"Come on, Avery," he begs. "We always used to have fun at parties while being sober."
I place my hand on my stomach. "And I used to not be pregnant."
He's livid, maybe more than I've ever seen him. For a second, the sweet boy that talked me into dating him no longer exists. "You say that like it's my fault."
"Well, it does take two people to create a baby."
"You should have been on birth control," he snaps.
"And maybe you should have worn a condom," I retort, backing toward the front door. "Don't pretend like this is my fault--it's both of ours."
"Whatever," he mutters, turning his back on me. "I'm not even sure if it's mine."
I want to shout at him. I should shout at him. Conner is the only guy I've ever had sex with and he knows it. He's acting like a child and it puts even more doubt in my head that we'll be able to handle this whole parent thing.
"Fuck you," I manage to get out before I leave the apartment in tears.
I ride the bus home where a full-blown party is going on. I try to rush up the stairs and ignore the noise, but my mother's still sober enough that she corners me at the stairway.
"Where have you been?" she asks, puffing on a cigarette. She looks twenty years past her age--wrinkly, sagging skin, and a body that's falling apart--yet she dresses like she's my age.
"Out with Conner." I move to step around her, but she sidesteps in front of me and obstructs my path. The bitter scent of tequila flows off her breath and I know I'm in for a world of hurt. As much as I loathe myself for thinking it, I prefer my druggie, passed out mother over the drunk, chatty one.
"That guy friend of yours?" she wonders with a slur to her speech.
"No, my boyfriend for months now."
"Yeah, we'll see how long that lasts." She eyeballs my stomach. "After the baby comes."
I told my mother out of courtesy that I'm pregnant. Her response was to laugh at me and tell me how she's not surprised and good luck with that. That was it. There was no offer to help. No words of encouragement. No nothing. And I hadn't expected any more from her. After all, I've been taking care of myself for as long as I can recollect. But it did make me painfully aware of how alone I really am without Conner. I hate how vulnerable I feel, but can't shut off my emotions as well as I used to.
Maybe I overreacted with the party thing.
"Leave me alone." When I step for the stairs this time, she moves out of my way, but her laughter chases after me as I sprint up the stairway.
Once I lock myself in my bedroom, I try to shake off her words but they linger inside my mind. I decide to send Conner a text before I begin looking for jobs in the newspaper. I already have a job waitressing at Delly's Good Time Diner, although I'm not sure how long that's going to last once I start showing and my feet start swelling. My boss is already having issues with my morning sickness.
The jobs are pretty slim around here but I circle a couple that I'll apply for. It's getting late so I change into my pajamas and climb into bed then check my phone for messages. I try not to be upset that Conner hasn't called or texted, but I end up crying my eyes out with the sound of my mother's stereo tormenting me. It goes on most of the night and somewhere in the late hours, a sleepy Jax wanders into my room and curls up next to me. I should go downstairs and turn off the music--I'm sure everyone's passed out by now anyway. But I'm afraid. Afraid I'll see my future staring back at me in the form of my mother. Single, a druggie/alcoholic, who is incapable of being a mother. All alone and bitter.
I end up pathetically begging for Conner to come back to me, sending him text after text. Then I lie in my bed and bawl soundlessly into my pillow until I pass out from exhaustion. By the time I wake up, the sun has risen, the stars are asleep, and Conner is in my room.
"I love you, Avery," he says as he kneels down beside my bed.
He's still wearing the shirt and shorts he had on yesterday, but I try not to question too much, try to pretend that everything is as okay as it was the day we first met.
"I'm sorry, okay? But I'm going to take better care of you. Way better than what you have." He glances around at the patched up walls of my bedroom and the leaking ceiling before he reaches over a sleeping Jax and places a hand on my stomach. "The both of you."
His reminder of how much I need him makes it easier to ignore the smell of booze and cigarettes on his breath and the fact that I sent him at least ten texts last night, pleading with him to answer me, yet he never did. It makes it simpler for me to take him back. Or maybe it's that I don't want to admit the truth to myself. That I am scared. Not just of being alone or being a mother, but scared of everything ahead of me. That fear blinds me from seeing all the horrible and difficult stuff waiting for me in the future.
My reality.
Not my dreams.
Chapter 13
Welcome to your own personal nightmare.
Tristan
Hit.
After hit.
Drink.
After drink.
Bump.
After bump.
Pain.
And then nothing.
Pain.
Then nothing.
I'm living in my own self-created nightmare. Nothing makes sense anymore, but then again, I'm not sure anything ever did. I haven't even graduated from high school yet and I've been kicked out of my parents' house. I'm going to move into a trailer park and live with Dylan, a guy who sells crack for a living. And I'm helping him, something I was ashamed of at first, but now...
Nothing matters anymore.
And part of me likes it.
Likes the silence.
Likes not caring about anything.
I can't even remember who I am anymore, even when I look in the mirror. And my parents, they're about as disappointed in me as... well, as much as they've ever been. That hasn't changed. In fact, the only thing that has changed is they've banned me from the house. My mother told me the day after Ryder's funeral.
"I want you gone," she'd demanded. "I can't take it anymore."
Take what, Mom, I'd wondered, me or Ryder being gone?
But I haven't gone back to the house since then. After I'd said my goodbyes, I just walked around and ended up where the drugs are.
Now a week later, I've returned home to get my stuff.
"I told you not to come here anymore," my mother says as she dithers in the doorway of the room that once used to be mine. I tried to come when she wasn't home, but she showed up before I could get my shit and go.
"I'm not really here," I explain to her as I rummage in the dresser for clothes to pack. "Just getting some stuff and moving out like you told me to do."
"Well, you can't just show up when no one's home." She tentatively enters the room as if she's scared of me. Then she moves closer and studies my eyes before huffing in frustration. "And you can't be here when you're high."
I stuff a handful of clothes into a duffel bag and narrow my bloodshot eyes at her. "I already told you I'm not really here. Just. Getting. My. Shit." I zip up the bag, feeling sickly gratified by the hurt in her eyes from my angry tone. "Now move out of my way and I'll be gone."
"I wish that were really true!" she shouts after me as I brush by her, slinging the bag over my shoulder filled with the only contents that belong to me now. And the bag is very light. "I wish you were really gone, but we both know you'll be back here! You always come back!"
I bite down on my tongue all the way to the front door... Somewhere beneath being strung out and the lingering alcohol and drugs in my system, I know she has every right to be pissed off at me.
The disappointment.
Their only son.
Who's chosen this life.
A life that isn't a life at all.
"Tristan, just stop," she pleads as I step over the threshold and embark into the cold night air. "Please, just stay for two minutes... I just want to talk."
"About what?" I ask without turning around. "Getting sober? Because I don't want to talk abou
t that." Can't talk about it.
"You need to get clean."
"Why?"
Because you love me?
Because you miss me?
Because it hurts you to see me hurting myself?
"Because it's the right thing to do," she answers, walking up behind me. "You're not supposed to go around doing drugs. You're supposed to be a better person, like..." She starts to choke up. "Like Ryder was. She was such a good person."
"But I'm not Ryder. I'm just... me." I shake my head then jog down the stairs, going farther into the night before calling over my shoulder, "And I'm not so sure of what's right and wrong because everything always feels so wrong."
She doesn't say anything and I walk underneath the stars toward a dark, unknown road. A road that I've been traveling for a long time. When I reach my final destination, I have to question if maybe it's my final destination.
Forever.
By the time I enter the trailer home, I feel lonelier than I ever have before. I have no direction, no focus, no purpose. At least here there are people around me, some who I'd consider friends. Friends that like to get high, spun, and drunk, over and over again.
The entire room smells like pot, bottles of alcohol line the counters and tables, and there are couples making out on the plaid sofas in the living room, none of who notice my presence.
I'm invisible again.
"Hey cutie." A woman at least five years older than me struts up beside me. She has short, bleach blonde hair, massive pupils, and a fake tan. Her boobs are bursting out of her top and her leather skirt barely covers her ass.
"Hey." I force a smile as I drop my bag onto the orange carpet and take a look around at the place that's going to be my new home.
"So what are you doing?" she asks as she follows me into the small kitchen area.
"Just getting a drink." I grab a plastic cup from the yellow countertop and open the nearest bottle of alcohol.
"Oh yeah, I was just going to get one too." She pours herself a drink and then joins me in the living room.
Music booms from the stereo, a porno plays on the television, and the lights are turned down low enough that I can't see exactly what everyone's doing but can hear moaning from somewhere in the room. I haven't had sex yet, not because I don't want to, but because I haven't found anyone who wants to have sex with me. All the people in the living room clearly have the exact opposite problem. For a second, I feel strangely out of place and wonder why I chose to live here. Is this any better than living under a roof with people who don't want me? I still feel just as lonely.
As I'm standing there debating whether to sit down on the sofa, go back to my room, or run out the front door, someone puts a hand on my arm. When I turn my head, I discover the older woman is standing beside me with a joint in her hand and a lazy smile on her face.
"What you looking for, sweetie?" she asks, handing me the joint. She eyes me over, her hungry gaze eating me up. She wants me. I've never been wanted before and I kind of like the feeling. In fact, I'm enthralled by it.
"I have no idea," I say then put the end of the joint up to my mouth and suck in a deep hit. But I start to hack when my lungs burn and realize it's not weed that I just smoked, but something else--something way more potent. "What was that?" I cough, giving her the joint back.
"Something that will relax you." Her grin expands and I blink my eyes as the drug seeps into my body and makes my mind all hazy. "Follow me," she says as her fingers enclose around my arm.
I allow her to lead me down the dimly lit hallway and into my room, either because I'm losing touch with reality, lonely, or because she's noticing me--perhaps all three. When we get back there, she closes the door and locks us in before facing me.
"How old are you sweetie?" she asks, reclining against the door, her glassy eyes fixed on me.
I kick some clothes out of the way as I make my way to the mattress on the floor. "Old enough," I tell her, uncertain where my bold response comes from other than the fact that everything seems to be spinning into something else, including myself.
"You're cute." She stands upright, ambles over to me, and offers me the joint.
I think about asking what drug it is again, but decide I really don't care.
About anything.
I take another hit and the smoke saturates my lungs and soul while the woman strips off her clothes. Then she removes the joint from my hand, sets it aside in an ashtray on my drawerless dresser. She pulls my shirt over my head and undoes the button on my jeans. The way her hands graze across my skin feels so good and the way she's looking at me, with want in her eyes, makes me feel alive in what feels like forever.
She can see me.
Feel me.
Knows I exist.
Maybe even wants me.
After all our clothes are piled on the floor, she inches her lips toward mine. "I'm going to take care of you," she whispers then slips her fingers through mine and guides me to the corner of the room where the mattress is. When she gently shoves me down, I fall onto it.
And keep falling.
And falling.
And falling.
I never stop falling the entire way through it.
Because there's no bottom.
Just like there's no way to get back up.
Even when it's over, I still feel like I'm falling, but I feel like maybe I'm not falling alone, but with her.
Maybe I don't have to be alone all the time.
My mind is racing a thousand miles a minute as I lie on the mattress and watch the woman climb off me and get dressed. I can't think straight, either from the drugs or the sex--I'm not really sure.
"What's your name?" I ask, breathless.
She simply smiles at me as she pulls her shirt over her head. "It doesn't really matter, does it? None of this does." I swear her eyes silently say, 'neither do you.'
Then she bends down to give me a kiss on the forehead. "I had fun." It's all she says before she stands up and walks out of the room.
Using me.
And leaving me.
Alone again.
Present day....
Chapter 14
The Abyss
Tristan
Drink.
After drink.
After drink.
Sitting out on the porch of the motel, I grip a nearly empty bottle of vodka. I've fallen off the cliff again and I'm not even sure what set me off this time. Rejection from Avery? Maybe. Perhaps when she put an end to something we never really had to begin with, it gave me the final push.
Deep down, part of me knew the reason why I've been sober for the last three months has something to do with Avery and what she did for me that night. Because part of me had thought that maybe she is different from everyone else that has floated in and out of my life.
But there's even more to it than just Avery. A bigger reason that is buried under years of rejection and the simple fact that I've never been too good at living life.
Never.
Ever.
Ever.
Not really.
The alcohol is starting to fade and my emotions prickle through, sharp and potent. Finally the agony becomes too great.
I trip to my feet and stagger toward the room five doors down, chucking the bottle on my way, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces across the parking lot. Then I bang on the door. I'm not just looking for drugs. I'm looking for something to numb all the buzzing noise and pain inside me. And when the door swings open, I'm greeted by someone who has something I know will help me.
Bury the pain.
The rejection.
The silence.
The void in my life I can only fill with alcohol and drugs.
And I fall back into the abyss.
And fall.
And fall.
And fall.
To nowhere.
Chapter 15
The epiphany.
Avery
I've regretted a lot of things in my life, s
ome that weren't in my control, though most were made by my own free will. Like the home I lived in for seventeen years. Getting married young. Conner. Every bottle I picked up.
Conner.
Not graduating from high school, but getting my GED. Having a baby so young and not being the best mother I could be.
Conner.
Not being able to provide for Mason like most moms do. Not giving him a good father. Struggling for so many years. Dying.
Conner.
And now I've added one more thing to that list.
Tristan.
I'm not even sure why I regret stopping the kiss, but I do. I regretted it the moment I left the alley and even more so the next day when he doesn't show up to work on the house. The regret festers inside me more and more with each passing day I don't see him. My worry increases when I realize that Nova is avoiding me. Whenever the two of us cross paths, all she does is wave and offer me a friendly smile. No, "Hey, let's go hang out," or "How are you doing?" It's a continuous pattern that I don't like and I hate how much I don't like it because it means so much more than what I want it to.
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