Of course I did. But it was always on my terms—I couldn’t let her get far enough away from me in a closed treatment program.
Me: You blame yourself.
Gavin: Yes. I kept her close to help my music, and that kept her close enough to the lifestyle. She decided she wanted drugs and their dealers more than she wanted me.
Me: You can’t let the guilt eat you up, Gavin. You tried to save her. Some people just don’t want to be saved. What happened with the reporter? Did he ever write the story?
Gavin: No. But I keep wishing he’d ask me again. Like, I’d just run into him in Nairobi and he’d ask me if I was responsible for Lulu’s death, and I could finally say yes.
Me: Yes?
Gavin: When treatment didn’t work, I got her the drugs.
Me: You did? What the fuck, Gavin?
I feel my heart racing, panicked. I was almost ready to forgive Gavin for all of his other selfish, slovenly behavior, and all the shit he left me to clean up. But to think he was responsible for Lulu’s death—I’m not sure anyone can be forgiven for that.
Gavin: Don’t you dare judge me. You have no idea what it’s like to watch the person you love killing themselves, little by little, every day.
Me: So it’s suddenly OK to enable them? Hand them a time bomb and walk away? She was an addict!
Gavin: I thought that was the only way to keep her safe—off the street, away from dealers who took advantage of her.
Me: Or maybe it’s just like you said—you needed her to help your music.
She needed a hero, and you took advantage of her.
I’m seething as I type. I want an explanation, something that will reconcile his unforgivable actions. But as my eyes flash over our chat, I see that he’s given me the explanation and it’s an ugly truth.
He’s not the hero. He’s the villain. Maybe his self-imposed exile is not too harsh a penalty. Maybe he deserves it.
I wait, my heart begging him to type something to redeem himself. But I get nothing. His green bubble goes gray.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I won’t take no for an answer. You get the most badass little black dress you can find and fuck-me shoes, and be ready by nine.”
Stella’s on a mission. Blayde is history and she firmly believes that the best way to get over one man is to get under another. She says I’ll feel a million times better about the breakup with Jeff once I see who else is on the market.
“You’re freaking me out,” I say. “Who owns fuck-me shoes? Other than strippers and prostitutes?”
“Every woman needs a pair, honey,” she drawls. “They’re like a giant neon sign for guys that says, ‘Hey cowboy, tonight’s your lucky night!’”
I run my hands through my hair and go to my closet. Bumpkin Fashion’s not gonna cut it for the dance club Stella has in mind. I head to the other guest room, where Lulu’s clothes lie on the bed.
They’re begging me to take them.
“I think I might have something,” I say, fingering a short black dress with a silver chain detail in the front. “But we’d better put comfortable fuck-me shoes on my shopping list for next time. I’ve got to be able to dance in them.”
“Once you’ve had a few drinks, you won’t be able to feel your feet,” Stella says. “That’s my secret.”
I suppress a snort. In college, Stella’s drinking wasn’t a secret—it was more like a public address. The frat boys loved her antics and sometimes I tagged along.
“So how are we going to get there? On the subway?”
“The train . New Yorkers call it the train.”
“Sorry.” I’m still learning the lingo, but at least I know Houston Street isn’t pronounced like the city in Texas. “The train. Or do you want to take a cab?”
“Tell you what. I’ll bring my stuff over and we’ll get ready at your place. I’ll do your hair.”
I’m sure Stella’s far more into seeing Gavin’s apartment than giving me a beauty consultation, but I hear myself agreeing. My thick, curly hair takes forever to tame, especially if I
Me: You blame yourself.
Gavin: Yes. I kept her close to help my music, and that kept her close enough to the lifestyle. She decided she wanted drugs and their dealers more than she wanted me.
Me: You can’t let the guilt eat you up, Gavin. You tried to save her. Some people just don’t want to be saved. What happened with the reporter? Did he ever write the story?
Gavin: No. But I keep wishing he’d ask me again. Like, I’d just run into him in Nairobi and he’d ask me if I was responsible for Lulu’s death, and I could finally say yes.
Me: Yes?
Gavin: When treatment didn’t work, I got her the drugs.
Me: You did? What the fuck, Gavin?
I feel my heart racing, panicked. I was almost ready to forgive Gavin for all of his other selfish, slovenly behavior, and all the shit he left me to clean up. But to think he was responsible for Lulu’s death—I’m not sure anyone can be forgiven for that.
Gavin: Don’t you dare judge me. You have no idea what it’s like to watch the person you love killing themselves, little by little, every day.
Me: So it’s suddenly OK to enable them? Hand them a time bomb and walk away? She was an addict!
Gavin: I thought that was the only way to keep her safe—off the street, away from dealers who took advantage of her.
Me: Or maybe it’s just like you said—you needed her to help your music.
She needed a hero, and you took advantage of her.
I’m seething as I type. I want an explanation, something that will reconcile his unforgivable actions. But as my eyes flash over our chat, I see that he’s given me the explanation and it’s an ugly truth.
He’s not the hero. He’s the villain. Maybe his self-imposed exile is not too harsh a penalty. Maybe he deserves it.
I wait, my heart begging him to type something to redeem himself. But I get nothing. His green bubble goes gray.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I won’t take no for an answer. You get the most badass little black dress you can find and fuck-me shoes, and be ready by nine.”
Stella’s on a mission. Blayde is history and she firmly believes that the best way to get over one man is to get under another. She says I’ll feel a million times better about the breakup with Jeff once I see who else is on the market.
“You’re freaking me out,” I say. “Who owns fuck-me shoes? Other than strippers and prostitutes?”
“Every woman needs a pair, honey,” she drawls. “They’re like a giant neon sign for guys that says, ‘Hey cowboy, tonight’s your lucky night!’”
I run my hands through my hair and go to my closet. Bumpkin Fashion’s not gonna cut it for the dance club Stella has in mind. I head to the other guest room, where Lulu’s clothes lie on the bed.
They’re begging me to take them.
“I think I might have something,” I say, fingering a short black dress with a silver chain detail in the front. “But we’d better put comfortable fuck-me shoes on my shopping list for next time. I’ve got to be able to dance in them.”
“Once you’ve had a few drinks, you won’t be able to feel your feet,” Stella says. “That’s my secret.”
I suppress a snort. In college, Stella’s drinking wasn’t a secret—it was more like a public address. The frat boys loved her antics and sometimes I tagged along.
“So how are we going to get there? On the subway?”
“The train . New Yorkers call it the train.”
“Sorry.” I’m still learning the lingo, but at least I know Houston Street isn’t pronounced like the city in Texas. “The train. Or do you want to take a cab?”
“Tell you what. I’ll bring my stuff over and we’ll get ready at your place. I’ll do your hair.”
I’m sure Stella’s far more into seeing Gavin’s apartment than giving me a beauty consultation, but I hear myself agreeing. My thick, curly hair takes forever to tame, especially if I
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