Chapter 8
That night, I told Philip about my problem with Paula and my constant state of anxiety.
We lay in my childhood bedroom, side by side, in a bed too small for two grown adults. Philip slipped an arm under my head, making room for more closeness.
“Maybe your father’s death has affected Paula differently.”
“In what way?”
He was quiet.
I listened to his uneven breaths, shallow, anxious. I turned sideways and placed a hand on his chest, my fingers curling around the clusters of white hair.
“Maybe it isn’t drugs,” he said, after I questioned the possibility.
“What do you think it is?”
“Rebellion.”
“At Paula’s age?”
“Why not?”
“Her appearance has changed. It’s scary. She looks too thin.”
“She’s grieving.”
“While looking like a hooker?”
“Chris.” He drew out my name.
“I’ve
