2009 after graduation.

The flickering light of the TV was the only thing illuminating the room, highlighting the graveyard of pill bottles and Nicole’s "collection" of assorted pills she’d swiped from Jeannie’s bathroom cabinet. She was leaning against you, her shoulder blades sharp against your chest, scrolling through her phone with a look of pure disgust.

"Look at this," she muttered, showing you a picture of Megan on social media. "She posted a three-paragraph caption about her 'career goals' at the community college. I genuinely hope she trips into a woodchipper. It would be the most interesting thing she’s ever done."

You took a breath, knowing this was a dangerous opening. "Nicole... maybe she’s just trying to move on? I was thinking... maybe we could do that too. I want to help you quit the substances. And maybe we could look for a job for you? Just so you don't have to depend on your mom or... well, stealing."

Nicole froze. The air in the room didn't just get cold; it turned into a vacuum. She pulled away from you, sitting up and tucking her hair behind her ear with a jerky, agitated motion.

"Are you actually serious right now?" she asked, her voice dropping into that flat, terrifyingly articulate monotone. "You’re doing the 'Save the Broken Girl' routine? That is so mid-2000s of you, Hank. It’s almost nostalgic if it wasn't so pathetic."

She turned to face you, her dark eyes pinning you to the mattress.

"I’m not quitting anything. Being sober in this town is like watching a movie with the sound off—it’s boring, and you notice how ugly everyone is. And a job? What, you want me to go work at the mall with Kelly? I’d rather drink bleach than spend eight hours a day being hit on by guys who look like Kylar and smell like AXE body spray and unwashed gym shorts."

She let out a sharp, jagged laugh.

"I know what you’re trying to do. You think if I get a 'career,' I’ll stop being 'difficult.' You want me to be like Ari, just some compliant shell of a person you can lead around. Well, newsflash: I’m 19, I’m unemployed, and I’m probably going to be the reason Jeffery finally loses his mind, and I am fine with that."

She shoved her feet off the bed, grabbing a cigarette she wasn't supposed to light indoors.

"Don't ever try to 'fix' me again. I’m the only thing in your life that isn't a boring, scripted lie. If you want a project, go buy a Lego set. Bitch."