There’ll be a story about this car accident for Flat Earth Theory, but it’s one I could never write. I’m too close to this. I think about Callie and Ivy again, the party at my house, the things Ivy said when she was high. There’s something about getting high that I love. I should say loved. I don’t do it anymore. I was about fourteen when I first got into all that, started being the guy at every party. I was younger than most of them, but I’ve always looked older than I am. One party sticks in my head. A bunch of seniors, drinking, some college guys. I got myself a beer and worked on getting fucked up. Two beers, three, four. A few shots. I was staggering drunk. Then I took a pill, began rushing. I was feeling great until I saw my birth-mom. At the party. Holding hands with an older guy, deep in conversation. She saw me as I saw her. The moment that changes your life. Changed mine. It was the look in her eyes—sure there was shame, guilt, anger, remorse—but the biggest emotion I read on her face was resignation.
