White Space Season 2

Roxanne “moaning like the Loch Ness Monster.” It was bad enough that everyone on Hamilton Island knew everyone’s business, it was worse when you worked with people you slept with, and everyone knew.
    Lewis was also a dealer, though she’d never bought from him, specifically because he was friends with the owner Tom and she didn’t want to risk her job for the sake of convenient drugs. Cassidy figured Tom was probably even a client of Lewis’, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Shipwrecked was a shit job, in a shit place, but the money was decent on most nights, definitely better than an uneducated addict could expect to make if she were to just pick up and leave.
    “I need two Amstels,” said the newest waitress, Tiff, a 23-year-old blonde with a nose ring and several tattoos. This was the first time Cassidy had worked with the girl, but she was pleased to see that Tiff hustled from table to table like a seasoned pro.
    Cassidy slid the ice-cold bottles onto the counter and met the girl’s eyes.
    Tiff said, “Sorry to hear about your sister.”
    And just like that, Cassidy’s mood went sour. She said nothing to Tiff, just turned on her heel to see if Old Man Willy at the end of the bar needed a refill.
    She’s not even from around here, and didn’t know Sarah. Why the fuck does she have to bring that shit up?
    Over the next hour or so, Cassidy could tell that Tiff was trying to see why she had grown so suddenly cold. Cassidy knew she was being prickly, and that the girl didn’t deserve to get shit for being nice, but at the same time, she couldn’t help how she felt. Ever since Tiff mentioned her sister, Cassidy’s groove had gone missing. She was making mistakes on orders, couldn’t concentrate, and even dropped a full glass mug. Fortunately, the glass didn’t shatter, bouncing off the rubber matt beneath her, but still, she never dropped shit.
    Tiff had thrown her off, and every time she saw the girl, Cassidy grew increasingly annoyed — and more anxious.
    Once business started to wither, she went to the restroom just to avoid having to talk with Tiff, who was floating around the bar, obviously looking for a chance to talk with her.
    As Cassidy sat in the stall, pissing, she looked down and realized her hands were shaking. The dull bass from the bar’s music thrummed through the thin walls as if attempting to match its time with the beat of her racing heart.
    It had been three weeks since Cassidy had taken a pill. Three long weeks.
    She thought the worst was behind her, but fuck, how she wanted a pill right now.
    Just one, to take the edge off.
    She had two “just in case” pills in a folded piece of paper in her pocket. She’d been carrying the same two pills for 21 days, proud to have resisted the near constant urge through each and every one.
    You ought to reward yourself , the Addict cooed, waving its baton as it always did at the start of its familiar symphony of reasoning.
    You already proved you’re not addicted, right? Addicts don’t go three weeks without using. You’re good. Just one, to take the edge off.
    No.
    Cassidy stood from the toilet, pulled up her pants, then went to the sink, to greet her ghostly reflection. Except the reflection wasn’t hers — it was Sarah’s, staring back, open mouthed, as if shocked to be in her sister’s body.
    Cassidy shrieked, startled, then blinked her eyes and rubbed them hard until she found her own reflection staring back.
    A chill hummed under her skin, and her hands were shaking even more. She turned on the faucet, the busted one which blasted water so fast and hard that it always beat against the porcelain and splashed onto the floor. Cassidy didn’t care. She took handfuls into her cupped palms, then splashed her face inside them, before running her sopping digits through her hair.
    I don’t need them. I don’t need them.
    The door to the bathroom burst open. Cassidy turned and saw Tiff, staring.
    “Are you OK?” the waitress asked.
    “Yeah, why?” Cassidy said, sneaking a peek in the mirror to see what about her had alarmed Tiff. Was it her shaking hands? Her bug eyes? Her wet hair and running eye liner?
    Shit, I’m a fucking mess.
    Tiff moved closer, as if she were about to tell Cassidy a secret. “Did I say something to piss you off out there?” she asked. Her face was kind, eyes wide and honest.
    Cassidy felt a swell of guilt, and to her surprise, the sting of approaching tears. “I’m sorry,” she said,