“You want me to stop?” My voice rises. “You want me to turn around and pretend this is okay? That you didn’t break the one rule that mattered?”
“It’s not that simple—”
“It is that simple!” I’m shouting now. Students are staring but I don’t care. “You’re either clean or you’re not. There’s no in-between. No excuses.”
“He’s my stepdad,” Koa says, voice raw. “He owns me. You don’t understand what that means.”
“Then help me understand.”
He’s quiet. His chest rises and falls, each breath visible in the cold air.
“I can’t,” he finally says.
“Can’t,” I snicker. I stare at him. At the bruises. At the way he’s standing there vulnerable and broken and still somehow dangerous.
And I feel a pull in my chest. That stupid, treacherous urge to walk back to him. To touch his face. To tell him it’s okay.
No.
I crush it down. Bury it deep.
“Get in the car,” I say.
“What?”
“You’re high. You’re hurt. You shouldn’t be alone.” I walk back toward the Charger. “Get in the car. I’ll take you somewhere you can sleep it off.”
He doesn’t move. “Why?”
“Because I’m not like you.” I open the driver’s side door. “I don’t leave people stranded when they need help. Even when they deserve it.”
The words are meant to cut. From the look on his face, they do.
He gets in the passenger seat without another word.
I drive in silence. He stares out the window, hand pressed against his ribs like they hurt with every breath.
Good.
No. Not good. I don’t want him in pain.
Yes you do. He deserves it.
No he doesn’t. Something’s wrong. Something happened.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to shut out the warring voices in my head.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“The trailer.”
He turns to look at me. “Trailer, huh?”
“How bad is it?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“I’ll live.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
