Page 17 of Beautiful Trauma

As he made his way to my middle bunk, he chatted away. “I’ve been thinking about this the whole time we’ve been on the road.” He crawled under the blanket with me.

“Obviously, we reconnected. The end,” I tried.

“Nope. I want all the gory details. Make it like a spicy book.” He waggled his eyebrows.

I snorted. “You’re the worst.”

Then:

It happened the way you would expect from the two of us. Dramatically. There was never anything half-assed about us. We were all in, or all out.

Having been back in town for a couple of weeks, I had met up with various old friends, none of whom were Eli. At that point, I didn’t know where he was, and I didn’t want to ask about him, because that would imply I cared, and caring was against my family motto. But a concerned friend pulled me aside at a party and told me what I needed to hear.

She saw Eli not too long before, and he wasn’t doing well. She heard from some mutual friends he had taken up heroin. Knowing she would see me, she found out where he was staying, but that was about it.

That motherfucker.

I sat on the information for a day or two, wondering what to do. I blamed myself for our estrangement but was angry with him for doing things we promised we wouldn’t. The three years we were apart had been eating away at me even before I knew about this reckless behavior. My guts churned with the thought that he may overdose at any time, and I sat there doing nothing.

Like I mentioned, we’d lost several friends to addiction over the years. I was well aware of the fact he had to want to quit using to be successful, and I was just as aware that if he didn’t, he would die.

And I couldn’t handle the thought of him dying.

When I thought about it, I wanted to die myself. It made little sense, since we hadn’t been in contact for years, but knowing that he was at that point… I felt responsible.

Would he have gotten this bad if I stayed around? If I just reached out years ago? Kept in touch?

I knew the unknown would eat me alive.

So, I came up with the stupidest fucking idea I’d ever had.

Ten

Now:

“Oh my god, did you show up on his doorstep in nothing but a trench coat?” Sergio interrupted with wide eyes.

I scrunched my face with confusion. “No! What about that made you think I was just going to show up naked? How does that help this situation?”

“Tits always help, bestie. You’ve got some nice ones.” He gave me a sidelong look.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re a pig, and I’m not your bestie. Are you listening to this story or are you leaving me alone to go to sleep?”

He huffed, “Listening.”

Then:

Two days later, I was knocking on the door to his apartment with his cousin as my escort. Eli opened the door and looked at both of us. “Why the fuck would you bring that bitch here?” he spat. He looked awful with dark circles under his eyes and at least twenty pounds lighter than he was the last time I’d seen him.

I remember as I walked in the door with sweaty palms, I tried to look calm, even if I knew he’d see through my façade. At one time, he knew me better than I knew myself. Honestly, at that point I hardly knew myself at all.

I jumped at the sound of his cousin closing the door, leaving us alone to argue.

The whole day was such a blur. I remember the entire apartment smelled like cigarettes. As we approached the kitchen, I noticed the various signs of apathy. There were dirty dishes in the sink, a bottle of pills on the counter, and various takeout containers strewn about. He wore blue basketball shorts and a white t-shirt, a beer bottle casually slung in his lazy grip. I don’t recall exactly what he was saying as he paced the kitchen, just that he was yelling about how I had no right to show up on his doorstep after three years and expect him to just welcome me.

I lit a joint, hoping it would help my building anxiety while I waited for him to stop yelling. He didn’t. “You disappear for years and just walk in here like you have a place in my life? You don’t.”

“I just need to talk to you.” I spoke in a neutral tone of voice for as long as I could, but quickly escalated to yelling back at him. I remember the conversation, though maybe not chronologically. The whole incident feels more like a fever dream than something that actually happened. I know that I’m missing parts of the interaction because, according to him, I was there for hours. But in my memory, it feels like it happened so quickly.