Then again, maybe I’m just missing the point. Maybe it’s a me thing. I’m not the happiest chum in the world—far fucking from it—but this song is just plain sad. And not in a catchy “let me sob into my pillow and listen to sad music to make me sadder” sad, but in like an “I want to fling myself off a bridge because life is meaningless” kind of sad.

Maybe it’s a rehab thing, I think irritably.

I scribble a #cantrelate in the margin and smile tightly to myself.

There. Mason and Shawn can make of that what they will. I’ll jump on most bandwagons, but their stone-cold sobriety parade ain’t one of them. Some of us have self-control.

I shove the pen behind my ear and call it a day. Tossing the notebook somewhere behind me, it thuds as it hits the backseat of my beat-up black Challenger. I flex some of the life back into my fingers and reach over to crank up the volume on the radio.

Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun” blares from my speakers as I squint through the windshield. It’s barely noon, but it’s already pushing high nineties. I light up a cigarette, watching the cherry spark red as I cup it to my mouth, the sweet rush of nicotine burning a path down my throat.

Jamming the heel of my hand into the horn for the second time in ten minutes, I lean back, close my eyes, and blow out a cloud of smoke from my nose.

After a long morning of hauling sheetrock under the blistering sun, all I had wanted was a cold shower, and some much needed veg-time in the cool recesses of my bedroom. Maybe finally have a breakthrough with this stupid song Mason and Shawn are struggling with.

I barely got in the shower when my phone started vibrating on the bathroom counter, cutting my precious me-time by more than half.

One does not simply ignore a summons from Ivaiah McAllister. Trust me. I’ve had twenty-one long years of learning just how petty and spiteful this girl could be. It’s just not worth it.

“You’ve the patience of a saint. Truly,” a voice—more razors than ribbons—says through the open window.

Speak of the she-devil ...

I turn my head and plaster on a sunny smile. “Looking a little rough there today, dear cousin.” I flick ash out the window.

Sweaty black curls stick all over the place from the massive knot on the top of her head. Loose strands clinging to her shiny head that’s more pink than ivory today. A baggy black muscle shirt hangs from her tiny form, hiding what I hope are shorts and not underwear beneath. Her legs are bone-white beneath the ripped, black tights. And the Doc Martens that have seen better days are untied, laces pooled around her feet.