Not in his room.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
I headed back downstairs and opened the front door. There was a glowing light coming from the side of the house.
Huh.
Maybe he was in the garage.
I grabbed one of Wes’ coats while I shoved my feet into my shoes. Then, I slammed the door and hightailed it around the house to the first garage.
“Fuck, it’s freezing.” I shivered, feeling even colder because I’d been sweating my face off.
That was when I spotted Wes—kneeling on the cement.
Rifling through the tipped over garbage can.
He had probably three garbage bags ripped open, their contents spilled across the driveway.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He looked up at me, then kept rummaging in the mess.
I raised my voice. “Wes, what are you doing?”
He glared up at me. “I’m lookin’ for the shit my daughter chucked out. Leave me alone!” he warned and went back to his work.
Christ.
This was next level pathetic.
A grown man.
A hockey hero.
A legend.
Crawling around on the frozen tundra, combing through the fucking trash for his next fix.
I shoved my hands inside the pockets of my borrowed jacket and gazed up at the dark sky.
The night was clear, and every star competed with the next to be the brightest and most brilliant.
Despite the biting cold—and the addict right in front of me—it was beautiful outside.
Each time I exhaled, you could see my warm breath mingle with the frozen air, and float away.
I looked back down at Wes, hoping like hell he was about ready to give up.
Instead, he seemed more and more manic.
“Wes, enough,” I shouted gruffly, “let’s go back inside. Lexi probably flushed all your shit, anyway.”
He looked at me. “Nah, man. Sometimes she just tosses it.”
He went back to scavenging through the trash bags, looking for his stash.
My stomach knotted up.