Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Beginner’s luck isn’t even a real thing. I’d never heard of it.
I bragged and told CJ I was going to be a soldier, like Dad. I was nine, and I just knew. And I remember him looking at me, really looking, like I was the cool big brother he wanted to always follow around, and like I’d just hit the target on my first try (because I totally did), and he actually admired me for it.
He was proud of me for the first time ever, I could see it.
And I wanted to be a soldier more than ever when that had happened, because I always wanted my brother to look at me that way.
Then I had to completely ruin the moment by saying, “If you really want to be a cop someday, you better learn how to shoot. Like me.”
I grinned so big at him.
My arm stung for days after he punched me. I actually thought it was going to fall off, and then how was I supposed to hold a weapon now? I’m right-handed.
This was my greatest worry.
But eventually my arm quit hurting, and CJ finally hit the target, and we grew closer as we grew up.
I helped him land his first girlfriend when he was fourteen (which he’ll deny forever, but he totally used me as bait to talk to that chick at the pool that one summer when he saved me from “drowning,” even though I’d been on the swim team for years and was only floating face down because I liked to freak out the lifeguard).
He gave my first sip of his beer when I was twelve.
I covered for him when Dad found the bottle of vodka heavily diluted with water when he made himself a drink a week after CJ and his friends puked all over the deck.
I was thirteen and curious about what it tasted like. And I hated it so much, I dumped most of it out in the sink. I really only drank a little bit. I promise.
This was the lie I’d told him so my brother wouldn’t get murdered.
And later that night I really was curious, so I drank out of the new bottle until I thought I’d like the taste. I only stopped because I puked all over myself.
I never did like the taste.
CJ graduated from high school, and I smoked a blunt at his party with some kid he went to school with.
My brother kicked him out when he found us in my room and said he didn’t even like the kid all that much, but I did because weed was amazing.
I was stupid happy and hugged my big brother with everything I had. I loved him so, so much, and I couldn’t wait to start high school and graduate just like him.
CJ laughed at me and made me go to bed so our parents wouldn’t find me rolling on the floor. He stayed with me until I fell asleep. He didn’t even care about his party anymore.
He loved me that much.
He was the best big brother. And I was the best little brother. He said it more than once.
I helped him train for the police academy physical fitness test. (He fucking killed it.)
He helped me sober up before I took my SATs. (I probably would’ve done better if I had shown up drunk.)
CJ became a cop, and he chose me to pin his badge during the graduation ceremony, which was huge.
He could’ve chosen anyone, and he picked me.
I was nervous sick and really didn’t want to mess up—this was such a big deal for him—and the four beers I drank weren’t doing what I thought they would, so a buddy of mine helped me out with two white lines of magic.
My world opened up that day, and everything changed.
I was eighteen when I fell in love with cocaine.
I was eighteen when I stole from my parents, and they kicked me out of the house I’d grown up in.
I was almost nineteen when my brother (and roommate) convinced me to go to my first meeting, and I walked out within five minutes because I wasn’t like any of them. I wasn’t an addict. Why the fuck did I need to be here?
I was nineteen and a half when I overdosed and saw my father cry for the first time. It broke me in two. I stayed for an entire meeting after that.
I was twenty when I got fired from another bullshit job I didn’t really want in the first place. (Who wants to stock shelves forever? Not me.)
I was twenty when I stole pills from my grandmother’s house at Thanksgiving. (She didn’t need Vicodin anymore. Her hip was healed.)
I was twenty when I met my parents for lunch, and they wouldn’t even look at me. (They knew about the pills.)