Page 25 of Truck Up

I stiffen next to Aaron, and he notices. I feel his eyes on me. “Come on, Lia,” he says as he wraps his arm around myshoulder. “Let’s get you back to the table. Get some food in you. I think your sugar level has dropped.”

It’s a lie. I can hear it in his tone. He sees how uncomfortable I am around Badger, and it feels like a blessing. Linden can’t see it. He refuses to understand why I reject Badger. He loves his friend and thinks he can do no wrong. If he only knew.

He wouldn’t believe me if I told him.

But Aaron picked up on something just now, so there’s hope I can end this nightmare soon.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right,” I say, not ready to speak my truth.

I let Aaron lead me back to the kitchen, leaving Linden and Badger alone. But I can still hear them talking.

“Sorry, man,” Linden says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I think Mom spoiled her too much.”

“It’s okay.” Badger sounds defeated, and it feeds my anger. This is why my family loves him so much. He’s such a great actor. “Maybe one day she’ll see how I feel about her.”

“Let’s hope.” Linden says. “Give her time. She’ll come around.”

I can’t stop the growl that comes out of me, and it makes Aaron laugh.

“You’re never going to come around where he’s concerned, are you?” he asks.

“Nope, not in this lifetime or the next.”

Chapter 6

Some kind of freak show.

Christian

The stares burn through me, making my skin crawl. A few people have the decency to avert their eyes, pretending I’m not even here. I almost applaud their effort. Most, however, have no shame, their rudeness blatant and unapologetic.

I can’t go anywhere in this small town, except maybe Posey’s Lounge, without attracting the same treatment—the stares, the glares, the whispers.

I should be used to it. The people of Beaver, Ohio, have always been this way. Even before my addiction, they stared. Secrets don’t exist here. Everyone knows my mother and the damage she’s done.

My brothers endure their share of stares and unwanted pity, but not to the same extent as me. They’ve built decent lives for themselves, mostly staying clean, unlike me.

Perhaps I deserve it, considering my mistakes and transgressions. I’ve followed in my mother’s footsteps, a chilling echo of her own descent. Despite the excuses my twin, Chase, makes for me, and the anger he still feels towards our mother, she didn’t force me into this life. I chose this path freely.

Granted, Mom encouraged it. She’s a terrible person for what she’s done. But ultimately, she didn’t force me. I did this to myself.

I’ll never forget the first time she offered me cocaine. I was twelve, lost in a sea of depression, a legacy inherited from her. She claimed drugs made her feel better than any doctor’s prescription.

Nothing, however, makes her truly happy. Only a hit can offer that fleeting, illusory sense of well-being.

She saw me struggling, mirroring her own pain, and offered me a way out.

“It’ll make you forget your worries,” she promised, her voice laced with a seductive allure.

“You’ll sleep better than you ever have,” she insisted, her eyes gleaming with an unhealthy light.

“Your troubles and depression will fade away,” she declared, her words a siren song.

“You’ll feel nothing but peace,” she promised, that single hit the key to an elusive tranquility.

I knew what it meant even before that first hit. I knew it would destroy me. But the allure of her promises was too strong. I craved the escape she offered.

She was right about some things. I slept, I didn’t worry, and my depression receded, dulled by the intoxicating haze. But peace? Drugs never brought me peace. Only a chaotic, destructive spiral.