Please understand, Julie, it wasn’t the drugs.
It was smoking cornsilk with the older boys my mom punished me for seeing.
It was the gleam in Carlos’s eyes when he palmed me a dime bag when I was fifteen. He was so cool, and I’d known him forever, and he’d never spoken to me before.
It was Trey, and his magnetic confidence, and the thrill of carrying in my insurance briefcase, and in the trunk of my boring car.
It was wildness, freedom, camaraderie, love.
All of it worth so much less than your love.
Just—it wasn’t the drugs.