[Jenna's POV]
My eyes flutter open, consciousness returning in painful waves as I register the cold hardwood against my cheek. Everything feels wrong, too bright, too loud, too much.
I blink, trying to focus on something, anything. My gaze lands on my arm, and my stomach drops. A shoelace is tied tightly around my bicep, the skin beneath it mottled purple and red. Next to me on the floor, a used needle glints in the harsh light.
"Fuck," I whisper, the word scraping against my raw throat.
The memories crash over me like a tsunami, calling my dealer in a moment of weakness, the rush of euphoria as the needle slid into my vein, the sweet oblivion that followed. I'd thrown it all away in one desperate moment.
"Eleven months and twelve days," I murmur to the empty room, untying the shoelace with trembling fingers. The mark it leaves behind is an ugly bracelet of shame. "So close to a year, Jenna. So fucking close."
I push myself up to sitting, my head spinning with the effort. My pink hair falls in greasy strands around my face as I survey the disaster zone of my bedroom, clothes strewn everywhere, empty takeout containers, and the small baggie that still holds enough for another few hits.
The phone's shrill ring cuts through my hazy thoughts, making me flinch. I stare at it vibrating across the floor, wondering who could possibly be calling me in this state. Probably work wondering why I didn't show up for my shift. Great.
I crawl toward it, my limbs heavy and uncooperative. When I finally grasp it, I don't even check the caller ID before swiping to answer.
"Hello?" My voice sounds like I've been gargling glass.
"Jenna?"
The familiar voice sends an electric shock through my system. Scott Adams. My chest tightens with a mix of anger and shame that's almost suffocating.
"Scott?" I manage, suddenly hyper-aware of the track marks on my arm, as if he could somehow see them through the phone. "What do you want?"
I can't believe the audacity of this man calling me now. After everything that happened at that disaster of a dinner. After I tried to ruin him but ended up poisoning some random coworker of his instead. And now here he is, reaching out when I've just thrown away nearly a year of sobriety. The irony is so bitter I could choke on it.
"Can I come over?" His voice sounds hollow, broken in a way I've never heard before.
I laugh, a harsh sound that hurts my throat. "You want to come over? Now? Are you serious?"
There's a long pause, and I hear what sounds like ragged breathing on the other end. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Please, Jenna. I don't... I don't have anyone else to talk to."
Something in his tone makes me hesitate. Through the fog of my own withdrawal, I recognize the sound of someone teetering on the edge of an abyss. I've been there too many times not to know it.
"What happened?" I ask, softening despite myself.
"Summer," he says, the single word loaded with so much pain it's almost tangible. "She's been... I can't even say it. I just need somewhere to go."
I realize with sudden clarity that this is my chance, my opportunity to get what I've always wanted. Scott is coming to me, vulnerable and broken. If he shows up and sees me like this, with my fresh track marks and the needle still on the floor... maybe I could get him using again too.
"Look, Scott," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite my racing thoughts. "You can come over, but I'm not exactly doing well either."
There's a pause on the other end of the line. "I just really can't go home right now," he says, his voice cracking. "Honestly... probably never again."
My curiosity spikes. What the fuck happened between him and that perfect blonde bitch? Whatever it was, it must have been catastrophic for Scott to sound this desperate.
"Yeah, that's fine," I tell him, already imagining the scenario. Scott walking in, seeing me, the needle on the floor. The temptation would be right there. "I'll see you in a few."
"Thanks, Jenna. I mean it."
After we hang up, I text him my address. My fingers tremble as I type, partly from withdrawal and partly from anticipation.
I stare at the baggie on my nightstand, calculating how much is left. Enough for both of us if I split it right. Maybe if he sees that I relapsed, he'll join me. We could sink into oblivion together.