I scratch my jaw. “So…let me see if I’m putting the pieces together correctly here.” I finish putting cream cheese and peanut butter on my toast, watch her do the same with butter and jelly. “You had a habit—emphasis on past tense. This habit landed you seriously in debt to a seriously bad dude, and all jokes and insults aside, your guy Alvin is bad news. You got clean, quit the habit, but you still owe Alvin a few large at minimum. For whatever reason, he’s letting you work your debt off but not on your knees…yet. And you’re clean, but once an addict always an addict—and yet you’re working for the dealer…transporting the very drug I assume you were addicted to.”
“Yeah, well, gotta do what you gotta do, right?” She’s dropped her eyes to her toes, now. “Can’t say I like it, but it’s better than the alternative.”
“Recipe for relapse.”
“No shit.” She shrugs. “There’s a bit of a mitigating factor: it’s taped up in boxes so it looks like I’m delivering packages—auto parts, to be specific. So, I’d have to cut open the boxes and then rip open the packaging to get at it, and then the guys I’m dropping it to would obviously know I’d stolen product, and then I’m fish food or whatever. Less of a temptation than you’d think.”
I huff a laugh. “Bullshit. Every single moment you’re in that car with that shit, you’re trying to figure out how you can get some without anyone knowing.”
She whips her head up to look at me. “You say that like you know from experience.”
“Maybe I am.”
She looks away from me, and mumbles under her breath. Hard to hear because it’s not meant for me, but it sounds like she’s telling herself, “I don’t wanna know, I don’t wanna know, I don’t wanna know.”
I let her have that play for now, because I don’t know if I’m ready to give her that story just yet. “How long have you been clean?”
She swallows hard. Still not looking at me. “Seven months and two weeks.”
“You said your grandfather died eight months ago.”
She nods. “Yes, I did.”
“So...?”
A long, difficult silence. “I had thirty days clean. I was staying with Gram and Grandpa. They knew I was trying to get clean. They supported me. Didn’t judge me. Gave me a safe place to detox, made me food, sat with me, held me, helped me take showers, all of it. Grandpa, who could barely operate the TV, was googling how to help someone through detox.” She chokes up, controls it, keeps going. “Then he died, a massive heart attack in his sleep. Never woke up. And I…I fucking—he was my best friend. The only father figure I ever had, and I couldn’t deal. I relapsed. Missed his funeral because I was tweaked out on a couch somewhere. I was broke—beyond broke. Already owed Alvin a fuckload of money, so I knew I couldn’t go to him for more. So I…”
“You don’t have to tell me any more, Annika,” I say.
She nods. “Yeah, this part is pretty fucking ugly anyway. You don’t wanna know.”
“That’s not it. I’m saying you don’t have to tell me. It’s not that I don’t wanna know. I do.” I cup her jaw, far enough away that I’m at full arm extension to reach her. “You share what you feel comfortable sharing.”
She looks at me, pain in her eyes, and then pulls her face away from my hand. “I honestly don’t know why I’m telling you a goddamn thing.”
“Because you can tell that I get it. I know. Because I think some part of you recognizes on an intrinsic level that I’m a safe place for you.”
“There is no safe place for me.” Balancing her cane on her forearm, she takes her plate and mug to the sectional.
I sit beside her, and we eat in silence. I finish by the time she’s on her fourth bite, earning me an amused smirk from her. I set my plate on the coffee table and lean back, feet up.
“I have nightmares,” I say, apropos of nothing. “About combat.”
She pauses, looks at me. “You do?”
“Yeah. Not all the time, but yeah.”
“Why tell me?”
“Something to share.” I shrug. “Most of the time, it’s the same thing—my boy Julius getting shot in the throat. After Rev, I was closest to Julius. He was with us from Basic through Recon training, same squad, everything. Took a round to the throat. I held his shit together until the medic showed. He survived, but the trauma to his larynx was…fuck, it was awful. He can still barely manage a whisper. I dream of that moment, him beside me, the bullet hitting him, blood everywhere, coming out through my fingers while he chokes.”
She sets her plate and fork down on her thighs. “Jesus, Chance.” She looks at me. “Talk about heavy.”
“Sorry.”
At that moment, Silas, Saxon, and Solomon exit the gym, each of them dripping sweat, panting. They head to their individual rooms without a word to each other or us, without so much as glancing this way. I watch her watch them, then look at me.
“Strong silent types, huh?” she says, cracking a grin.
I laugh. “You could say that, yeah.”
She finishes her food, sets her plate on mine and kicks back with me, bad leg resting over her good. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Yup.”
Silence.
“I can’t stay down here forever.” She says this quietly.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Just can’t. I’ll go nuts. I have a job. And no matter how long I stay, Alvin will still be out there, and I guarantee you he won’t forget.”
“I’m not saying stay down here forever.”
“What are you saying, then?”
I shrug. “I dunno. Just stay, for now. We’ll figure out the rest.”
“We will, huh?” She looks at me. “You gonna pay my debt for me?”
“Maybe.”
“Bullshit.” She snaps this. “Bullshit. I owe twenty-five grand. You got that much?”
I lift an eyebrow at her. “Good lord, woman.”
“Oh fuck off.” She hangs her head, shaking it, and then lifts it and looks at me. “Wasn’t just meth. Painkillers, too. You wanna be technical about it, it was painkillers first, and then when I tried to quit those, I ended up on meth.”
“Frying pan into the fucking volcano, Jesus.” I wipe my face. “You don’t do things in half measures, do you?”
She snorts a laugh. “No, I do not.”
“Tell me something you’re proud of.”
“What are you, my fucking therapist?” she snaps, but it’s with a suppressed half grin.
“Yeah, maybe I am,” I shoot back. “There’s a surprising amount of downtime in the military, and they provide a shitload of online options for continuing education. I have a degree in psychology.” I lean toward her, stage whispering. “Don’t tell anyone.”
She blinks at me. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Well aren’t you full of surprises.” She flips her cane, holding it by the bottom tip, and uses the sharp hooked end to scratch her calf. “Something I’m proud of? Making the US Women’s Olympic Beach Volleyball team.”