White Space Season 1

knuckles beating down a wall with an open door? Jon can take care of her.
    You should take care of yourself.
    Cassidy’s ears started to ring.
    FUCK.
    The engine of her self-loathing was starting to purr.
    Cassidy already knew exactly what she was going to do.
    After Viv arrived, she leaned across the hospital bed, kissed Emma on the forehead, then neatly readjusted her body, softly against the pillows. She thanked her mom for coming and then left the hospital, thinking about everything from Jon to her pills waiting.
    Even if Jon came to claim Emma tomorrow, no one could take their nine years together away. Cassidy would have their history forever. She knew her niece up and down and inside out. It would take Jon years to understand a fraction of her, let alone know how much she liked spaghetti tacos.
    Cassidy hit the bottom of the hill and turned left.
    Maybe Jon wouldn’t want to take her. A child isn’t exactly an easy accessory for someone wearing Jon’s particular brand of lifestyle. She asked herself for the millionth time what Sarah would have wanted, then reminded herself that her sister’s preference didn’t really matter at all. Not when there was reality to deal with.
    What does Emma want or need?
    The question filled her with an aching nausea.
    Cassidy wanted to pull over, roll down the window, and throw up — evacuate the rising bile inside her.
    There are better ways to beat the pain.
    Six more minutes.
    Cassidy didn’t want to think about what Sarah would have wanted, and hated that she had to. Fuck Sarah. I did my part. I’ve been the good aunt. It’s time for me to live my life! She thought back to all the Fridays she’d come over to spend movie night with Emma and Sarah – pretty much any Friday when she wasn’t scheduled at Shipwrecked — then imagined how many of those times the girl had fallen asleep on her chest.
    She would scoop Emma into her arms, then carry her to the bedroom, each time wondering how much longer she’d be able to manage before her niece finally grew too heavy. She had carried her twice in the last week, and didn’t think her arms would make it another year.
    Cassidy imagined Jon scooping Emma in his strong arms, like she was nothing. Cassidy’s imagination lingered longer as she pictured Jon slipping Emma under her sheets, then pulling the covers up to her chin in her brand new bed — a big white four poster, with princess pinks and wintery whites. Hell, there was probably a stable of horses and ponies on the back of his property.
    Jon would cover Emma, kiss her on the cheek, then turn to Cassidy and smile.
    Ha! You and Jon Conway? That’s ripe with hi-larity. Even I can’t help you there.
    Her Addict was an asshole.
    But tonight belonged to the Addict.
    Cassidy pulled into the driveway of Viv’s house, opened the door, then ran up the stairs and into the bedroom, tapping two pills from bottle to palm just 30 seconds after killing the engine. She decided she didn’t feel like driving home.
    She looked at the ceiling, dropped the pair of pills into her mouth, then swallowed. It used to be one pill. Now it was two. Soon, she’d need three, four, and more to achieve the same feeling. That’s when things could get ugly.
    She told herself she’d stop before she needed three pills. If she could manage to do that, she’d be fine, thank you very much.
    Cassidy crawled into the bed, closed her eyes, and waited for the pills to work their magic.
    Her anxiety melted like snow under sun.
    The air in her lungs turned cotton candy warm beneath the blanket.
    Pain turned to pleasure; rolling waves in wake of nirvana.
    See, I told you.
    The ringing which had started in the hospital, was still in her ears just a few minutes before, but was quickly fading to a soft, relaxing hum.
    She wanted nothing.
    Her escape was nearly complete.
    This was exactly what she had been waiting for.
    Cassidy swam through ripples of silence.
    Her hands curled into fists, slowly but happily clapping beneath her chin as she lay in a closed apostrophe, diagonally across on the bed.
    She was deep in her nothing, seconds from drifting deeper, and then quickly into sleep, when her ringing phone killed the thundering quiet.
    FUCK!
    The screen said “Jon Conway.”
    Of course.
    “Hello?”
    “Hey, Cass,” he said, or slurred. “You home?”
    “You’re calling me, aren’t ya?”
    A second of silence, then, “Yeah, but this is your cell, right?” Jon sounded genuinely confused.
    Cassidy