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“I really am so sorry about this,” Mrs. Gallagher said from where she was sitting in the tiny chair we’d bought for Nemi with a brownie in her hand. Then, sniffing the marker she’d been coloring in a page of a coloring book with, she asked, “Where did y’all get these? They smell like little bombs of heaven.”
Reid’s head dropped down. “You, too? Really? You couldn’t just put eating one on hold until you got home?”
“Nope,” she shrugged. “If I want to move without feeling like I’ve shattered my joints, I’ve got to have a brownie or some of that oil stuff. But the oil makes me feel sick if I don’t have it with a gummy. Unfortunately, my order with gummies and more oil got lost, so the company’s sending me a replacement one that won’t get here for a couple more days. So,” she dragged the word out, “I had to buy some brownie kits—I can never make them right, so I just buy the box ones. It still counts as homemade, though, right?”
That was too many words for my brain to handle, so I left it up to the others and played with the chunk of Jacinda’s hair that was dangling near my face. It felt like silk and velvet. Was that even a material? Did they call it velilk? Selvet?
“Sometimes, I just vape it. I know, I know,” Mrs. Gallagher added dramatically, holding her hands up like we were arguing when no one had actually said anything. “It’s bad for your lungs, I know. But it’s better than smoking a spliff filled with the Devil’s lettuce, and it doesn’t smell as bad, either.”
Reid sat down with a thump and started banging his head on Bond’s desk.
“Watch my wood,” Bond snapped.
Straightening up, Reid breathed loudly in and out for a moment. “Y’all understand I’m a police officer, right? So, talking about a substance that’s still illegal for the most part in this state is putting me in a bad position.”
“It’s medicinal,” Mrs. G sang, sitting back and smiling proudly down at her picture.
“I don’t care if the president himself gave it to you, it’s still illegal unless it’s prescribed Cannabidiol. Can you prove that it was?”
Mrs. Gallagher looked to the side, like she was searching for the answer. “Umm…”
Taking pity on my brother, Jacinda stood up. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to pretend this never happened and get these guys home. I can take Mrs. G and this one,”—she pointed at me—“home if you can take the other two?”
Rubbing his jaw, Reid glared between the three of us but finally nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do. Once they’ve sobered up tomorrow, I’ll get them to drive your car back to yours, Mrs. Gallagher. Just put the keys on Canon’s desk.”
Smiling brightly, she moved to get up from the tiny chair and then groaned and sat down. “I’m in a bit of pain, I’m afraid. I think my chair shrank.”
Picking up what was left of the brownies, Jacinda held them out to her. “Here, have one of these, and then we’ll help you up.”
So, once she’d finished her chocolatey square, Reid and Jacinda helped her up, and then dropped her keys on my desk, right next to my own.
“Smart. It’s like there’s a key orgy on my desk.” Those were words I likely wouldn’t ever have said out loud, but now that I had, I couldn’t unsee it.
A small hand grabbed my own with surprising strength and tugged me out of my chair, taking my attention away from what the keys were doing and onto an amused Jacinda who was watching me closely.
“Get your keys and whatever you need for the night, and let’s get going.”
Doing as I was told, I followed behind her, every step feeling like I was on a trampoline and like my body had been overcooked. I felt lighter than I’d ever felt in my life. Carefree. Guilt-free. Hell, my knee didn’t even hurt anymore, and I couldn’t remember it being like that for at least the last five years. Fuck getting old!
It was after we’d dropped Mrs. Gallagher off and were standing outside the door to my apartment that I encountered a problem. It didn’t mess with my woosah vibe, it just confused me.
“I feel like Alice in Wonderland when she’s trying to choose a door to take. Why doesn’t my key fit in my door?”
Carefully pushing me aside, Jacinda took them out of my hand and tried herself, going through every key and encountering the same problem.
“Did you get evicted? Maybe they changed the lock?” Before I could answer her questions, she groaned. “You picked up the wrong set, numb nuts.”
I felt insulted. I knew my keys better than anyone. Hell, I’d made those keys myself—with the help of the guy in the shop who’d cut them for me, but that still counted.
