucking brat." The nickname is playful, but his face is nothing but serious, and the pressure still on my arm confirms it.

"I swear, ow, fuck, Ryan, let go." I shake him off, but it's only when he decides he's satisfied that he releases me.

He cuts me a cold look, not bothering to apologize and ignoring me when I whisper curses in my mother's native tongue. I rub my wrist; it's red and the skin burns from trying to twist my way out of his hold.

"This isn't 2012 anymore, Nia. Every dealer on the street is cutting their drugs for profits. They aren't cutting it withTylenol or aspirin anymore. They're cutting it with poison, with shit that will kill you," he warns. "Promise me you will not get it anywhere but from me."

He's so serious, it fucking hurts. It makes me want to dig a hole in the ground, bury my head, and disappear.

"I promise," I whisper, not daring to blink in case it's the wrong move.

He gets up and leaves the room. I could go, forget about this entire interaction and chalk it up to game day nerves. Ryan would play along, and in a few days, when all the pills are finally out of my system, I'll feel better.

I wouldn't think about them again.

But I don't.

I stay, because I want to get high.

I want to forget.

I want to cease to exist.

Even if only in my own head.

He comes back with The Lion King VHS in his hand and sets it down on the coffee table before he asks me one final time. "You're sure about this?"