It’s Jensen. It’s my husband, the man I chose to spend my life with. Except it’s nothim.
“What are you on?” I ask, my voice trembling, thick with emotion I can’t seem to swallow.
His eyes squeeze shut, and he shakes his head.
“What are you on, Jensen?” My voice rises slightly, and I force myself to stay calm.
The agony is visible on his face. The pain, shame, torture—it’s all there, etched in the way his forehead creases. The way he can’t look at me. The way his lips press together.
The way a tear leaks from his eye.
I soften, torn between wanting to shake him and hold him simultaneously. “I can’t help you if I don’t know,” I whisper.
He opens his eyes briefly, just long enough to look at me, then shuts them again, tears now streaming down both cheeks.
It makes me want to die. To wrap my arms around him and make everything okay. But I can’t.
I won’t.
This right here. This moment. It’s one of the worst of my entire life—right up there with my mother dying.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He knows I know. The look of guilt, the tears—it’s basically a confession. And one I know all too well. One I’ve seen far too many times.
He promised me. God, he promised me.
Knowing I won’t get anywhere with him right now, I turn on my heel, slamming the door behind me.
A volcano of rage erupts, abrupt and all-consuming. I storm into his office, determined to find whatever’s been slowly killing my husband’s soul. I yank open every drawer, ripping through the contents, tossing everything aside without a care for the mess I’m making.
I open anything that can be opened, my hands run along surfaces, over edges. I’m searching like a madwoman. From the corner of my eye, I see his backpack, tucked behind the open door.The ibuprofen bottle.
Remembering the other pills from the Berkshires, I dart for it, my hands moving faster than I knew possible. Unzipping the top, I reach inside, frantically searching. My fingers hit something hard that rattles. But it’s not in this pocket—it’s in the one behind it. I open the back pocket and pull out the bottle.
My hands are shaking, and I fumble with the childproof cap, struggling to open it. “God, come on,” I whisper, my voice cracking with desperation. It takes three tries, but finally, I get the lid off. I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling deeply—too terrified to look. Too scared for it to be true.
Finally, I muster up the courage to dump all the pills onto the desk, praying I’m wrong.
Even though I know I’m not.
There are only two kinds of pills—ibuprofen and one other—asmall, white, circular tablet.
I pinch it between my fingers and study the inscription—M 05 52.
Holy shit.My gut tells me it’s Oxycodone, but I rarely see actual pills anymore, and I’m not about to guess. Not with this.
I bolt to the kitchen for my phone and pull updrugs.com,typing in the number. My stomach drops instantly, a knot forming low and deep. My chest tightens, and the air leaves my lungs like I’ve been punched.
I’m right.
Dammit. Why did I have to be right?My new reality crashes through me like a tidal wave, powerful and overwhelming.
Without thinking, I dump my coffee in the sink and chuck my mug against the hardwood floor, screaming through clenched teeth. It shatters on impact, sharp pieces scattering, and I welcome the sound.
I know too much about addiction to stay calm. I’ve seen it up close—watched the lies pile up behind familiar eyes. I know the mask the addict wears, the stories they sell to protect their secret.
Now my favorite person in the world is wearing it.
And I don’t recognize him.
