[Jenna's POV]
I sit in my car after the meeting, watching Scott walk to his through the foggy windshield. My fingers drum against the steering wheel, each tap matching the rhythm of my racing heart.
"What a fucking douche bag," I mutter, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "Scott Adams. Mr. Two-First-Names."
My lips curl into a snarl as I watch him unlock his car door. So casual. So normal. Like, he doesn't even remember what he did to me. The piece of shit who twelve years ago got me hooked on Oxy's, destroying the life I'd carefully planned for myself.
I close my eyes and I'm back there again. College. That stupid house party with the red cups and cheap vodka. Beer pong table in the corner where Scott stood, arm wrapped around his girlfriend, Summer, both of them laughing like they owned the world. I remember how he called me over, that easy smile that made everyone trust him.
"Hey Jenna, having fun?" he'd asked, as if he actually cared.
After we'd all done shots, huddled in that grimy kitchen that reeked of spilled beer and cheap cologne, he'd pulled something from his pocket.
"Want to try something better?" he'd whispered, showing me little blue pills in his palm.
"What are they?" I'd asked, curious despite myself.
His eyes, already bloodshot, had crinkled at the corners when he shrugged. "I don't know. Just bought them for the party today." So casual. So fucking careless with other people's lives.
I took one. Just one. And everything changed.
The next party, I found him immediately. "Hey, can I have another?" I'd asked, trying to sound casual.
"Sure," he'd said, not even hesitating. Not even asking if I was okay.
The worst part is Scott was always so damn generous with his stash. Always offering those little blue pills like they were fucking candy at a birthday party. "Hey, want another?" he'd say, that easy smile never wavering. And the whole time, he just kept functioning. Going to classes, acing exams, partying on weekends, while maintaining that perfect relationship with Summer.
Meanwhile, I spiraled. Hard and fast.
While Scott was living the high life, my fall from grace was fucking brutal. I dropped out junior year, too strung out to even make it to class. My parents' disappointed faces still haunt me sometimes. "We didn't raise you for this, Jenna." But I wasn't listening. I was too busy scouring campus for anyone who might have something, anything to take the edge off.
Oxys were expensive, though. My waitressing money only stretched so far, and stealing from my roommates only worked until they kicked me out. Four months after that first pill, I was shooting heroin in a bathroom at the bus station, watching my future disappear with each plunge of the needle.
I tug my sleeve down now, hiding the track marks as I watch Scott climb into his sensible sedan. Mr. Recovery. Mr. Almost Two-Years-Sober. What a fucking joke.
When he told me his wife had left him for a gaggle of gang members, I nearly laughed in his face. The universe finally giving him a taste of what he deserved. But somehow, he's still standing. Still has a job, an apartment, a life worth living.
I turn the key in my ignition, the engine sputtering before catching. My piece-of-shit car is just another reminder of how differently our paths have gone.
"But your life isn't over by a fucking long shot, Scott Adams," I whisper, watching his taillights disappear around the corner.
I've got plans for him. Big ones. First, I'm going to get that pretty little wife of his to reconnect with his old dealer. One dinner with Summer, a few carefully placed lies about how I think her hubby is back on dugs might perfectly push her away.
And this Friday night, when we're all sharing that nice Italian dinner? I'm going to spike Scott's drink with something special I've been saving. Just enough to kick-start the cravings again. Just enough to make him remember how good it feels.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I pull out of the church parking lot. The little vial in my purse seems to pulse with potential, a tiny promise of justice.
"If it's the last thing I do," I mutter to my reflection in the rearview mirror, "I swear to God I will get this fucker to relapse."