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My brother is coming. Tears fall to my cheeks. I hang my head and begin to sob.
My brother is good. He’s so good. He’ll do anything for me. He’ll drop whatever it is he’s doing and drive four hundred miles the second I need him. He’ll break speed limits. He’ll break down doors. Anything and everything. He’ll even blame himself for this, but he’s not the brother who needs help. He’s not the addict. The fuck-up. I am. Not him. Never him.
I’m jobless and homeless. I’m an addict who just lost seven years of sobriety. I’m a Marine (former) who’s been dishonorably discharged. And I want to get high, again. Right now, even though my life is over because of it. That’s how I really know I’m fucked.
I was eighteen when I fell in love with cocaine.
I was twenty when I found CJ’s air rifle in his closet, and he found me, holding it against my chest while I cried on the floor because I remembered that day and how he had looked at me like he was proud, and he hadn’t looked at me the same since.
I was twenty-eight when I found out that I’ll never beat it. My name is Jake Tully, and I’m an addict.
I went to this meeting on the other side of town once and I kid you not, they had stale ass pita chips and hummus all up in that motherfucker. That’s it!” He laughs at himself. “Like, what? Who the fuck are they catering to? We’re addicts. We’re disgusting human beings. We want drugs. Dirty, nasty drugs. And if we can’t have drugs, we want sugar and anything else that’s bad for our bodies. How hard is that to understand? I mean, read a fucking book on it. Shit.”
“I’m Felix,” he says once I get up beside him. “Jake.”
One day at a time. Hell, one hour or one minute at a time. Whatever it takes to keep going.”
“So, is it like, exclusively girls for you or…” I blink. What. “What?” I ask. He blushes furiously. “Uh, like, do you only date girls or no…” “Where is that coming from?” “Well, at the beginning, you said your girlfriend broke up with you.” “Yeah. And?” “Then you said she fucked your roommate. At least once.” “Yeah, I remember. And?” “I’m just wondering if you’re exclusively straight. Now. Or like, were you ever.” “Exclusively straight,” I repeat slowly.
“I’ve been waiting for someone to ask me since I hit my year mark forty-seven days ago. Because I know I’ll be the best sponsor. Like, it’s just who I am. I care a lot. And sometimes people don’t really get me because of it. Or they think I’m just clingy or whatever, but that’s not it. I like being close with people. The connection. I feel it more than others, I think. So, I know I’ll care about your sobriety just as much as my own. It’ll be that important. And I’ll be there for you whenever you need me. I don’t care what time it is or what I’m doing. I’ll be there, Jake. And I’ll check in
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“You’re getting soft already and this kid isn’t even here yet.” “There ain’t nothing about me that’s soft, brother.” His arms flex and hold on tighter. “Gross.”
How the fuck do you tell if a cookie sheet is nonstick? Because you have to know, the oven temperature depends on it, and wouldn’t it be so fucking easy if it actually said NONSTICK on the goddamned fucking sheet itself? Like on the bottom or something? (It doesn’t. I checked.) But wouldn’t that make the most sense? How long have people been making cookies? No one has come up with this genius solution yet? Or maybe the assholes at Nestle could’ve created a recipe that doesn’t rely on cookie sheet stickiness, and I wouldn’t need to guess and then guess wrong, burning the shit out of my first
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“Mm. These are good.” He takes out another and devours it. “Like, really good.” I blink, and that one disappears too. “You eat like you haven’t had food in days.” “More like thirty minutes. I just had three hot dogs and a twenty-piece nugget meal.” “Where the hell does it all go?” “Mostly to my dick.”
“You need to stop talking about large dicks.” “Because you’re imagining it…” “Yes,” I nearly shout. “Fine, okay? How can I not? You won’t shut up about it! And now I have this image in my head of some dude working out his dick with dumbbells—Sorry, ma’am. I mean, Sister. Right. Yeah, I probably shouldn’t talk like that in front of a church. Or ever. You’re right—Shit. That was so fucking awkward. Oh, you’re such an asshole. I hate you.”
I want to tell him it hasn’t always been exclusively girls for me. But Felix looks worried, and I don’t know if I should say any of that, so I don’t say anything.
This really shouldn’t happen. We really shouldn’t happen. But I haven’t fucked anyone in months and my feelings about that tattoo are making me regret the jeans I’m wearing, and I’m afraid if I don’t answer, he’ll just ask me again, and if I lie, he’ll look for the truth. God help me if he feels for it.
His voice is thick. I wonder if other parts of him are. Fucking kill me.
wonder if addicts can ever be in a relationship together. And I immediately push that thought out of my head.
“He touched you. Nobody touches you.”
“The only reason I haven’t fucked you yet is because you’re my sponsor.”
“Shit. I wish you would’ve kissed me back,” he says, meeting my gaze. His tone melancholy. “That was our one moment to be stupid, and you didn’t take it, you fucking saint. Now I’ll never know what it feels like to really kiss you. And that kills me.”
“Everything is stacked against us,” I say. “We’d be a tragedy, Felix. This wouldn’t work.”
“You don’t agree?”
“No. I agree.” He steps closer and presses one (last) kiss to my mouth. “I just know that wouldn’t stop me.”
Life is about balance, right? I know there’s a balance, and when you think things are going great, that’s usually when something bad happens. Just like when you’re about to give up, a little sliver of light brightens up the dark. And sometimes you’ll have a lot of good and a little bit of bad, but then you’ll have a lot of bad and a little bit of good. It evens out. It should be fair.
“Fine. I confess.” I push my curls back. “That story… it’s about me and Jake.” “Really? No shit.” Dean tips his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do I always get a headache when we’re together?” “I don’t know. It’s probably unrelated.”
Oh. They’ve added some new stuff on here. Lots of choices. See anything you like?” “Yeah.” “Which one?” I turn my head when he doesn’t answer and holy fuck, he’s looking right at me and smirking while he chews. Jake is flirting. No way. No way! He means me, doesn’t he?
And dear old dad? He doesn’t show his face again, and when I hear him sawing logs like he’s getting the most restful sleep he’s ever gotten, I have to actively convince myself not to break down the door and pick a fight with him. The last time we got into it, he dislocated my jaw, and I found out just how fucking good Percocets are.
I move aimlessly and watch wood planks disappear beneath my feet until the flooring changes to piss yellow tile, and I look up before I run straight into the kitchen table that’s covered in chewed-up food, and beside the empty jug of OJ there’s a dusty baggie of white and a single blue pill, and next to it— a line of coke cut just for me.
“Oh, fuck the rules. Jesus. You gotta know I don’t give a shit about rules at this point, Felix. I just had my tongue inside your mouth again. And if holding your hand like you’re my boyfriend wasn’t a hint; I’ll spell it out for you—I want you to be my boyfriend.”
“If I had to knock your smartass out, I would’ve done it. I would’ve kept you out, Jake. Tackled you. Fucking dragged you. Whatever I needed to do. Even if it meant swallowing every fucking pill in that house—I’d do it so you couldn’t.” I lean in until our noses almost touch. “And that’s why it needs to be you.”
I try to be quiet when I get ready for work since I’m typically the only one awake that early, but I tripped over my work boots and headbutted the dresser after Felix rolled from his back to his stomach and flexed his ass so his dick rubbed against the mattress, and since I couldn’t stop watching him sleep like a psychopath, I was lucky enough to see that happen. And even though I cursed and groaned, not to mention the sound my head made on impact, Felix didn’t stir at all.
He’s bright-eyed and his usual shade of pale, and so damn excited to see me. He always is. He’s like coming home to a golden retriever.
“How do you feel?” I ask. “Horny.” I smirk. “Be straight with me.” “No can do, bro. The only straight I am is straight up gay.” He points finger guns and winks, and we’re both laughing now. “Seriously, though. I’m better. I feel good.”
“God, I could never do that shit every month,” Felix says. “Mad props to all who menstruate. I’d never be sober if I routinely bled out of my dick.”
Then he arches his back and holds onto my shins and bounces on my dick. And look at that… I’m moaning his name the way he said I would as he rides me until I come.
“Do you really think I’d let them get away with that?” “You’re my brother, Jake. I’ll always protect you.”
“I don’t think about you not beating this, because if you don’t, then I won’t.” Jake shoots me a glare. “Fuck you. Don’t put that on me.” “I’m not! I’m not saying that to try and guilt trip you into staying sober. It’s just… it’s the truth. I’m scared too. You have to fight this with me, Jake. You can’t stop fighting it. Okay?”
And I only let that cheap little dig slide because I have a thing about forehead kisses. They’re magic
“When I walked into the house yesterday, you smiled so damn big, and you always do that. You always look at me like I’m not a failure at everything or even capable of screwing up. You have all this hope in me, Felix, and you’re happy just having me around, and not just because I’m not out using if I’m with you. You’re the first person to ever look at me like that.”
And it sucks. It sucks so bad because this wonderful thing we both just admitted could ruin us.
I’m content with lying awake and never sleeping again, because I think Jake is in love with me.
Anything that lights up the “pleasure center” of your brain has the risk of growing from a want to a need to this dangerous, compulsive obsession that takes over and then ruins your life.
I’ve never wanted anything the way I want to get high. But when I’m hunched over Felix with my dick buried in his ass, I’m not sure I can say that anymore.
“You want to know how to make me feel good all the time?” “If it involves removing your hoodie, then no.” “It doesn’t.” “Okay. Then yes. Tell me and I’ll start doing it.” His smile is slow and beautiful. “Exist, Felix.” “What?” “I just need you to exist. Stay here with me. That’s it. That’s all you have to do.”
“You make me feel better than any drug I’ve ever taken.”
“We’ll be okay, right?” And I really wish he was telling me that instead of needing me to say it. Because I’m lying. I’ve been lying all morning. “We’ll be okay.”
I can’t call my boyfriend. I can’t call my brother. The only thing I can do, I shouldn’t. But there’s nothing else. Fuck, there’s nothing. The sun still isn’t up, and every addict knows the most wonderful things happen between dusk and dawn.
“I’ve tried hating you a lot over the years, Jake,” CJ says, acting like he doesn’t hear me. “And I keep thinking, you know, maybe if he knows I hate him, maybe then he’ll understand what he’s doing to me every time he uses, and he’ll finally stop trying to take my brother from me.”
