“If I hadn’t been using, I would have?—”
Mitch does this growling thing that has me clamping my mouth shut. “Stop it. I swear to fuck if I hear you blame yourself again, I’ll come to Tortiseville and strangle you myself.”
I smile through the tears threatening to fall. “Tourneville.”
“Don’t care,” he says, though he cracks a smile. “We knew the both of you got high. Me and Kas got high too. We just didn’t think he’d OD. Have you been beating yourself up all these years about that?”
I shrug.
Kas sighs. “Don’t. There was nothing we could have done about it. I talked to my therapist about it and?—”
“You have a therapist?” Mitch asks.
Kas gives him a meaningful look. “Yeah, I started seeing them when Wesley went to rehab. I’ve been unpacking a lot during our sessions, and one thing he told me is I can’t change the habits and behaviors of adults. I wanted to save both of you, but I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried. I can’t carry that around. So I’m going to tell you the same thing, Wesley. You can’t carry the weight of what Vic did. It’ll wear you down.”
He’s right. A long exhale leaves me and with it goes most of my guilt.
I haven’t brought up Vic’s death with Mirrie yet because I was afraid it would bring up the same feelings I’m having right now, and I’d spiral.
“We never blamed you either,” Mitch says, more serious than he usually is. “We all lost him. You’re not more responsible because you used to get high together. Vic would do shit and worry about the consequences later. That time, he couldn’t.”
He says it bluntly, but that’s how I needed it delivered. Ineeded to hear him say that it wasn’t my fault and that they didn’t fault me.
“I love you guys,” I say.
They both look shocked but don’t give me any shit about it. “Love you too,” Mitch says.
“Yeah, me too.”
Something compels me to say, “I never wanted to try heroin.” My voice is low and subdued, but I push words past my clenched throat. “My mom…she was a heroin addict.”
Both Kas and Mitch look at me in shock. I only told them I moved with my dad because of shit not being good at my mother’s house. But I think now it’s time I’m honest with them about my past. They’ve earned the truth.
Clearing my throat, I say, “When she and her boyfriend didn’t have enough money for drugs, she’d sell herself. And while she was doing that….her boyfriend would rape me, saying that she was too tied up to pay him any attention.”
The alarm that crosses their faces almost has me clamming up, but I keep talking. At least they’ll understand why I left Vic to his own devices instead of getting high with him.
“I moved to California because I almost killed the man after he tried to rape me one night. They found my dad, and he came to get me. I told myself I’d never fucking touch heroin because I didn’t want to end up like either one of them. I used other shit, and that was bad enough, but when I saw it in Vic’s hands, I couldn’t….I…”
My throat is so tight I can barely swallow.
Kas curses. “I’m sorry, bro. I really am. You’re a fucking survivor though. I don’t blame you one bit for wanting to dull that pain.”
“Is your therapist helping you with that?” Mitch asks. “And where is that asshole that hurt you like that? I just wanna talk to him.”
A laugh bursts from my throat, even though there’s nothing funny. It’s more from relief than anything else. Relief that they don’t judge me for not standing up to Perry before.
I run a hand through my hair. “He’s dead. Long dead. Killed himself when he was sentenced to more than seventy years in prison. My mother is dead too. And she left me her house. I want to bulldoze that motherfucker. You two feel like flying in for the main event?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Just tell us when,” Mitch says, and Kas agrees.
We sit on the phone and shoot the shit for a bit before hanging up.
I feel lighter than I have in years. The guilt is still there, but it’s only a twinge of what it was before. My friends know my past and didn’t look down on me.
Even though it’s the early morning hours, I can’t go back to sleep. I lie on the mat on the floor and stare at the ceiling. I could continue with yoga, or I could go for a run. Neither of those options sound appealing, since I’m a little worn out from my nightmare and talking to my bandmates. Maybe later.
Then my eyes snag on the guitar case with the Fender that Jaxon gave me all those years ago. I was supposed to move it into the spare room, but I didn’t have the energy.
