“Hey.” Dorien’s fingers close on my elbow. “Carter says you were at the last party here. Show me around.”
My eyes narrow but I give a fake smile like I haven’t just gotten proof that Dorien, the person who first put weed in my hands and passed me joints in the basement without blinking, is suddenly concerned about me smoking at a party. Because June told him to watch me. She probably gave him a list.Make surehe doesn’t drink too much. Make sure he doesn’t smoke. Keep him in your line of sight at all times because he’s a toddler and might stick his finger in an electrical socket.
Typical.
I pocket the joint. “Sure. Come on.”
I lead him through the house. Kitchen, living room, back patio. The neon thins the farther we get from the main setup, giving way to standard porch bulbs and the dark of the yard. I loop us back inside and toward Carter’s group, where I know I can ditch Dorien.
It works. Carter spots Dorien and grins. He reaches out, clasps Dorien’s hand, and pulls him into a half-hug. Within thirty seconds, Dorien is absorbed into conversation with my cousin. Then his attention is split between Carter and the Hargrove guys.
I stand there for a handful of minutes. When the timing feels right, I pat Dorien’s shoulder. “Bathroom,” I say.
Carter laughs without looking over. “Didn’t get to it the first time?”
Dorien turns. “Hey, I might actually smoke but didn’t bring anything. Mind if I have your joint? I’ll pay you back with interest.”
(Liar.)
I hand it to him. My smile is the right amount of casual so he thinks everything is fine. “Sure, man. Enjoy.”
He takes it with a nod and turns back to Carter.
I stand there for one more breath, then I slip into the crowd.
I’ve spent my entire life learning how to exit a room without leaving a gap, and tonight the skill is flawless. People shift around me like I’m only a whisper of air. I move through the hallway, past a couple pressed against the wall, past a group arguing about music, and into the kitchen.
The kitchen is bright compared to the neon rooms. Bottles line every surface. I find two bottles of vodka, both about half full. I take one in each hand and keep moving. Out the back door. Across the large patio. Past the pool where someone cannonballs and sends chlorinated water across my sneakers. I don’t flinch.
I reach the garden.
Same overgrown bushes. Same cobblestone path winding between greenery. It’s dark and secluded here, just the ground solar lights casting small halos along the walkway. The orange trees still have most of their leaves, but some sections are bare, with branches forking against the night sky.
I reach the bench, the same bench where I found Cinna months ago. Where I sat beside her, and she bumped my shoulder and said she noticed me. I sit down and set the bottles on the ground beside my feet.
I’m oddly calm. Maybe that’s because I researched everything. I read forums, medical pages, firsthand accounts posted by people who’d pushed too far and somehow came back to talk about it. When you combine cocaine and alcohol, your body creates something new out of them: a compound called cocaethylene that your liver was never built to process. The combination stretches the high longer. It also makes it easier to cross a dangerous line you can’t come back from.
Vodka and powder. Two things anyone could get at a college party. All too easy.
I pull four small baggies from my jacket pocket. I tap powder onto the back of my hand, pinch one nostril shut, and inhale. The burn is immediate, so I blink until the sting fades.
Then I pick up a bottle and take a large gulp. The vodka is cheap and tastes like rubbing alcohol. I grimace and wipe my mouth with my sleeve. I tip my head back.
The sky is endless, starless, and it makes me feel so very small. I’m small and my life doesn’t matter in comparison with all that’s out there in the universe.
Cinna and I looked at his night sky together. Once. She was sitting right here, folded into herself. I sat beside her, and we stared up together. Despite what came after, that was a perfect moment.
At least I have that.
I tap more powder onto my hand. Inhale. Chase it with vodka.
I know now that she wasn’t thinking of me when we had our night together. She was hurting and I was available, so when the hurt passed I became unnecessary.
Still, that memory of us is mine. Though it meant nothing to her, it was real to me. Her fingers in my hair. The gold flecks in her eyes catching the fairy lights. The way she clung to my body and moaned from the pleasure I gave her.
We made love. She may call it a hookup, but it’s my mind and I can rewrite it.
We made love.
