"What goes up," said Jay, grinning like the jackass he is, "must come down."

I rolled my eyes as I handed him the money I'd earned in tips, and he handed me five white pills in return. They were oxycodone, pain killers, major downers; basically baby-heroin. Emma and I had both been awake for almost five days, and when she told me about the family dinner entrapment, we knew we had to find a way to get some sleep before facing that mess.

I walked back to the car where Emma was waiting in the passenger's seat. Her face was resting on top of her arms, which hung over the edge of the open window as she stared blankly into the side mirror. It was only in moments like that, when I could see her from far away, that I noticed the change in her. I'd always thought she was dangerously skinny, but since we'd been dating she'd practically turned to bones. Her eyes were sunken and her mop of blonde hair seemed suddenly too big for her thin face. She didn't smile as much any more, either.

The air was warm and wet as sugary sunshine gave way to rolling gray clouds. I could feel the tension of the concrete and the grass, waiting in anticipation of the steady-brewing storm overhead. The earth waited desperately for rain the way iceheads waited desperately for either sleep or the next hit.

"Here, babe," I said, feeling the exhausted ache in my teeth that came with just trying to speak. I climbed into the car and put a white pill in Emma's hand. A flicker of light danced across her eyes. She rummaged around the cluttered floorboard of my car and found a half-full bottle of blue Gatorade, which she used to chase the oxycodone. She passed the bottle to me and I took mine, as well.

She looked at me as she buckled her seatbelt, pouting with lips that were nibbled and raw. "I'm tired as fuck," she said.

The energy between us was sour. Emma had been pissed and distant ever since Toby had freaked out a week before. The brief look of relief on her face when I handed her the oxycodone was the first time I'd been able to make her even remotely happy since that night.

I nodded, put the key in the ignition, and drove us to my house. As I climbed out of the car I felt a cool stream trickle over my arms and legs, unwinding the nerves and muscles that had been pulled tight for days. I glanced over at Emma, whose face had regained its color. The tension between us had already begun to ease by the time we walked through the door, because the drugs had already begun to kick in.

We spooned on the couch and put on a movie, suddenly in love again now that we were high once more. The four o'clock sky was black, pelting bursts of water against all of the windows. The echoing rain made my empty house seem that much more like a protective shell, hiding us from that frightening drugless world outside. I held Emma's thin body in my arms, kissing her head.

"How do I know I'm alive?" Emma asked dreamily. Officially stoned.

"What do you mean?"

Emma stared at the liquid balls of crystal that dripped down the windows. "Sometimes I feel like… like maybe Rick shot me after all, and all of this is really just a dream. Maybe I'm already dead and I don't know it."

Her words scared me, but I didn't have time to answer her. She was deep asleep in the very next moment.

What goes up must come down.

…

We'd been sober for three days, ever since we'd taken the oxycodone, so that we wouldn't be twacked out when we tried to sit down for family dinner. It wasn't until those three days of sobriety that I realized, from the moment Emma and I had been dating, we'd always been high when we were together.

"Jesus, Spinner," Emma grumbled, sitting on the edge of my bed with her arms folded. "Could you just like, wear something that hasn't been mildewing in your closet since middle school?"

I sighed. This was the third shirt I'd tried on for Emma's approval before we went to have dinner with her parents. In the past three days she'd been increasingly irritable, and was starting to act more and more like a nagging girlfriend. I wasn't sure how to handle it. Emma and I had never fought before. We were always happy when we were together. Or at least, I'd thought it was happy. Now I was beginning to think that it was something else. A pretend happy.

"Well fuck, Emma," I said, taking off my shirt and throwing it to the ground. "Why don't you pick something then? Because I have no idea how you want me to look for your parents. Besides, it's not like Mr. Simpson hasn't known me since grade seven. Who are we kidding?"

No, really, Emma. Who are we kidding? We can only live with ourselves when we're too high to know we exist.

"I'm not going to dress you," she snapped incredulously, talking to me like I was a child. "Just… fuck it. What do I care?"

Bare-chested, sallow-faced, I took a step closer her to her, pressing my tired eyes on her. "What do you care? Do you honestly give a shit about me or what shirt I wear? Why are we even dating?"

Emma's faced soured. "Are we even dating at all? I don't know why I thought this stupid dinner thing would even work, as if my parents would ever buy that you're my real boyfriend. You'll just sit there and tell the same fucking stories that you tell all the fucking time…"

"Fine then! If you're so sick of me, then fuck off!"

Angrily, I marched to my sock drawer and fished out a plastic bag. There was one small rock inside it, just enough to get me high. After three days, that scrap meth was starting to look like ambrosia.

"What are you doing?" Emma asked as she watched me crush up the rock. Her voice was noticeably softer, melting like butter.

I rolled my eyes. "What do you care? It's off. It's over. Why are you still even here?"

It became obvious to me in mere seconds why she was still there. I could see that familiar twinkle in her eyes. I could feel her hungry gaze.

"Can I have some?" she asked. She was fucking shameless, sometimes. But we all were. Everyone was. Eventually.

"Don't you have a dinner to get to?"

She sighed. I could hear the fragility in her breath. She sat down beside me on the bed, close to me, magically transitioning from the raging heinous bitch she'd been five seconds ago to the tender, gentle wisp of angel she was when she wanted something. "What's the point in going without you?"

She put her hand on my arm, and after fuming for a few more seconds, I gave in. I shared the drugs. We got high together. It only took minutes before we were making out.

"I'm sorry," Emma said breathily, kissing and talking at the same time. "I'm sorry for fighting."

"I'm sorry, too," I replied. I cupped her ass cheeks in my hands, pulling her body to mine. High again. In love again. I'm not sure we could ever tell the difference.

Our passionate kissing was interrupted by Emma's ringing cell phone. She fished it out of her pocket and glanced at the caller ID.

"Shit. It's my mom, she's probably wondering what's taking so long." She bit her lip and looked at me. "Are you still coming with me?"

We were tweaking balls, and she wanted us to have dinner with her parents. Stoned off my ass, I was supposed to convince her parents that I was an upstanding boyfriend. I took her hand.

"Sure, baby."

We went up, we came down, repeat, repeat.