“And now Mom’s smoking it, too. Just like he did.”
“Vaping it,” I correct. I sold Gisella the newest Pax myself, but I don’t tell Julian this. “Probably.”
He runs his palms down his cheeks. “Ugh. My momvapes.” He twists to face me, his expression suddenly accusatory. “And you’re opening a dispensary!”
I sigh heavily. I wondered when we’d get to this. “Yep.”
“To dispense marijuana!”
“That is the plan.”
“To mymother?!”
“I mean…” I start to explain it’s not my role to prevent people’s mothers from using cannabis, but all I can focus on are his eyes. Because behind those infuriatingly hot frames, his pale-blue irises contrast prettily against the telltale pink sclera of the recently stoned.
Oh, fuck. Is Julian high?
It suddenly all makes sense. The roof, the rambling, the kindness. He’shighasfuck, and hedoesn’t know!
How did this happen? The party’s purpose is no secret. There are signs everywhere asking for donations to support the dispensary. Does Julian not know what weed smells like? Tastes like? Did the table full of festively green, funky food with high price tags not tip him off?
“You ate something off the dining table, didn’t you?”
“Why doeseveryonekeep asking me that?” Julian exclaims. “I paid your outrageous suggested donations!”
“What did you eat, Julian?!”
Julian huffs. “This is fat shaming. You know that, right?”
“Okay, you arenotusing that term correctly, we’ll talk about that later, but for right now, tell me what you ate!”
He starts to protest, but stops, his eyes cranking open. “Was the food poisoned?”
“Poisoned? No, you weirdo. But infused with Eve’s famous cannabis budder? Yes.”
Now Julian’s head is rattling side to side, a pure, unadulterated rejection of the truth. “No! They were protein bars! They’re good for you!”
“The Hemp Hemp Hooray bars?” My brows round into my bangs. They are one of the strongest edibles on the table, meant for our devoted fans of cross-country running while high. “How many did you have?”
Julian’s visibly frightened now. “Two? I didn’t know!”
“At ten dollars a pop?! You didn’t think that was weird?”
“They were delicious!” he wails before nuzzling into Big Bird’s fur, murdered birds forgotten. “I thought they were all natural! Fancy! Bespoke!”
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Julian has always been so dramatic. As if to prove my point even more, his head jolts up, his eyes full blue moons of terror.
“What about the cookies?” he hoarses out in a perfect horror-movie whisper.
A laugh bubbles out, which I instantly regret. Julian’s really scared, and that shouldn’t be funny. It’s not. It’s just, has anyone ever utteredthosewords withthatinflection in the history of humankind? I think not.
“Nomi!What about the cookies?!”
Another laugh escapes before I can clap a hand over my mouth. Julian looks utterly betrayed.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “It’s just—you keep saying that so seriously, but they’re cookies, which are the least serious things ever, and—”
Julian takes me by both shoulders. “WHAT ABOUT THE COOKIES!”
