“Look at me, Crew,” I demand. “We need to discuss this. I’m fucking worried, and you’ve been lying to me for God knows how long.”
“Fuck this.” My eyes bug out of my head as I watch him throw the covers off himself and shoot out of bed.
“Where the fuck are you going? We aren’t done here!”
“Yes, we fucking are. I told you I’m not talking about this, and you aren’t listening, so I’m going home.”
He paces the room looking for… something. Before his fury filled gaze snaps to mine. “Where the fuck is my shit, Anderson?”
Playing dumb, I reply, “What shit?”
This only pisses him off more. He storms over to the bed, bending down until we’re eye-level. “Tell me where my fucking backpack is right fucking now, Anderson, or so help me God, I’ll destroy this entire room looking for it. I’ll wake everyone in this goddamn house up while I’m at it.Tell. Me. Where. It. Is.”
In all the years I’ve known Crew, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as angry as he is right now. His eyes are dark, empty pits of wrath, his face is screwed up, and his chest is heaving with heavy breath. There’s no getting to him when he’s like this. I can already tell.
“Bathroom,” is all I say before looking down at the comforter as he stomps into the bathroom, only to reemerge seconds later with his backpack. He bends down to slip his shoes on, while I can do nothing more than sit there. I’m trapped inside my body, unable to move, react, or do anything at all to stop him.
Is he really going to just leave?
“Crew, it’s the middle of the night. You can’t just leave.”
“Yes, I can.”
My body finally decides to snap into action, standing off the bed and crossing the room until I’m standing in front of him. “Stop, Crew.Please. Stay and talk to me.”
He lets out a heavy sigh, refusing to look at me. “Please, let me go. I don’t want to argue with you right now or say something I’m going to regret later, but I will if you continue to try to stop me.”
“This is stupid, Crew. Please. Just talk to me. I want to help.”
I can’t seem to get oxygen into my lungs. They won’t fully expand. Not with the way my heart is hammering behind my ribs. I feel like I’m going to pass out.
“You want tohelp?” He says the word like it’s derogatory. Narrowing his eyes at me, he steps up until he’s so close I can feel his hot breath fan my face. “I don’t need your fucking help, man. What Ineedis someone to not go through my fucking shit like I’m a goddamn child.”
“I wouldn’t go through your shit if you’d been honest with me,” I reply, my voice sounding small. Timid.
“It’s none of your fucking business, Anderson! You’re not my fucking parent, so stop trying to act like one.”
“I’m acting like a parent because I’m fucking concerned? You fucking overdosed, Crew.Overdosed!You act like I’m out of line being worried.”
“Sorry we all can’t be so fucking perfect like you,” he seethes with so much venom it feels like I’ve been physically stung. “So, save your holier than thou bullshit for someone who fucking wants to hear it.”
I’m stunned silent. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He shoves past me, shoulder checking me as he makes his way toward the door. Grabbing his arm as he passes me, my brain finally catches up. “Crew, please…”
He looks right through me. His eyes are void of any recognizable emotion. Ripping his arm from my hold, he spits, “Get your fucking hand off me, Anderson.”
I’m watching this moment happen from the outside, an out-of-body experience for the first time in my life. My pulse feels like it’s slowed down, making breathing a challenge, and the tightness in my throat is suffocating. I’m under a sea of shock and hurt. I’m drowning in it slowly, and he’s watching it happen. Every part of me is screaming to fall at his feet. Beg him to stay and talk to me, but I can’t. Instead, I watch him walk around me and out the bedroom door.
He left. Without a second thought. Without a care about how I felt. He just left.
Chapter Thirty
Crew
When I was around eight or nine, my uncle—my dad’s brother—died. He had a wife and two little boys. I remember my mother always saying shit like,“He’s selfish. How could someone leave their family like that?”It confused me at the time, because I was young, and couldn’t understand how him dying was his fault.
At the funeral, the speaker kept mentioning my uncle’s“demons”and a sickness in his head. As a child, none of this made sense, and adults sure as hell weren’t going to explain it to me. The older I get, though, the more I come to terms with the fact that me and my uncle weren’t much different. See, I have the same demons and the same fucking sickness. His demons killed him, and mine are leading me that way too.
And I can’t find it in me to care.