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want?” The room is getting clearer now and I’m kind of pissed at how much Joe is interfering with my buzz. I have an uncontrollable urge to uppercut him, but my hands don’t want to make fists quite yet.
    â€œYou’re a brat. You don’t know the first thing about this program. Plus you showed up here high. I’m not signing your card.”
    I snatch it from him and move to leave. I don’t need this crap. I’ll have to go to the six thirty a.m. meeting tomorrow to make up for it, but whatever. I’m done listening to Joe.
    â€œNatalie,” he calls as I stomp out.
    â€œWhat?” I glare and almost expect him to laugh in my face, but instead his gaze softens.
    â€œYou think I haven’t been there? You think I haven’t done everything I could to make it all go away? Tylenol with codeine? That’s nothing. Try nail polish remover. There’s alcohol in that, you know. Cough syrup. Mouth wash. Windex, for Christ’s sake. You think you’re badass. You’re what, seventeen? You have no idea how low you can sink from this disease. You’re lucky you caught it so early.”
    I’m stunned silent. I can’t imagine. Windex? Surely that could kill you.
    â€œI’m not your problem,” I whisper.
    He nods. “Yeah. Still.” He approaches me slowly, tugging his wallet from his back pocket. He slips out a card. “That’s me. Cell phone’s on the back. Call if you need help. There’s a woman’s group at St. Paul’s Church on Friday nights. You can probably find a sponsor there. Until then, call me if you start thinking Tylenol’s a good idea again.”

Chapter
Six
    I get home and go right to bed. Sleep through dinner. Wake up so dehydrated my skin feels like it’s going to crack off. It’s five o’clock in the frickin’ morning and even though I feel like complete crap, all I can think about is how a quick swig of vodka would do me a world of good right now.
    I drag myself out of bed, and because no one’s up yet, I drop down and do a hundred sit-ups and push-ups. I’m completely winded by the time I’m done, but at least I did them. So some of the me from long ago is still in there somewhere. I consider heading downstairs to our workout room, having a go at the punching bag, but I can’t. The idea of it is too defeating, and opening the door to that means stirring up a whole mess of other crap I don’t want to deal with. Instead I stand under the shower way too long, moving my hands over my ribs, my hips, my stomach. I keep my mind intentionally blank, refusing to think of all the things my body’s been through.
    Then I straighten my hair, which takes forever, and pick out clothes that hide my newly increasing ass. Maybe chemo patient skinny wasn’t so bad. I stare at the homework I didn’t do last night and decide I’m still not in any kind of shape to pull that off. I’ll have to go to the nurse during American history. Instead I boot up my computer and block Brent from all social media. I’ve got to move forward if I’m going to make it through these next six months, not get waylaid by a bunch of “we should talk” pleas from that handsy fucker.
    By the time I head down for breakfast, I’m at least at 50 percent, which all things considered is a goddamn miracle. Mom is at the stove, making chocolate chip pancakes. Our kitchen is massive, with stainless steel appliances and marble countertops. It opens into both the living room and the dining room, the perfect hub for a house built to host banker dickheads and their insipid wives.
    We used to have parties for Dad’s work clients all the time. I had my first drink when I was eleven at one of their parties. Usually the holiday season means different “couple” friends at our house every Saturday, Dad telling boring work stories and Mom flitting about making sure everyone’s