Page 166 of Becoming Us

She dragged a chair over and sat down directly in front of me. When our eyes met again, hers were glassy with tears, and it hit me like a punch to the gut. Guilt sliced through the fog, and my gaze dropped instantly.

“One of the people at the party called 911,” she said. “They called me as soon as you got here.”

I frowned. “Why?” My voice cracked, dry and hoarse.

“Do you not remember what you did last night?” The edge in her tone had returned.

“I remember,” I said, not planning to elaborate.

She reached forward, gripped my chin, and forced me to meet her eyes. Her expression shifted too quickly to read—grief, panic, fury, all swirling together. “How could you do it?”

My stomach turned. I shook my head.

“You know exactly what you did, Noah. I can see it in your face. How could you do that? After your father? How could you do that to us?”

I pulled away, turned onto my back, and stared up at the ceiling.

How the hell was I supposed to answer that?

I’m so broken the pieces are impossible to glue back together into anything resembling a person, so I fucking quit before I lost an eye over it?

“Just tired,” I mumbled.

“What?”

I shut my eyes. “I was just tired.”

There was a long pause, weighted with everything left unsaid. I could feel it hanging between us.

“Tired of what?” It was the way she said it. Not gently. Not kindly. It was an accusation wrapped in a question.

I shrugged.

“I went by your apartment—if you can even call it that—to get your things,” she said flatly. “A little while ago.”

Shit.

“Do you know what I found?”

I could only imagine.

“Bottles everywhere. A couple of people still passed out on that couch. And enough drugs on your bedside table to knock out half the city.”

I didn’t look at her. My eyes stayed fixed on the fluorescent lights above me.

“So what exactly are you tired of, Noah? Doing whatever you want?” She kept going. “Partying too hard? Being spoiled? What the fuck do you have to be tired of?”

The lights were flickering. Not constantly—just enough to catch my attention. Just enough to keep me counting.

Flicker. One, two, three. Flicker. One, two. Flicker.

“You’re lucky you didn’t have enough pills. You have everything in life going for you, and you just throw it all away.”

Flicker. One, two, three, four. Flicker. One, two, three.

“You’re lucky I can’t have you declared legally incompetent. Maybe then you’d be forced to face how ridiculous this overindulgence is.”

Flicker—