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An hour later, when we’re dicking around on the promenade deck and Lyon slips on some sea foam, I remember that moment. The way I winked and let my brother eat the fruit.
As Ly sails across the damp deck, Whitney grabs for him and so do I, because we both know Lyon is shit-faced. The two of us collide and send him sailing toward the guardrail, and at that moment, a big wave rocks the boat toward the starboard side. Lyon hits the railing with his middle, and flips over it like a gymnast on the bars.
My heart stops.
But he’s got the rail. Holy fuck, he’s got the rail! His hands are wrapped around the braided wire. His loafered foot is propped against the deck.
I lunge for him, grab his forearms. “Fuck!”
Whitney’s shrieking draws a crowd, and seconds later, Lyon is hauled onto the deck by six strong hands—two of them my own.
He gives Whit a long, weird look before his eyes roll back into his head. He crumples to the slick deck like a blow-up doll deflating. When I drop down by him and shove my fingers to his neck, I find his pulse pounding too fast.
A second later, blood starts pouring from his nose.
My heart pounds too as Whitney screams again.
HOW LONG AM I GOING TO SIT HERE? Like a lunatic. I’ve got my phone in my hand, and my car parked on top of the library parking deck. I’ve made myself a beacon for Kellan—and yet he hasn’t sought me out. Not even a text to explain the lie about his uncle and the pretty girl with different colored eyes.
So I have nothing to assuage the awful feeling in my stomach. The one that tells me I messed up, wearing my heart outside myself. Letting him brush up against it. Letting him grab hold of it.
How many lies did he tell me?
He’s an addict. Probably. I don’t want him to be, but I’m not an idiot. Who has that many pill bottles and injection-type supplies for any other reason?
As I’ve sat here these last few hours, I’ve wondered if that’s why his uncle and the girl were there: to stage an intervention or something. Was that what happened the other night, when Pace wouldn’t deliver the plants? Manning was involved—as he would be if Kellan had a drug problem. And Kellan said something about how his dad was putting pressure on Pace. Wouldn’t any father try to intervene if they knew their child had a problem?
Kellan.
Addict.
I saw that cabinet with my own two eyes, and still... I just can’t picture it. He always seems so... capable.
And moody.
Okay, he is definitely moody.
Moody like an addict?
How the hell would I know?
He lied about the pot. I know that much for sure. Telling me he doesn’t smoke, as if I’d even care, but then he smokes. He clearly does.
Maybe he lies instinctively. He would do it to protect himself. The longer I’ve known him, the more I’ve sensed something like that: an outer shell around the softer Kellan.
Maybe his entire life is a lie. Some people are like that. They can’t commit to being just one person.
I think about how he joined SGA for his brother. How he doesn’t even like it. And on top of that—the lie of posing as the type of person you aren’t—he has an even more flamboyant double-life because he’s an SGA president who deals.
So Kellan is a liar.
I don’t care...
All I feel right now is desperate. Foolish. Why did I storm off like that? It was stupid to run off without talking to him. Especially after I saw his secret cabinet. Tears shimmer in my eyes.
R.
I couldn’t help him! Why not, God?
