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Aiden peeked at his father, snoring on the couch beside him. He snatched the blanket from the chair where Dad had laid it that morning and draped it over him.
Then he sat again, kept watching the movie, but his mind was not on the screen.
Dad was serious this time.
He'd half-heartedly suggested rehab in the spring, more as a threat than a real possibility—"You need to quit, or you'll be looking at rehab."
Aiden hadn't taken him seriously then. He should have, though. Should have quit before the need got this big. Before it got so hard.
The visit to rehab, the talk tonight. Dad was serious.
There'd been a moment when he'd considered actually going to that place. When Dad was talking about Mom, when he told Aiden about some of the stupid stuff he did as a kid, when he told him he was proud of him.
But now, in the quiet, he knew he couldn't go to rehab. Couldn't even make it to rehab before he got high again. Because as peaceful as this place was, the truth was screaming in his mind. And he had to shut it up.
Three days sober is nothing.
You know you'll never quit.
Think of all the fun you're missing. Partying, laughing, dancing, girls. They're out there, having a blast, and you're here, doing nothing.
The voices were getting louder, more insistent, and he knew he'd listen. He'd known all along there was no chance this would work. He didn't even want to get sober. Not now, not yet. There was too much fun to be had out there. When he was an adult, then he'd get sober, get a job, be responsible. This time of life was made for fun.
He'd go home, settle into his old life. His old man would give up and go home, and either he'd let Aiden move back in on Aiden's terms, or he wouldn't. That would be fine. He'd just live with his mother. She'd let him do whatever he wanted.
Assuming she'd have him. But when Dad had filed for full custody, Mom hadn't even contested it. Just told him he'd better do what his dad said. She'd keep a bedroom for him for weekends. Except, half the time, she cancelled their weekends together.
No. She'd want him. Of course she would. He was her son.
How would she react when he showed up on her doorstep? He forced an image of her happy face, but it didn't stick. Maybe she'd send him back to his dad.
So maybe going back to New York wasn't the answer.
He didn't know, couldn't think straight, couldn't make any decisions feeling like this. The need was too big to fight.
He glanced at the clock. Eleven-thirty. That place Caro told him about closed at midnight.
Dad was still snoring quietly. Aiden lifted Dad's cell phone off the coffee table, clicked it to silent, and turned it on. He'd watched Dad put in his passcode a few times that day. He pressed the numbers, and the screen came to life.
He peeked at Dad again, stepped into the kitchen, and found the address to the Nuthouse. A long walk, but just a ten-minute drive.
Did he dare?
He looked into the living room where the images on the TV cast a bluish glow over everything. The keys were resting beside where Dad's phone had been.
Aiden pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He hadn't opened it since before the party Friday night. Did he have any money left? He checked, saw a couple of bills and his bank card. Worst case, he'd hit an ATM machine for some cash.
Would this work?
Aiden could go, get what he needed, and be back before Dad ever woke up. And if he did wake up, Aiden would just tell him he went for a drive. Dad wouldn't believe him, but whatever. Dad didn't believe anything Aiden said anymore.
He just had to get a few pills, maybe some pot. Anything to take the edge off. Then he'd figure out his next step.
Just thinking about it had his hands trembling.
He gently lifted the keys and pocketed them. Then he waited, watched his father as the seconds ticked away.
He slipped his father's phone in his pocket—that's what he got for taking Aiden's—and walked to the front door. Froze. Nope. A window would be better.
In his bedroom, he messed up his bed as if he'd been sleeping. Then he opened the window and climbed out.