She shivers and I watch her pull the blanket tighter. She’s adorable like this, bundled up like a little Eskimo, nose pink from thecold, mug steaming in her lap. Without thinking, I shrug off my coat and hold it out to her.
“Here. Take this.”
She gives me a small smile, takes it, and slides her arms into the sleeves. There’s something about her in my clothes that undoes me. She looks like she belongs in them, like she belongs here with me.
She slips her hands into the coat pockets like she’s searching for warmth, then she freezes, her fingers close around something.
No. Please.
Her expression changes.
She pulls her hand out slowly, holding something between her fingers. A tiny glass vile.
No.
Panic hits like a freight train.
She straightens, holding the vile like it might explode.
Her voice cuts through the silence: “Aspen. What the hell is this?”
I go still. Cold, like I just stepped into a blizzard without a jacket. My chest constricts and I can’t breathe. My ears are ringing and my body frozen in place.
She straightens, her eyes locked on the baggie, trying to make sense of it.
“Aspen,” she says, her voice sharp and cold in a way I’ve never heard before. “What the hell is this?” she repeats.
My mind blanks. Panic rises like a wildfire in my throat.
I freeze.
35
Genevieve
I hold the little vile in my hand that contains the white substance. I examine both the vile and Aspen's face as I wait for a reply. I think I know what it is.I know I know what it is,but I don’t want to believe Aspen has this in his coat pocket. So I wait for him to give me an explanation.
I wait and wait and wait.
But nothing comes out of his mouth.
It’s just a stupid little glass cylinder, but it might as well be a bomb.
My fingers tremble like they know exactly what it is before my brain can admit it.
It’s not just drugs.
It’s betrayal in powdered form.
“Aspen. Answer me. What the hell is this?” I ask him again more hysterical. I try to keep my cool, but all I see right now is my dad and that is the last thing I want to see or think of when I look at Aspen.
He was supposed to be different.
For a split second, he looks like my dad; that blank, stuttering face.
That silence that’s louder than any apology could ever be.
His mouth is open like he’s about to reply, but nothing comes out. He better have a damn good explanation. This betternot be what I think it is. I already had to deal with my dad and his problems. I don’t want to deal with Aspen’s.
