Dad leans onto the table towards me. I can see the hurt in his eyes. “We have to listen to Tris; she knows this better than we do.”
I sit back in my chair, staring at Gracie’s overturned purse. Everything has been dumped out on the table, items scattered about on the wooden surface. Her phone and wallet are missing, which I assume she has with her.
“We have to believe she isn’t relapsing. If we give up on her now, we’ll lose her for good. I’ve been watching her for almost a year now. She’s been working so hard to stay sober. She wouldn’t just give it up.”
“Then what’re we supposed to do?” Mom asks, falling into a chair. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Dad sits next to her and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling him into his chest. They aren’t my biological parents, but they are as close as they can get. My heart tugs at the sight. I pull my eyes away from them and down to the little baggies. They’re fresh, untouched. Which tells me they were bought recently.
“I don’t want to lose her,” I finally say, speaking towards the table but loud enough for all of them to hear me. “Not again. I just got her back.”
A hand clamps down on my shoulder. I raise my eyes to Landon, and he gives me a tight-lipped smile. I know he understands; it’s obvious in the way he looks at me. If roles were reversed, Landon would want somebody in his corner.
“We’re not going to lose her,” Tris promises. “We just… we have to figure out what’s going on.”
I drag my fingers down my face and fall against my chair. “How the hell are we supposed to do that?”
“We ask her,” Tris states as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We give Gracie a chance to actually talk. Not straight up accuse her. That’s only going to make her defensive, and once that happens, all hell will break loose.”
“So, an intervention?” I ask and shake my head. “No. We can’t do that without Owen or Colton. They’re part of her life.”
Tris doesn’t even blink in my direction. “Then call them.”
“Owen won’t come,” I tell her. “He’s really pissed off at her.”
Tris looks at me, deadpanned. “Everybody here knows how much Owen loves Gracie, just like you do. You ask him to come, and he will, no matter how ticked off he is.”
She isn’t wrong, and I know that. I don’t say anything, though. I just leave the house, pulling out my phone to do the deed.
“Hey, man,” Owen greets, sounding tired on the other end.
Dad said he and Owen have been pulling twelve-hour shifts lately. Maybe he just got home from one, or I woke him up after doing one.
“So, I found drugs in Gracie’s purse.” There’s silence on the other end, but at least he hasn’t hung up. “Tris is convinced they aren’t hers, though. She wants us to give Gracie a chance to talk.”
“Talk for what?”
I huff out a breath. “She wants Gracie to be able to explain herself.” Owen’s silent again. “Look, man, I know you’re pissed at her—”
“And why aren’t you? She fucking walked out on you and sold your mom’s engagement ring.”
I grumble. “Because I decided I’m not going to lose her again, that’s fucking why Owen. Staying pissed at her only pushes her away. If she’s relapsing and we’re not there for her, she’s never coming back. Is that seriously something you’re going to be okay with?”
Owen doesn’t say anything for several long minutes, and when he does speak again, he sounds more than exhausted. “I don’t want to lose her either, Devon, but what she did – to the both of us—”
“I know, man,” I say softly. “Really, I get it.”
Owen clears his throat. “So, how do we talk to her?”
“An intervention, I guess.”
Owen sighs heavily on the other end, and a distant voice speaks, muffled. Owen mutters something indecipherable beneath his breath. “Just text me the details. I’ll be there. But Devon?” He pauses for a split second. “It’s so fucking hard to forgive her.”
I grimace at the crack of his voice. “I know,” I say softly. “Trust me, I know.”
With that, we hang up, and I return inside, sending Colton a text. There’s no reason to call him, to disturb him. I don’t know the guy very well, but I know that even one text saying it involves Gracie will bring him running.
“When do you want to do this?” Dad asks Tris when I take my seat again.