Klonopin. Xanax. Ativan. Valium. All benzodiazepines. A couple of Adderall. There was a single Percocet too, but we’d find out later that narcotics were a place he’d only dabbled in, never going too far for reasons even he couldn’t explain.
“And you’re sure about this?” I asked.
Corey nodded, looking away. “It’s none of my business, I know. It’s just—I’ll never know what he went through, you know? Or what you did. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t deal with my own shit. I remember, okay? What it was like. Stuff like this. And it’s just… he seems like a nice guy. And if he’s going to be some kind of savior like everyone thinks he is, then he doesn’t need to be doing this shit.”
“Thank you for doing this.”
He looked up, and his eyes were wet. “You won’t tell him? That I was here?”
I shook my head slowly. “No. He’ll never hear it from me. My husband will, but I can promise you Ty won’t. From either of us.”
He was grateful at that, and I felt terrible because of it.
“Can you send me the picture?”
He nodded. He pulled out his phone, and I rattled off my number. A
moment later, my phone buzzed with a text. I ignored it.
He was at the door when he stopped and turned back around. “I didn’t even ask you your name.”
“Derrick,” I told him quietly. “My name is Derrick.”
His smile was fragile. “Maybe I’ll see you again.”
I nodded and he left, the door closing behind him.
I sat there for a long time.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another, it whispered. Isn’t that right? Because that’s the way it goes for you. Just when you think you’re getting somewhere, just when you think things are finally going your way for once in your miserable life, shit just seems to blow right the fuck up, doesn’t it? Oh, Bear. This is your life!
He’d been stupid, in the end.
I’d torn his room apart, not caring about how it looked, especially not after I’d found the first empty bottle. And the second. The third. The fourth. And on and on and on, stashed in nooks and crannies, in drawers and boxes underneath his bed. Yeah, one or two still had a couple of pills in them. Those I pocketed, tossing the empty bottles into the pile that was gradually growing. My stomach was twisting and turning, and it was laughing at me, laughing every time I found another bottle, every time I found a little plastic bag with residue in it. He’d kept them, stupidly, for reasons I didn’t understand. After I kicked his ass, I would have to remember to ask him.
And I would.
By the time I finished, his room was in shambles, drawers hanging open haphazardly, clothes strewn across the floor, mattress tipped off the bed. There was a small hole in the wall behind a poster of Einstein sticking his tongue out.
It was ridiculous, really, almost like he’d wanted to get caught.
I did three things, after.
I texted Ty: Can you stop by the store on your way home and get me more Kleenex?
Kk, was the response. It’ll be late. Library.
That’s fine. Seven thirty?
Yeah. Should be. Feeling better?
I didn’t answer.
I found a screwdriver in the garage and used it to take off the door to his bedroom. I carted it to our bedroom, grunting and sweating, breath harsh in my chest.
And I saved the worst for last.
“Bear? Is everything okay? I’m kind of in the middle of—”