A/N: More angst... sorry not sorry, dear readers. Evangeline is going through it right now. Please enjoy the song selection I have provided 😉

Gram presses an ice pack to my temple. I'm not bleeding, thankfully, but there is an egg-sized bruise that stings to the touch.

I can handle the headache. Hell, I would take on a million more if it meant escaping this awkward scene.

Gram hovers around me, Grandpa sits across from me, and Benson, my father and their estranged son, stands on the opposite side of the kitchen, as far away from them as possible.

My grandparents got home just in time to see me faceplant. They both ran out of the car, worry coursing through their veins as they wondered if my fall was lethal or just mildly painful. Benson, of course, did the same thing. I'm flattered that he cared so much, but my slip on the ice caused him to meet face to face with his parents, two people he hasn't spoken to in years.

Two people who have no desire to see him.

They managed to keep their composure for my sake. Their first priority was making sure that I was okay. I'm tempted to pretend my injury is worse than it actually is just to keep up this semblance of peace, but knowing Gram, she'd rush me to the hospital without a second thought.

"Can I go to bed?" I ask, eager to escape before things get ugly.

"No," the three of them say in unison.

"I'm sleepy, and my head hurts," I whine.

"Evangeline Rose Porter, you are lucky that you fell tonight, because so help me—"

"Calista, now isn't the time," Grandpa cuts his wife off, his eyes glued to me.

"She got drunk," Benson says. It's the first time he's spoken since we came inside. "She took drugs, too."

"Which drugs?" Gram demands.

"Thanks for tattling, asshole!" I shout, folding my arms over my chest.

Is this what having a big brother feels like?

"Look, it doesn't matter," I finally say, "because it was awful, and I'm never doing it again."

"That's great, sweetie, but we still need to know what you took," Gram replies, her hands on her hips.

With a reluctant sigh, I tell them what happened: about running into Nash and Fiona, about the college party, about Chase, the flirtatious drug dealer. I burst into tears when I confess how Chase came on to me, how he raised half a dozen red flags and made my skin crawl as if I were covered in insects.

For some reason, the last part seems to irk Benson the most. He insists on going back to the frat house to teach Chase a lesson.

"I want you to take a shower and then go straight to bed," Gram orders, ignoring her eldest son. "We'll talk more tomorrow, baby girl."

I nod my head as I throw myself into her arms. She's the closest thing I have to a mother, and right now, I just need her to assure me that everything's going to be alright.

"I love you, Vange," she murmurs, caressing the back of my head.

"I love you, too," I reply, sniffling.

I march upstairs, too exhausted to even bear the thought of what's about to happen between Benson and my grandparents. It's going to be a fight—a big one at that. I think that's why Gram told me to take a shower. She didn't want to risk me overhearing any of it.

I haven't forgiven Benson for what he did to my mom, or for what he's doing to Alyx's family now. However, he did come through for me tonight. When no one else picked up the phone, he answered on the second ring. He got me home safely. If not for him, I might have been dragged back to Chase's bedroom and taken advantage of.

Oh, the irony.

I obey Gram's orders, and the following morning, I feel like a person again. No hangover, no headache, nothing. It's like the events of last night never occurred.

Except they did, and I remember them with almost perfect clarity.

When I venture downstairs, I expect to see a disgruntled Gram or an uncomfortable Grandpa. Instead, I find Auntie Z—no rugrats, no Bowie, just her. She pulls me into a hug, which is odd. Auntie Z is many things, but she isn't physically affectionate. Half the time, she flinches when someone other than my uncle touches her.

"Let's go for a drive," she says.

Nodding my head, I grab my jacket and follow her outside.

We go through a drive-thru for our morning pick-me-ups. Zayna is addicted to caffeine. Uncle Bowie once told me that she can drink coffee right before bed and still sleep like the dead. Without it, she can't function in the slightest.

"Why'd you want to go for a drive?" I ask, cupping my cold hands around my caramel latte.

"Apparently, you need the drug talk," she replies with a shrug, "and I guess that's my job."

"Why on earth is it your job?"

"Probably because I used to be an addict."

I almost drop my croissant. "Wait, what? Are you serious?"

"Oh, yeah."

"You were an addict?"

"Why does that shock you?" She turns to me, her hazel eyes flickering with amusement. "I mean, I guess I'm flattered, but why is it such a surprise?"

"You seem so... put together," I respond, still flabbergasted. I never would have expected her, wife and mom extraordinaire, to be a recovering addict.

"It was a long time ago," she explains. "Before I met your uncle, way before I met you, I started using. I was hooked on pills. I stole them from my mother, which is another tale entirely. Anyway, once she took notice, I had to buy off the street. That was expensive, so I turned to heroin. It was cheaper, more attainable.

"I was dying slowly. I didn't eat. I barely slept. All I could think about was getting high. Thanks to my brother, I eventually got clean, but it wasn't easy. I found myself dependent on suboxone, which is used to treat opioid dependence. It's expensive, of course, and my insurance barely covered it, so once again, I was buying my drugs off the street.

"One day, I met up with my dealer. He told me he was fresh out of suboxone. Instead, he gave me a free bag of heroin. I took it, because I didn't know what else to do. I brought it home, and then I called your uncle, who was my boyfriend at the time. He flushed it—something I was too scared to do. He held me while I cried, and in that moment, I decided I needed to go to meetings." With wide eyes, she turns to me. "To this day, I still go to meetings. I haven't had anything stronger than Moscato in ten years, but it would be so god damn easy for me to slip up, Vange."

I shake my head, too stunned to speak. When Kira told me that Fiona was using, I wasn't shocked. My aunt, however... well, that has me speechless.

"I'm not saying one party is going to ruin your life," she goes on. "I don't mean to sound like a D.A.R.E. counselor, but you need to know the worst case scenario. It's all fun and games until you're fourteen and robbing a convenience store for drug money."

"You did that?" I gasp.

She nods her head, her eyes twinkling with embarrassment. "Not my proudest moment, but yeah."

I take a long sip of my drink before saying, "I didn't like the way the drugs made me feel. It was like I had zero control over my body. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even think straight. Trust me, Auntie Z, I'm never doing that again."

"I do trust you, Vange, but...." She trails off, shaking her head as she contemplates her words. "You've been through a lot of shit recently. No one would blame you for trying to ease the pain, but that's not the way to do it. My childhood was pure chaos. I thought pills would help, but all they did was add gasoline to the fire."

"I know, and I've learned my lesson," I reply, hoping she can hear the sincerity in my voice. My words are genuine. I understand now that putting random drugs into my body won't heal the ache in my soul.

Ironically, it's an ache caused by my father's absence, which only worsened with his presence. This situation of ours is a lose-lose. I've never had a more complicated or toxic relationship in my entire life.

So why can't I walk away?

"Auntie Z?" I whisper.

She glances at me from the driver's seat. "What's up?"

"I don't know what to do about my dad," I admit, exhaling a shaky breath. "I know what he did, and it disgusts me. Everyone warned me to stay away from him. I've seen first-hand how he acts when he's angry, but—"

"You can't let him go?" she cuts in, and I nod my head. "I've only met the guy a handful of times, and I'll admit that he gives me the creeps, but he's not my father. No one else can decide what kind of relationship you have with him."

"I shouldn't want to have any kind of relationship with him."

"Is that what everyone's telling you? That you're wrong for what you're feeling?"

I shrug my shoulders. "No. I mean, kind of. I don't know."

We drive back to my house in silence. I sip my latte absentmindedly, my thoughts consumed by Benson and the bizarre connection we share. I'm afraid of becoming him. I'm afraid of getting too close to him.

I'm afraid of losing him.

And while I battle with my psyche and my family over what to do, the only person I'm really losing is myself.

😢😢 Poor girl.

As always, thanks for reading. Don't forget to tap that little star⭐️⭐️