Chapter 1
The steam curls off the skillet in grey ribbons, carrying the sharp, savory scent of browned ground beef and cumin into the small kitchen. I sprinkle a handful of shredded cheddar over the meat, watching it melt instantly into a yellow-orange slick.
It’s Tuesday. Taco Tuesday. For the last two months, Tuesdays have been quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator and the click of the gas burner. I lift my wrist to my nose, catching the faint, powdery trace of Jovan White Musk mixed with the sweet, floral note of Japanese cherry blossom from my lotion. It’s a ritual, the scent, a way to mark the territory of my life as mine alone.
Then, the sound cuts through the air.
Not a polite knock.
Three sharp raps, followed by a pause, then a frantic, scraping pounding against the wood.
My hand freezes over the stack of corn tortillas.
The rhythm is familiar.
It’s the knock of desperation, of a body running on fumes and adrenaline. I wipe my palms on the front of my jeans, the fabric rough against my skin, and walk toward the hallway. The floorboards creak under my weight, a sound that usually feels grounding now feels like a warning.
I don’t look through the peephole.
I know who it is.
I flip the deadbolt and turn the knob, pulling the heavy door inward just a few inches, keeping the chain lock latched. The security chain pulls tight with a metallic snap.
There he is. James stands on the welcome mat, his shoulders hunched forward like he’s trying to make himself smaller. The porch light catches the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Even before he speaks, the smell hits me. Obsession by Calvin Klein. It’s a heavy, spicy scent that used to make my stomach flip when he leaned in to kiss me.
Now, it wafts off him in waves, mixing with the sour tang of unwashed clothes and something chemical underneath. His eyes are hooded, the lids drooping low, and his head bobs slightly, a tiny, involuntary jerk of his chin before he catches himself.
“Lakelynn.” His voice cracks, dry and brittle. “Please. Open the door.”
I grip the edge of the doorframe, my knuckles turning white. I look at his face. The skin is sallow, pulled tight over his cheekbones. He looks like a ghost of the man I spent four years loving.
I remember the last time I saw him, two months ago, sitting in this exact spot, nodding off in the armchair while the TV played static. I had screamed at him then, thrown his clothes into a trash bag, and shoved him out the door. He hadn’t fought. He never does. The drugs always win, and he follows them without a backward glance.
“I’m done, James,” I say, but my voice lacks the sharp edge I want it to have. It sounds tired, even to me.
He steps closer, his hand reaching for the gap in the door, trembling. “I know. I know you are. But I’m tired, Lakelynn. I’m so tired.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I haven’t used today. I swear. I just need a shower. I need to get clean. I’ll sleep on the floor. Just let me in. Take me to recovery in the morning. I promise. First thing.”
He leans his forehead against the wood frame, eyes squeezing shut. “Please. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
I look at the hand gripping the doorjamb. The fingernails are bitten down to the quick, the cuticles ragged and red. Behind me, the silence of the apartment feels heavy. I think of the top drawer of my dresser in the bedroom. I haven’t touched it in eight weeks, but I know exactly what’s inside.
A stack of t-shirts, a pair of jeans, and some socks. I threw his drug paraphernalia in the trash, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the clothes.
It’s a pattern we have perfected over four years. He uses, he leaves, he comes back, and I hold the door open. I tell myself I’m helping, that I’m the only lifeline he has, but the knot in my stomach tells a different story. I am dumb, blinded by a love that refuses to die even when the person I love is slowly killing himself.
“I have clothes for you,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
James opens his eyes, hope flickering in the dark depths of his pupils. “You do?”
I nod, the air instantly turning thick and sour in my throat, making it hard to swallow. My brain screams at me to shut the door, to lock the deadbolt, and turn off the porch light.
It screams that this is a lie, that he will nod off in the shower and steal my purse in the morning. But my heart… my heart is playing tug-of-war, and it is pulling hard.
It sees the man I met four years ago, not the addict standing in front of me. It sees the potential, the “what if.”
“Step back,” I say.
My fingers fumble with the chain lock, the metal cold and unyielding. I slide the bolt free with a clatter and pull the door open all the way. The smell of his cologne rushes in, instantly saturating the clean air of my hallway, overpowering the scent of the tacos cooling on the counter.
James stumbles forward, not quite steady on his feet. He catches my arm, his grip weak but desperate. “Thank you,” he breathes, his face inches from mine. “Thank you. I’m going to get clean. You’ll see.”
I don’t pull away.
I let him guide me into a hug, his body thin and frail against mine. I can feel the rapid thumping of his heart, or maybe it’s mine. I close my eyes, inhaling the scent of him—musk and chemicals and memories. Behind us, the kitchen light glows warm and yellow, the tacos waiting on a plate, the promise of a normal dinner shattered by the opening of a door.
I lead him toward the bathroom, my feet heavy, knowing that tonight, the drugs didn’t win, but neither did I.
We just postponed the inevitable.
