Way Back Home

Chapter 5

The light streaming through the blinds was too bright, slicing through the haze of my high like jagged glass. I woke with a start, another nightmare fresh in my mind, heart pounding in my chest. The reality of the past eight years was always worse than any dream, but this morning, it clung to me—like smoke.

Breathing felt heavy, my chest tight. I grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the nightstand, my hand trembling as I lit one. The sharp inhale burned my lungs, but I needed it—anything to calm the storm inside.

But it wasn't enough. The nightmares were real, fragments of the past I had spent so long running from. They weren't going anywhere.

I reached for the blunt I'd rolled earlier, the weed still sitting on my desk, and took a long drag. The relief was almost immediate, the tension slipping from my shoulders as the world softened around me. I smoked another, savoring the numbness.

By the time I made my way downstairs, I was floating—detached from everything. My head felt light, the edges of reality blurry. I just needed something to drink, something to stop my dry throat from sticking to itself. I wasn't even aware of my surroundings until I stepped into the kitchen and saw Nicolas.

Shit.

Nicolas was already there, sipping his coffee, looking every bit the lawyer he was—sharp, focused, and completely unlike me in that moment. His eyes narrowed as soon as I walked in, and before I could say anything, his nose twitched.

"You smell like weed," he said flatly.

I blinked, too high to even process the accusation. "What?"

His expression shifted from confusion to anger. "Are you serious right now, Tori? You're getting high at... what, 8 a.m.?"

I laughed, but it came out awkward, unsteady. "It's not that bad," I mumbled, but the words were slow, slurred.

Nicolas slammed his coffee cup down, the sound reverberating through my skull, cutting through my haze. "Not that bad? You can barely string a sentence together!" His voice was sharp, harsh—so unlike the calm, composed brother I was used to.

The shift in his tone hit me harder than I expected. I wasn't prepared for him to get so mad. My high didn't protect me from the reality of it. I blinked at him, suddenly feeling way too sober.

"What the hell happened to you, Tori?" His voice cracked, and I saw the hurt in his eyes. "You come back after eight years, and this is what you've become?"

The tears stung before I could stop them. My throat tightened, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. I tried to answer, but no words came. The room felt too small, too heavy, and suddenly my chest tightened further.

No. Not now.

I gripped the counter, gasping for air as panic flooded me. "Nicolas..." I rasped, my voice barely a whisper.

His eyes widened, and in an instant, his anger was replaced by alarm. "Tori, what's wrong?"

"I can't... breathe," I choked out, the world spinning around me.

"Shit—your inhaler! Where is it?" Nicolas' voice was frantic, all traces of his earlier anger gone.

"Upstairs," I wheezed, pointing weakly toward my room.

Nicolas didn't waste a second. He bolted from the kitchen, sprinting up the stairs. I could hear him tearing through my room, searching for my inhaler, but each second felt like an eternity as my lungs continued to seize, refusing to draw in air.

My vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges. I stumbled toward the wall, leaning against it as I fought to stay conscious.

When Nicolas came back, he practically shoved the inhaler into my hands. I fumbled with it, my fingers shaking too much to hold it steady. Nicolas grabbed it from me and pressed it to my lips, helping me take a puff.