“Squatting?” Tria asked through narrowed eyes.
“Yeah. You know, just hanging out there. I didn’t have a lease or anything; I just broke in and stayed there. It was me and a couple other guys and one chick. We were all just living there.”
“And you got caught,” Tria said, surmising correctly.
“Yeah, I’d been homeless for a while before then, but that’s the point when I was really living on the streets. Before I had a car I was sleeping in.”
“How old were you?” she asked.
“Eighteen,” I told her. “What’s funny is I had quite a bit of money then.”
“If you had money, why didn’t you just rent the place?”
This was it. This was going to be the point of no return. This was very likely the thing that was going to make her turn and run for the hills. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only confession in a long list of sins.
“Because…because…” I took a long, deep breath, closed my eyes, and blurted out the rest. “Because I was a junkie. I didn’t want to use the money for rent because then there wouldn’t be enough for heroin. I had a nice car when I left my parents’ house, and I sold it so I could buy more smack and needles and shit to get high. I was a strung-out junkie when Yolanda found me near the gym where she worked.”
I kept my eyes closed, half waiting for her to run off into the rain. My hands were shaking, and even holding them in fists against my thighs wasn’t working to still them. After a minute or two, when I knew she was still there beside me, I looked at her again.
“How long?” she asked. “How long have you been off it? I mean—you are off it, right? I would have noticed if you were doing something like that—”
“Years,” I said, wanting to get the words out fast enough to stop her train of thought. My voice managed to contain a hint of desperation. “Ever since the last time—the time Yolanda was going on about when I gained too much and got the shit kicked out of me. That was the only relapse I ever had. I swear—I’m totally clean now. Over four years—I swear!”
“I believe you,” Tria said simply. She stood up, stood beside me, and laid her hand on my cheek.
“You do?” I asked quietly.
“Of course,” she replied. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“There’s more,” I said. I had to swallow hard, but I kept talking. “I did shit—a lot of shit I’m absolutely not going to talk about—but it was bad. I would have done anything for the drugs.”
“Did you kill anyone?”
I felt a lump lodged in my throat.
“No,” I whispered, wishing I could believe I wasn’t responsible for it myself. “But I’ve seen a lot of death.”
“Do you still struggle with it?” Tria asked quietly. “I mean, with wantin
g to…to do that?”
“Wanting to do heroin? Yeah. All the time. Not every day anymore, but yeah, I struggle.”
She traced over the edge of my jaw with her fingers, scratching at the scruff that had formed during our trip.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“Giving me some of you,” she replied. She stood up on her toes and pressed her lips to mine.
“Will you unpack when we get home?” I asked. “In our apartment?”
She chuckled.
“If you really want me to.”
“I really do.”