"I was telling you about Remington and you just sort of...passed out. You were awake but you couldn't respond to me. Do you remember West carrying you over here?"
"A little."
"What the fuck did she say that would make you react that way?" Asked West.
"Nothing," I answered a little too quickly. “It’s probably low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten anything today.” I jumped out of the Challenger and stumbled. Bronx caught me mid-fall before I could land and break my face.
“That wasn’t just low blood sugar,” sneered West.
"You can't drive home. We'll take you," said Bronx.
"Gabby can take me home."
"We live next door. Stop being so damn stubborn and get in," said West as he barreled past me and got in the driver's seat.
"I'll call you later to check in,” Gabby said.
I nodded and slowly made my way over to the passenger side and got in with Bronx's help. West’s scent surrounded me and made my stomach flutter. The masculine smell–like leather and oil and fresh laundry–wrapped around me and almost felt…comforting. It was like a warm hug, something I could use because lately, I’ve felt more alone than ever.
"Keys? I'll drive your car home," Bronx said, waggling his fingers in front of me.
I dug my keys out of my bag and tossed them to him. "It might take a few tries to start. And if you hit the brakes too hard, the car will stall out. And don't even think about using the turn signal, the windshield wipers, or the horn. They don't work."
West muttered something under his breath as Bronx laughed and stalked over to my car. He was about to get an education in driving a shit-box on wheels.
The ride home was silent and filled with tension. I didn't have the energy to fight with West. I was still stunned to learn that Remington was caught up in drugs again. I shouldn't have been surprised. I hadn't heard from him in weeks. He usually came home to check in–ask for money, raid the fridge, do his laundry, whatever–but it had been close to a month since he was home. I tried to text him a few times, but he left me on read.
Remington was well known around Gilchrist Point High School. Two years ago, he was the star point guard of the varsity basketball team. He was a golden boy: smart, attractive, popular, talented on the court. His friends left GP after high school to go away to college, but Rem stayed back. He lasted at Gilchrist Point University for a whopping semester before getting kicked out for poor academic scores and non-existent attendance. He flushed a free ride to college down the shitter. All for drugs.
Unfortunately for him, his identity was wrapped in his high school image. Once that was gone, so was Remington. He started dealing drugs for a local kingpin. He starteddoingdrugs–not much at first, but it turned into an ugly habit, one that he worked tirelessly to break last year after he almost died at the hands of West Moretti. Knowing that his sobriety wasn't a priority for him anymore hurt my heart deeply.
"What'd he do this time?"
I sighed. West hated Remington. Not in the way that he hated me, where he didn't flat-out hate me, he just liked to fuck with me for his enjoyment. HedespisedRemington. Last summer, West found Bronx higher than a kite on drugs that Remington sold him. There was no turning back for him after that. West beat him within an inch of his life and told him if he ever sold to Bronx again, he was going to finish the job. I didn't blame West for being angry. Rem had no business selling drugs to kids, especially toour friends.
"He's using again," I said quietly. "He was clean for a while."
"Figures. You shouldn’t worry about him so much."
"He's mybrother."
"How many times has he done this to you? He makes you worry yourself sick because he can't keep the needle out of his arm, or the powder out of his nose. Or he's robbing a store and getting picked up by the cops. Or he's dealing to kids. How long are you gonna make excuses for him?"
"I'm not making–never mind, you wouldn't understand," I said as I looked out the window. We drove through town heading to our neighborhood, and the houses slowly changed from nice and pristine to old and neglected. The slow transition of mansions and colonials to trailers and bungalows.
"What wouldn’t I understand? I understand that you're way too fucking good to him. You worry about him constantly, yet he doesn't give you a second thought. He doesn't care that he puts you through this." West gripped the steering wheel so hard I thought it was going to break. Anger and frustration poured off him.
"I just mean that you don't know what it's like to love an addict. He's been through a lot in his life."
"A lot of people have. You've been through a lot and you're not an addict. You stay out until after midnight working to take care of your leech of a mother. It's just more excuses. I guarantee he sleeps like a fucking baby every night while you toss and turn wondering if he's dead or alive. Wondering if he's eaten or if he's sick."
West always told it like it was. He spoke facts about me and Remington, but there was a lot about Rem that he didn't know. Rem used the drugs to hide his pain and he had a lot of it. He, along with many other addicts, felt like they had no other option in life. I didn't like the things that he did, but he was still my brother, and I would always do my best to help him. “You see everything as black and white. Sometimes shit is gray, West.”
“Not when it comes to this. It’s pretty fucking cut and dry.”
"I don't have it in me to argue with you right now, maybe tomorrow after I've had a few hours of sleep and some coffee," I said as I rested my head on the window and shut my eyes.
He sighed and was silent for the rest of the way to our houses. "I didn't mean to upset you more. But I watched you pass out onto the pavement, Ashtyn. You blacked out. You couldn't hear us, and your eyes were blown and looking all over the place.That'sthe shit he does to you."