Addicted To You .L.S.

Six.

Now (June)

I thought I was really to be come back, but the second we pass the Welcome To Windsor sign, I wish I could tell Marry to hit the brakes. Beg her to take me back with her.
How can I be here without Harry?
I bit my tongue. I have to do this for him. It's the only thing I can do. I stare out the window as we pass by my high school. I wonder if they decorated Harry's locker, if it'd been festooned with flowers and candles, notes tucked into corners, never to be read. I wonder if his grave is the same. Teddy bears and pictures of him, beaming up at a sky he'll never see again. I hadn't even gone to his funeral—I couldn't bear to watch them put him in the ground.

As we're turning on to my street, Marry gets a call. Manoeuvring the car into the driveway, she tucks the phone under her chin. "Where?" She listens for a second. "How long ago?" She shuts off the car, eyeing me. "Okay, I can be there in thirty."
"Someone jump bail?" I ask after she hangs up the phone. Marry's a bounty hunter, though she prefers to be called a bail recovery agent.

"Sex offender.." She frowns at the empty driveway. "I hoped your mom would be here by now."
"It's okay. I'm capable of being alone in my own house."
"No you shouldn't be alone right now."
"Go catch the bad guy." I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. "I promise I'll be fine. I'll even call as soon as mom gets home, if that makes you feel better."

Marry taps her fingers against the steering the steering wheel. She's itching to get going, to chase down that guy and put him in jail where he belongs.
I know the feeling, that drive for justice. Lots of the people in my family have it. Marry's is wrapped up in the chase, in hard and fast brutal judgement and moms is wrapped up in rules and laws and juries, the courtroom her choosing battlefield.
Mine is wrapped up in Harry, magnified by him, defined by him, existing because of him.

"Seriously, Aunt Marry. I'm seventeen, I'm clean, and I can spend sometime by myself."

She shoots me a calculating look. Then she reaches over and flips open the glove compartment. "Take this," she says, pressing a container the size of a water bottle into my hand. There's a white pulley at the top of it and a label with big red letters that say bear repellent.
"Seriously? You're giving me this?"
"It's got way better range and packs more of a punch than that pepper spray chain stuff they sell at drug store in those 'cute' little pink holders and it's even better than a taser," Marry says. "Spray them in the face with this. They'll go down." She takes the container out of my hand and points to the pulley. "Press this button at the top, move it right to unlock the mechanism. Aim and pull the trigger. Don't ever drop the can—you may need to use it again. Spray them and run. Even if your attackers incapacitated, if he's got a gun or a knife or any weapon, even blind he can do some damages. Spray, run, and don't let go of your only weapon. You got that?"
"You're actually encouraging me to use this?"

"If someone's coming at you? Absolutely." Marry says and her voice is so serious, it sends prickles down my back. "Whoever killed Harry is still out there. You're the only living witness and I'm pretty sure you're about to stir up some serious shit, so be careful."

"You're not going to stop me?" Until I say it out loud, I realise that I've been waiting for her to.
Marry's quiet for a moment. She looks me up and down, her blue eyes assessing me like she might prep. "Could I?" She asks boldly.

My hand tightens around the canister. I shake my head.
"That's what I thought." Marry tries not to smile, but I catch it before she slips back to seriousness. "Do you remember what I told you the night we decided you were ready to come back home?"
I nod. "You said I was capable of making my own decisions."
"You're not a kid anymore, Louis. You've been through too much. And though you've made some pretty bad decisions, you've made some decent ones, too. You got clean—and you stayed clean. I believe that. I believe you. And it would probably be smart to tell you to move on, that letting you Harry is the right thing to do. But I see it in you, babe, how it's going to eat you up if you don't do something. If you don't try. Just—" Her phone rings again. "Dammit," she mutter.
I take advantage of her distraction. "I'll be careful, I promise. Go." I unbuckle my seat belt and grab my bag. "Kick the perv in the balls for me."
Marry smiles. "That's my boy."

Our house hasn't changed. I don't know why I thought I'd look different. Maybe because everything else is. But the tasteful leather couches and the cherrywood table between them are still in the living room, the coffee machine in the kitchen still half-full, my father's empty mug sitting next to the sink. Jut like any other day.
I got upstairs to my room. My beds freshly made and I run my fingers over the red sheets. They're crinkled at the edges, which means mom put them on herself instead of having the once-a-week housekeeper do it.
Thinking about her struggling with them in her heals and pencil skirt, trying to make it nice for me, makes my eyes sting. I clear my throat, blinking fast, and dump the contents of my bag onto the bed before going to take a shower.

I let the water stream over my head for a long time. I need to eat the smell of rehab—lemon air freshener and cheap polyester—off me.

For three months, I've been stuck, stagnant and waiting behind white walls and therapy sessions while Harry's killer walks. It hits me all at once that I'm finally free and I jam the faucets shut. I can't stand to be inside for another second. I get dressed, leave a note on the kitchen table and lock the door behind me.

Marry was right—I'm about to stir up some serious shit. I have no idea why anyone would kill Harry. Which mean I have to be prepared for anything.
For anyone.

It's getting late. But she'll still be at the park. The good thing about growing up in a small town is that everyone knows everyone. And if you've got a routine, you're usually easy to fine.
   I walk to the park and get there as the girl playing football (soccer) are finishing up their casual game, shirts versus skins—well sports bras. The suns sinking, that dusky time where dark and light are balanced almost artificially, like an old movie, saturated with hazy colour. I watch across the street and wait until a tall, shaggy-haired blonde girl in a dingy white football jersey and baggy shorts breaks away from the group. Heading towards the bathroom, the door swings shut behind her.

It's perfect: isolated, with no where to run. So I seize the moment.
   I want to slam into the bathroom, scare the shit out of her, grind her cheek against the dirty tile with my foot until she admits the truth.
   Instead, I slip in quietly and lock the door behind me once I'm sure it's just her here.

The toilet flushes and my stomach leaps, part anger, part fear.
She doesn't see me at first, but halfway to the sink she catches sight of me in the mirror.
"Shit." She spins around.
"Hi, Kylie."
"I thought you were in rehab."
"They let me out." I step forward and when she moves away a sweet feeling rushes through me. Kylie's huge, tall and solid—more suited for basketball than football—and I like that she's scared of me even if she's just afraid that the junkie will do something crazy
(I don't care that she's a girl, she could take me anywhere anytime and honestly, she scared me a little..).

I take another step. This time she manages not to retreat. But she wants to. I can see the fear in that pretty face of hers.
Fear means guilt.
I pull the bear spray from my bag, unlocking it and raising it to her eye level as I step forward. "You remember the time Adam's brother accidentally got him in the face with bear spray? We were, what? Freshman? Maybe it was even eight year... Anyways, it's one of his favourite drinking stories. To quote Adam: 'That shit stings like a fucker'."
I tap my finger on the trigger. Kylie's tense.

"When I was in rehab, I had a lot of time to think," I say. "That's pretty much all you get to do: think about your mistakes and your problems, how to solve them. But in all that time, I never came up with the right answer to my question.
   Maybe you can help me, Kylie. Why don't we start with why you lied to the police about the night Harry died?"