26. Nia

26

NIA

Ifound Bobby C's number saved in my phone under "Bboby wit beard," and all it took was a singular "Hey, it's Nia" text for him to invite me over. I think I've been here for two days now. I don't really know, because my phone is dead, and Bobby keeps his windows covered in aluminum foil.

"Was that the last of it?" he mumbles, fingers raising at a glacial pace as he leans slightly forward. He's trying to point to the missing pile of heroin on the table, where only specks of dust lie now.

I dip my head in a yes, but the movement is so small, I'm not sure he can catch it. It's not the last of it; the rest is back in a bag in my pocket, but we've both had enough, and if I'm the one saying it, it's gotta be true. His eyes are barely open, and he keeps nodding off, falling slightly forward and catching himself abruptly as he wakes. I reach for a phone charger and plug my phone in, hoping the end of the cord is attached to a wall somewhere.

I watch Bobby in a trance of my own, too high to wipe the drool that's starting to linger at the corner of my mouth as I spectate the way he fights the drugs coursing through his system. The tv is playing some old cartoon, the one with the road runner and the coyote who never catches him. Just as I hear the meep meep, Bobby does one final nod, and I'm positive he's gone too far.

My phone vibrates, and I confirm it's Tuesday, past noon. The text is from Kade again.

ARE YOU COMING HOME?

Home. Home was a time, not a place. Home was a feeling I'll never get back again. Home was my youth, the ability to be reckless without consequences because there were people to catch me. Home was having somewhere to land regardless of how hard I fucked up. It was in Lonnie's presence, in their love and in their care. Home was a person.

I can never go home again.

I stumble my way to a stand, but I fall down with my next step. I decide crawling is fine— crawling gets me where I need to be. I shuffle on all fours to Bobby's kitchen, where he'd shown me he kept a generous stock of Narcan in a drawer. Smart addicts are addicts who stay alive.

One knee in front of the other, I struggle my way back to Bobby, though it takes twice as long as the journey to the kitchen. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, I yank, pulling back his head to expose his face. I shove the little nozzle into his nostril and press, delivering the opioid-reversing medicine to his system. Nothing happens, so I wait a little longer and deliver the medicine again.

It takes him a few minutes to come to, but when he opens his eyes, he doesn't bother getting up or moving to relieve himself. He throws up exactly where he sits, on top of his own chest.

Bile rises to my throat, and I fight the urge to vomit too.

"Fucking fentanyl bullshit," he mumbles angrily.

"Ryan doesn't cut his stuff." I furrow my eyebrows. We may not be on speaking terms, but I'm offended at what he's implying.

"I didn't get this from Ryan," he explains.

I try to swallow, but the lump in my throat feels impossible to work through. I can't stay here anymore, the stench of his vomit somehow waking my senses up, every smell in the house now impossible to bear. Something like fermentation, mildewy towels, and old pee. But Bobby has no pets.

I grab my things and head for the door to see my car isn't here.

Jesus fuck.

There's a rideshare driver less than four minutes away, so I don't stick around inside. I put a trashcan next to Bobby and a bottle of water in front of him before I leave.

Then, I text Ryan.

CHECK IN ON BOBBY TODAY.

The text never goes through as delivered, though. He's blocked my number. I'm struggling to feel much of anything about it. I'm still nodding in and out during the ride, and though it's only a few minutes, it lasts ages. I'm pretty sure I went to high school with the driver, and he keeps trying to make small talk, even though I specifically requested a quiet ride.

The truth is, even if I wasn't high, I probably wouldn't remember him. I purposefully rejected most of that time out of my head, too fucked up from the damage caused by being the one thing is not like the others in a town of less than twenty thousand people. My parents were fresh off the plane with barely any English under them to survive, my mother pregnant with expectations for a child who would never live up to them.

I ruined a lot of acid trips by letting my mind take me to that place where I watched myself from my mother's point of view.

I wish I'd enjoyed the drugs back then. I never ended up making her proud anyway.

"Hey. You're here." The driver sounds annoyed.

It's probably not the first time he's tried to get my attention.

I thank him with a slurred mumble and roll my way out of the back. I'm pretty sure I tip him far more than necessary, but it's payment to deal with me. The inclined driveway up to the door feels excessively steep today, and by the time I'm there, I just want to sit and rest.

The door opens instead, and I fall inside, catching myself with the side of my cast to keep from hitting my head on the ground.

Look at that—I can feel pain.

And it's a splintering shock up my arm.

"Where the fuck have you been, Nia?" Kade's voice is so angry that I'm hesitant to look up, and when I do, it's worse than I expected. The look on their face is worry and disappointment and… rage. "Are you high?"

"N-no." I squint, using the back of my hand to shade over my eyes as I look up at them.

"I haven't seen you in days. I've been calling you since Sunday morning. You've missed practice, you missed your interview for the job at the school." The scowl on Kade's face is terrifying, and I've never regretted letting someone down so much. "And you're fucking high, Nia?"

K drops their head into their hands and takes deep breaths.

I'm so nauseous, I think opening my mouth would make me spew, so I just wait. And it's a lifetime. Kade slowly removes their hands; their eyes are almost lifeless, and I fight the urge to look away when they speak.

"You have two minutes to get all of your shit and get out of my house."

My blood runs cold.

"Kade." I'm not sure they can even hear me.

"I love you, Nia. I love you so fucking much. You get me, and I thought I got you. I told you I had one rule. I can't do this. I'm not going to watch you lose yourself the way I lost my sister."

My heart breaks into a million pieces; I can't ask them for more.

I somehow muster the strength to make my way into the house, the tears falling freely down my face with no hope of stopping. I'm not too unpacked, so it doesn't take me long to gather all my things and throw them back into the bags, but every item feels heavy, massive with the weight of my guilt, dense with the force of my mistakes.

It takes longer than two minutes, but Kade doesn't make an issue of it. I give Tolkien one final scratch under the chin, using the top of his head to dry my tears before I walk out of the house. I don't dare look in their direction, but I feel their grip around my arm, pulling me back in.

"You wouldn't rather just try?" they ask, but I can't answer.

They wouldn't like it. "Just let me go, Kade." I pull away, but their grip is stronger.

"No! I will not be the villain in your story. I'm your fucking friend, Nia."

I know they're right, but I shake them off one final time, and they let me go.

"No, you're not the villain. I am." Not daring to look back in their direction, I just keep going. I walk until I'm certain I'm no longer in view. I walk a block, and then another.

And then, I cry.

The rain doesn't stop me. It feels like part of the punishment, and at this point, I feel deserving of any pain that comes my way. My feet keep moving, my suitcase behind me, my backpack strapped to me and my gym bag hung over my shoulder.

Everything aches.

I don't stop until I get there. The rain's stopped and the sun already set when I'm at her door, reaching to knock. She opens first, and I can't hold back the sobbing, my words barely coherent through my tears. "I didn't know where else to go."

"What the hell? Why are you all wet?" The look on her face is angry and confused. Harvey looks behind me, like she's trying to find my car. "Did K do something?"

"Nothing I didn't deserve." I wipe my face with the back of my hoodie, but it's drenched, the fabric coarse and scratching at my tender skin.

"They didn't know."She doesn't have to ask about what; we both understand. And now she realizes she's the only one who knows.

"It's not Kade's fault. They didn't ask for this." I know my words are dragging, and I'm staring at my feet now, too uncomfortable to make eye contact and borderline freezing.

"But you came to me." She's not asking. She's simply pointing it out.

I nod.

Opening her door the entire way, she jerks her head to motion me through. "Come inside. You look miserable."

I take enough steps in for her to shut the door behind me, nothing more, nothing less.

"When's the last time?" She tosses the words over her shoulder as she walks further into her living room. I've been here before, but it's the first time I'm really taking the place in.

The ceilings are tall, and there are exposed ducts and metal piping everywhere. It's industrial, with a shiny concrete floor and copper accents splattered throughout the place.

It's so fitting of her.

"A few hours." I'm embarrassed to admit it, but lying to her feels like an anchor chained to my foot.

I'm already drowning, so what's the point?

"Do you have your things?" I'm avoiding her gaze, but I can feel the burn of her attention on me.

"Yeah. Except my car," I tell her. "I needed to get the fuck out of there. I didn't want to risk it not starting." I feel numb saying the words, but the reality is, I'm shattered. Disappointing Kade feels too heavy for me to process.

"You walked here?" She's in my face now, fully in my bubble, and the scowl she wears is carved deep into her expression.

I nod again, but I don't tell her I'm only here because it was further to Ryan's, where I really wanted to be.

She looks at me and says, "You're overstimulated," like she can read me better than I can.

"Obviously. That's why I want it." I'm only slightly annoyed. I don't like playing these kinds of games, and I just want to get high. I'm not a kid anymore. I know exactly why I get high; I don't need to be analyzed about it.

And I'm starting to regret my decision.

"Drop to your knees," Harvey says, as if it's a completely normal demand at this point in our… relationship? No. This isn't a relationship.

I don't think either of us know what this is.

The questioning only happens in my mind, though. Her tone is enough to command my body to will itself to my knees, where I then lower my ass to my heels.

The line of her mouth barely curves at one side, and my stomach flutters. As she peers down at me, her hand cups the side of my face. It's a far gentler touch than I expect, but I don't say it. I don't dare open my mouth and ruin this moment with something as misconstruing as words. Her fingers run along the side of my head, and a sigh escapes me.

She's looking at me like I've done something so right, like she's proud I came to her.

Maybe I should be proud too.

Harvey lets out an appreciative hum. "Do you want my help?"

Her help.

I'll take anything she gives me.

I squeeze my thighs together, an urgent need starting to grow between my legs. The more she holds me this closely, the more I feel enveloped in her grandness.

Because she is. Cat Harvey is everything I'll never be. Confident, strong, tall, determined, and, worst of all, she's breathtaking. The bright green of her eyes and the soft pink of her lips against the drastic cut of her jaw—she was made to be admired, and from this angle, it's all I can do.

"Yes," I finally answer.

She squats down to my level. "Are you asking?" She's speaking low, even though she doesn't need to.

"Yes." It comes out almost mechanically, my body taking over and doing whatever I need to feel anything but this terrible anguish and burning need to get high, to soothe the discomfort.

She sees it too.

"Please." I'm not beyond begging.

She looks me over one more time before she speaks. "Undress," is the word of choice, and then she's gone from the room, leaving me kneeling on the floor as she heads down the hallway.

I'm only frozen momentarily, not paralyzed, stunned by the whiplash of the day.

And Cat.

Cat fucking Harvey, who invades my dreams, my showers, and now my real life. Cat, whose hatred felt heavy but whose desire feels explosive.

I'm sitting on my heels, hands placed over my thighs, when Harvey returns to the living room, a t-shirt in one hand and a pair of tube socks in the other. Her eyes widen for only a split second at the recognition of me being undressed and on my knees again. Satisfaction paints her face, though she's trying hard to not show it.

"Here," she says, handing me the Job For A Cowboy shirt from one of their early tours. It's probably just right on her, but it comes down to my mid thighs. "I don't think you're going to fit into my pants, so you can have these." She gives me the socks next, and I know she's right. Me in her pants would have been comical.

I unroll each sock up to right above my knees. These are Devil's Dame socks, color coded with black and blue stripes at the top and the logo of our Dame on each side. It's my team too, and I have my own socks, but for some reason, putting hers on feels different.

Like I'm trying her on.

And

she

fits

just

right.