Page 104 of The Last Special Thing

He rolled up the sleeves of his black zip-up jacket. His wrist and forearm were bruised. Proof of where he poisoned himself with this drug that was never supposed to be an option. Her toes curled, thinking about him in his room, shooting up. While she was searching for him, he wasn’t thinking of her at all.

First came the weed. That was supposed to be it. But then there was also the salvia, which was fine because it was also legal. The ecstasy was pure bliss. Nothing bad ever happened on ecstasy. Of course, everyone should try a real hallucinogen trip at least once. Or more than once, right? But that was the line. Except they snorted the lines of cocaine during Art’s show. But this? Needles, it was never needles. They talked about this. They were firm about this one. How quickly it snowballed.

She pressed her fingertips against her forehead. The world was spinning, and the ache in her head had grown to an incessant pound.

Art’s voice broke. “Amelia, I fucking hate my job. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic for being there. I’m a musician. I want to fucking play music- and I’m so good at it. Fuck, I have nothing except the music. I’m not sure I even have any real friends outside of you. Maybe Bryan and Max. But you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. There is more shit from my past that I can’t talk about. But I want to be with you. I want you to know everything.”

Sky danced into the courtyard. Her lips were a light, lifeless pink. She wore a flowy dress that showed her bony shoulders and floated between groups.

Amelia saw red. There was no sympathy for Art, but less for her. Amelia narrowed her eyes at the girl who brought the heroin. Sky was oblivious, dancing around to another group.

“Amelia,” Art choked. His face was streaked with tears.

Why did this drug make Sky dance and Art cry? Why did he always get fucked up and then end up crying to her with another godforsaken monologue?

Art stepped closer, still blubbering. He buried his head into her shoulder, and she let him. Stroking his hair back, she contemplated. How the fuck had this become her life?

Her body and heart were frozen. There was no point trying to reason with Art. No point in trying to break up with him. For all she knew, on heroin, he would walk straight into the Pacific Ocean.

“Come inside with me,” she finally said.

When she turned, he followed her, zombie-like, back inside.

The party had thinned. The music was lower as people huddled around on the floor. Evan and Logan shared a blunt on the side of the room. Amelia didn’t see Madisson or Reyna, but the door to Max’s room was closed. The three might have traded the party for the solitude.

Amelia pulled a blue quilt from Art’s room and brought it to the couch. She didn’t want to be in the room where the heroin was or inflate the stupid air mattress.

Art sat beside her on the couch, his head in his hands as he sniffled.

“Lie down,” she instructed, rubbing his back.

He listened. He always listened to her after. If only he could learn to listen to her before he went and fucked things up.

She pulled the blanket over them and cradled his head in her lap, brushing back his tangled hair until he dozed off. If he were asleep, he wouldn’t be any trouble. The party slowed around them, and the noise gradually faded.

When everyone had left, she situated herself behind him. Folding her arms around his stomach, she leaned her cheek against the warmth of his back. Her tears dampen his shirt. Knowing it would be the last time she held him broke her chest wide open.

Maybe this love was like a drug itself: all-encompassing, fleeting, and destructive.

CHAPTER FORTY

Agroan slipped through Amelia’s lips as her eyes squinted open. Art’s back was against her chest, pressing her into the couch. There was a subtle throb in her head, warning of the hangover to come.

All of the horrible memories from the night before came flooding back. Gripping the back of the couch, she slid herself out from behind Art without waking him.

His chest rose and fell, and his dark hair pressed against his ears. His peaceful moments and his chaotic fuckups were impossible to balance. She spent the whole summer pretending that the chaos didn’t frighten her, that love absolved all his misgivings.

She tore her eyes away, tugging off the Honey Cat bracelet she had worn for two months straight, and leaving it on the table. She could no longer be his day one fan.

Amelia walked along the beach. The cold morning sand was welcome against her rough feet. The wound from the glass in her foot was slowly healing. At the edge of the salty water, there was a wave of relief. The ocean washed over her toes and nipped at her ankles. The tears against her cheeks were cold and salty, too. There was a quote she remembered. The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea.

She listened to the waves' cadence as they ebbed and flowed. This would not be the last special thing. She had so much to look forward to. The waves would recede, but they would always wash out again. Circumstances would change, but she would have herself. She was the special thing, creating a beautiful life wherever she went.

Amelia had spent so much time at the beach this summer, yet this was her first morning visit. It was as if dawn had arrived to greet her next chapter. She savored her last visit of the summer to the sea, keeping her toes in the water until they were numb. Then she retraced her steps.

She passed by the businesses that were not yet open for the day. Thought of the unknowing participants in her people-watching game with Art. The people she passed when she was on drugs. The people who saw Max get arrested while Madisson fell apart.

Amelia was steady as she drove home. Art had shown her a new kind of love. He had seen her in a way that no one else had. He never had to get to know her; the connection was ingrained. She had wanted a summer of adventure, and he gave her everything she wanted. The problem was that he gave her the things she didn’t want, too.