Page 103 of The Last Special Thing

She stormed back inside, brushing by Max.

“Hey, hey.” He grabbed her arm. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t find Art,” she said. “Can I have this?” She grabbed Max’s drink without waiting for permission and took a swig.

She laughed bitterly at the memory that the taste drummed up. “Fucking Fireball.” She handed it back to him. Panic pounded in her head.

“Amelia.” Max said, a layer of concern in his voice.

“What?” Amelia snapped. She needed to find Art.

Max ran his tongue over his lip ring.

She paused. “If you know something you have to tell me.” Her voice cracked. All of these people were willing to cover for Art when they should have helped her find him.

Max inclined his head towards Art’s room.

It was obvious, but he was never in there. She marched over and turned the doorknob.

It was locked.

Pounding her fist against the wood, she yelled, “Get out!”

She waited, straining to hear against the beat of the party.

When it didn’t open, she continued to slam her fists against the door.

Fucking mojitos and cinnamon whiskey. Fucking Art.

The door remained closed, and anger dissolved into sadness. Sliding her back against the door, she pressed her cheek to the cool wood.

“Art, please?” Her words were weak.

There was no response, and so she sat, half-heartedly knocking her fist against the barrier between them.

Her tears had dried by the time the door creaked open.

Amelia scrambled to her feet. Art exited first with a skinny blonde trailing behind him. Even without an introduction, she knew her. Sky. He had to get the fucking Skyy Vodka cause his work friend Sky couldn’t get it her damn self. The memory came back to haunt her.

She couldn’t breathe. She had to get out of the apartment. Shoving past people, she exited the apartment and into the courtyard.

“I’m sorry,” he tried, trailing a few steps behind her.

“Heroin?” She pivoted to face him. She couldn’t even feel the chill of the night, heat rising in her chest.

His eyes darted around the people in the courtyard. His voice was low. “I’m not going to lie to you.”

“Not lying,” she took a deep breath, “doesn’t mean you’re being honest. None of this is honest.”

She stared in animosity into the eyes of the boy who told her two months ago, ‘fuck no to needles.’

Shaking her head, she regretted the alcohol. It was impossible to think straight, her eyes watering.

“Show me where,” she demanded.

“Why does it matter?” He stood straighter.

She didn’t answer him.