I PUNCH THE address into the GPS and begin to drive, the ETA is twenty-one minutes. I’ve never been to the bad side of Asbury, but I have a sinking feeling I’m driving straight into the heart of darkness.
I travel into Asbury Park following the robotic voice’s commands. The buildings are all spray painted and worn, the sidewalks covered with debris and the shady looking characters hanging out on the street corners are eyeing up the white girl driving the Bimmer. If Emily’s car gets jacked, she’ll decapitate me. I double-check to make sure the doors are locked as I pull down a little side road with dilapidated houses, chain-link fences, and barking dogs. The GPS tells me I have arrived at my destination, a two-story house with dirty siding, and a few boarded-up windows. Just looking at it turns my insides arctic.
I park across the street and cut the engine, but I don’t get out of the car right away. I need to mentally prepare myself for what’s inside. I’ve never known a full-fledged drug addict. I’ve known people who do drugs, but this, here, is on a whole nother level.
I can’t stop myself from picturing Ryan, sitting alone in a concrete jail cell with his entire future on the line. While Sean roams around free—insolent and blameless.
It’s eating me alive.
I eventually get out of the car, wishing I was armed with a fully-loaded semi as I walk up to the decaying house, climb the front steps, and then knock on the door. Timidly at first, then a little harder. I wait, and then knock again, the dried paint crumbling under my knuckles. Finally, the door cracks open, and I catch a glimpse of a man with a thick beard and grungy clothes.
“What?” he croaks.
“I’m looking for Sean Pierce,” I announce with a shaky voice.
“Who?”
“Sean Pierce,” I enunciate.
The strung-out guy eyes me over. “You looking to score?”
My heartbeat ceases to exist.
“Yeah, a friend told me where I could find him.”
There are so many pretenses in that sentence.
The door swings open, and I hesitate for a split-second before I walk in. I’m so jittery I must have convinced him I needed a fix.
The inside of the house is disgusting. Garbage is littered all over the floor, dingy people are lying on dirty blankets and filthy pillows, and it smells like burnt hair. As I walk cautiously through the living room, everyone gawks at me with vacant eyes—phantom beings who look like the life has been wrung right out of them. I wrap my arms around myself as I follow grungy beard guy through the house. He stops in a doorway adjacent to the kitchen. “He’s all yours.” He motions with his hand then shuffles away.
This whole experience seems surreal; a ghostly dream stemming from a deep-dark reality.
I walk through the entryway and nearly puke from what I find. Sean is passed out on a soiled mattress. His face is sucked out, and his body is thin. He looks almost dead. I inch slowly into the ice-cold room and stand over him. I don’t understand it. Addiction. The pull or the control, the want or the need. I don’t understand how this beautiful boy can be lying there so far gone and still look as innocent as a child. Staring at Sean, I think about what he said at Culture, how he’s afraid Ryan will end up like him. An addict? Or just hopeless and alone. Seeing him now, I’m sure I’d die before I let Ryan, or anyone else I loved, end up like this.
I also realize Sean’s not insolent or blameless, he’s trapped. And it whisks a welter of emotions inside me.
I don’t know how long I wait—minutes, hours, days, maybe—for Sean to wake up, and just when I think I can no longer take the frigid temperature or the heartrending scene in front of me, he stirs. Moaning softly, he shifts on the mattress as if trying to remember how to use his limbs. I just stand there statically, watching him come back to life. Finally, he flutters his eyelids open and takes in a deep breath. He looks around a little disoriented, like he’s not sure where he is, then his eyes fall on me. They’re bloodshot and hollow, with dark purple rings painted around them.
“Alana?” he croaks, staring at me vacantly, trying to decipher if I’m a mirage or truly flesh and blood.
“Sean?” I echo. My body goes numb, and it has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. He looks like a blood-starved vampire.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he bites, the question rippling with so many emotions–fear, concern, terror, dread.
“You need to come with me,” I demand, not wasting a minute with small talk.
“For what?” He drags himself to his feet, straightens his sweatshirt, pulls at his baggy pants, then yanks his hood over his head.
“Don’t play dumb. Ryan’s in jail, they rejected his deal.”
Sean begins to pace the small room like a caged cat. Back and forth and back and forth, agitated and uptight. “I can’t, Alana, I’m sorry.”
I step toward him cautiously. “Sean, listen to me. Ryan needs you—”
“No, Alana.” He snaps his head up, and I see so much confliction in his sunken eyes.
“Sean, don’t abandon him,” I plead earnestly, careful not to spook him. “He’s already given up his future for you, now you’re asking him to give up his life.”
Sean takes one slow, tentative step toward the door. “I’m so sorry, Alana.” His voice strains with such intense grief, it strikes my chest like a bolt of lightning, shattering my heart.
“Sean . . .” I tremble fearfully, circling around him.
“For what it’s worth,” he adds quickly and solemnly, “I never thought you were going to hurt Ryan, you really are the only one who’s ever loved him right.” Sean’s words rattle me straight to the core, because they sound like a goodbye. Then he bolts.
Damn it.
I dart after him through the long, narrow kitchen and out the back door where the sun is setting like a dying fireball behind dull, ashy clouds. He’s so goddamn fast, maneuvering effortlessly through the backyard that’s scattered with old tires and junk. He scales the six-foot, chain-link fence at the back end of the property, and I know then that I’ve lost him.
“Sean!” I shout slapping the fence with my palms, the links jingling and clinking. “Sean, come back!”
But he quickly disappears out of sight.
“Shit!” I scream, shaking the fence furiously.
Hopeless and defeated, I sink down onto the cold hard ground, and all I want to do is fucking cry.
I drive back to my uncle’s house in a daze. All I keep seeing are Sean’s dull, distressed eyes. They may be the same shape and color as Ryan’s, but they’re nowhere near alike. Sean’s eyes are haunted, dim and void of any light.
I pull into the driveway, a red and purple stone path that leads up to the massive brick house. I park Emily’s car next to my uncle’s black Mercedes SUV and stare straight ahead.
I step out of the car and into the frosty, January evening. It smells like snow and the temperature is so low it’s cutting right through my clothes.
I walk sluggishly to the front door, but stop when I get to the stairs. I sink like a stone, dropping my head into my hands, shivering in the cold. That’s when the snowflakes begin to fall . . . big, wet crystals that shower heavily out of the sky. I look up, allowing them to hit my face, flooding my eyes with the tears I can’t cry. I try to force the emotions out, but the swell just won’t come. Soon, my clothes are wet, and my hair is covered in sparkling flakes, but I just can’t bring myself to move.
“Alana?” My uncle’s voice beckons from behind me. I turn around, cold and wet with snow dotting my face. “What are you doing out here, honey?”
“Trying to cry.”
“What? Why?” He grabs two jackets and comes outside to sit next to me. He throws a big, puffy coat around me, before snuggling up beside me, the snow pelting down harder and harder.
“Because I can’t. I haven’t cried since that Christmas Mom died. And all I want is to feel better, but I can’t cry.” I wipe some crystals away from my cheek with my sleeve.
My uncle extends a contrite expression. “Alana, do you know why you can’t cry?”
I shake my head.
“Because you’re too strong.”
“I’m not strong,” I dispute. “I couldn’t even help Ryan.”
“That’s not true,” he argues.
“Yes, it is.” I sniff.
“You’re helping him by being there for him.”
“It’s not enough. The only way I could truly help him is if I could have convinced Sean to help him.”
“You found Sean?” My uncle perks up.
“Sort of.” I pull out the now-damp piece of paper from my pocket with the address on it. “He ran when I confronted him.”
My uncle takes the piece of paper and glances down at the address. “Alana, this is one of the worst neighborhoods in Asbury.” He frowns.
“I’m a total bad-ass,” I slur dejectedly.
“Dumb-ass, maybe,” he grunts. “But it does establish one thing.”
“What’s that?” I question.
“Truth. Whether you believe it or not, you’re strong.”
I gaze up at my uncle with chattering teeth and woeful eyes. “Uncle John.” I’m dire. “I’m really tired of being strong.”
“I know, honey.” He wraps me in one of his strong arms, and I sag against his broad chest. “But I’m going to help.”
“How?” I whimper.
“I’ll put in a call to the sheriff’s department. I’ll tell them I got a tip on Sean’s whereabouts. I’ll drop Judge Reynolds’ name, too. They’ll sniff him out.”
“You think?” I raise my head, hopefully.
“I know.” He grins.
“What if they don’t find him by next Thursday?” I bite my bottom lip.
My uncle shrugs. “What all good lawyers do. We’ll appeal.”