"What the fuck, Bree?"
She looks at me with tired eyes. "I need a place to crash tonight."
"I took your key."
Her expression gets sheepish. "I had an extra." She turns toward me. "Please, Walker."
"Beverly Hills too far for your Uber driver?" Our parents keep threatening to cut her off and failing to pull the trigger. But, hey, they'll use those purse strings to convince her to check into rehab stint six. And she'll guilt them into paying her rent when she bails on that one too.
"Just for one night. I promise."
"Why aren't you staying with Mom and Dad?"
"You know how they are."
They're a lot more understanding than I am.
"Walker." She folds and unfolds her legs. "It's been a while, huh?"
No. I dragged her to rehab two fucking weeks ago.
"I know you're pissed I checked out early. But I couldn't take any more group therapy. Those people have problems. I just…"
"Show me your arms."
She pushes her sleeve up her left arm. Then the right.
She has bad scars on her left arm, right in her elbow crook. From injecting at the same place over and over again.
But her arms are clean.
No track marks.
"I stopped shooting up a long time ago." She says it like it's an accomplishment.
Is it?
I don't have a fucking compass when it comes to my sister. Sabrina. Bree. I never know what to call her. Bree was my nickname for her as a kid. It feels too much like she's someone I can trust. But calling her Sabrina… that's too much the other way.
She's been putting me through the ringer forever. She started using in high school. It was bad for a few years. Then our parents threatened to kick her out and cut her off.
She went through her first rehab stint. She tried to stay clean for a while.
She slipped.
I get that. Life is hard. Temptation is everywhere.
But when she bailed on her second rehab stint?
Got back with her lowlife dealer ex?
Refused to go to her weekly therapy sessions?
Got in the driver's seat wasted and landed a DUI?
Addiction is one thing.
Telling everyone offering you help to go fuck themselves is another.
"Walker." Her voice gets soft. That same tone she used when we were kids. To reassure me when Mom and Dad were fighting.
She's my big sister.
She's supposed to protect me from this shit.
Not show up at my place with more excuses.
I run my hand through my hair. "You can stay."
Her eyes light up. She claps her hands together. "Thank you. I love you. I'll make dinner. You don't have anything in your fridge. But you're close to that market. Is it a Safeway or something else?"
"You can stay if you tell me why you checked yourself out."
"Do you have any idea what it's like being locked away from the world?"
No.
"Not having your cell? Or email? Or any way to talk to the people you care about?"
"Who do you care about?"
"You." Her expression is earnest. Soft.
But is it bullshit?
I don't know.
"I do, Walker. I love you. You're my best friend. I hate that I'm disappointing you. But I couldn't take it. I couldn't spend any more time wandering around the grass, listening to everyone talk about how beautiful the ocean is from the hill. I couldn't take any more hippie counselors telling me how lucky I am to be alive."
"You are lucky to be alive."
"Yeah. But…"
But landing in the ER from an OD wasn't enough of a wakeup call the first time.
Or the second.
Is anything going to get through to her?
Her voice stays soft. "The group therapy counselor asked me what I was grateful for and I had nothing. He gave me all this shit. I snapped. I had to leave."
"You can go back."
She shakes her head. "Being there makes me want to drink."
I believe that, but it's not like drinking is her problem. One of them, maybe, but not the one that's landed her in the ER twice. "And being here doesn't?"
"No." She looks at me with puppy dog eyes. "You always make me feel like we're kids again. Like the only thing I'll ever want to abuse is sugar."
"Are you sober?"
"It's been twenty-four hours."
"The question stands."
"Yeah. Of course."
It's far from an of course. "You can stay. For one night. That's it. I have someone coming over tomorrow." Well, I plan to.
"Oh." Her voice perks. "You're seeing someone? Tell me all about her."
"It's not like that."
"What's it like?"
"We're friends."
"Oh. Well, that's good. Friends help." Loneliness creeps into her voice. All her friends are other addicts. If she really is trying to stay sober, she doesn't have anyone but me.
And I'm being an asshole.
I force my voice to soften. "Yeah. She's cool. Iris. You'd like her." Before everything, Bree was the picture of friendly. She liked everyone. "Emma crashes here sometimes. When she's pissed at Brendon."
"Emma." She smiles as she recalls my friend slash coworkers' spitfire little sister. "She's probably pissed at him a lot, huh?"
"Yeah." Resenting your sibling is something I understand well. "Less now that she's accepted Brendon and Kaylee."
She nods with understanding. A million years ago, she dated Brendon. Slept with him. Whatever.
I doubt she remembers his sister's best friend. Even if she remembers Emma well.
Fuck. That really was a mess.
At least it's out in the open now.
"She doesn't stay with the other guys?" she asks.
"I don't think so." Dean's older brother, Ryan, is the fourth and final shop co-owner. They don't exactly get along, but they do love each other. And they manage to work together. They don't get this level of frustration.
Not that I discuss it.
"Hmm." She moves into the kitchen and pulls the fridge open. "You think maybe Emma has a thing for you?"
"Emma would tell me."
"Maybe."
"I'm gonna shower. I'll order in dinner. What do you want?"
"I don't mind cooking."
"No. You're staying here until you leave in the morning." Safeway sells every kind of booze. I don't trust Bree to—the sentence ends there. I don't trust Bree. "Pick out a movie. We'll watch something."
"Anything in particular?"
"Anything." I move into my bedroom and drop my cell on my desk, next to my sketchbook.
I'm not artsy, really. I got into tattooing more for the thrill of holding a gun than the thrill of my art on someone's body.
But I take pride in my shit.
I work hard to hone my skills. Figure drawing classes. Sketches. Jumping on trends Ryan abhors. He's still scoffing at watercolor tattoos.
I flip my sketchbook open to the latest page. Pick up my pen. Draw Am I A Sucker or Am I Doing the Right Thing? in big bold letters.