"I'm just saying, cousin, maybe that's not really emotional awareness so much as—" he starts, and then stutters to a stop, words dying in his throat. His hand, the scar. Sugar on the phone, his heart stopping, the burner and the pot. Knowing they wouldn't give him the time to go back to Chicago for the funeral. The cigarette is just gonna singe his fingers a little without ever making it to his mouth; he stubs it out absently, staring at Richie.

"I've been going to meetings," he says abruptly. "Uh, this AA group, Sug hooked me up with, and mostly - mostly what I've learned is that I am not, remotely, as emotionally aware of my own fucking shit as I thought I was. So." He presses his lips together for a beat, relents. "I just meant, I hate hearing you really talk trash about yourself."