28. Sophia
Chapter 28
Sophia
W hoa. Mason’s eyes turn bloodshot and watery, and his pupils dilate.
Huh.
“You know what would happen if you were a teacher who overfed his students fried sticks of butter?” I ask.
“They wouldn’t eat the flying sausages?” Mason gestures at empty air.
“No.” But a smoked sausage sounds really good. “Your pupils would dilate.”
Hmm. Fried sticks of butter also sound delicious all of a sudden.
Ah. Right. Despite my high tolerance, I’m high as a kite made out of cannabis.
Ha-ha. My high is high. That’s hilarious.
“I want to go swimming with dolphins,” Mason says, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Or manatees. Or giraffes.”
I grin. Even when his brain is jumbled by THC, he wants a nature show. “Let’s see if we can make one of those happen.” I grab his hand and lead him away.
I’m not sure if it’s the pot or the rough, callused texture of his palm, but my sex drive goes into overdrive by the time we find ourselves in a cab.
Sex drive into overdrive. I’m on a roll.
I giggle out loud.
It seems that Mason isn’t immune to my touch either, because in response to my giggle, he gives me the kiss of my life, one that lasts forever.
Panting, we pull apart as the cab comes to a stop in front of the dolphin joint.
Oh. A dolphin joint .
I snort-laugh at my own wittiness.
Mason is oblivious. Staring at my lips, he asks huskily, “Can we get some taranka ?”
I blink at him. “Tarantula?”
There’s no way I’m swimming with one of those. Or kissing one.
Come to think of it, I wouldn’t even smoke a joint with one.
Mason frowns. “Tarantula? They’re not salty.”
I’m growing concerned. “Salty?”
“ Taranka ,” he says. “It’s a species of roach.”
I shudder. “That’s even worse.”
He cocks his head. “It is? You catch them, salt them, and let them air dry. They’re the best beer snack.”
I almost throw up. “Cockroaches as snacks?”
Maybe Mason was right not to want to smoke weed with me. There’re munchies, and then there’s this.
“Roach,” Mason says again. “It’s a type of fish. Rutilus heckelii .”
Oh. “You want fish jerky?”
He nods.
That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. “Let’s check that store.”
I lead him into a shop, but the closest thing we find to what he craves is something called Jamaican Jerk , a brand of potato chips.
Then again, who knew potatoes could be such a good replacement for a roach… I mean, a fish. Mason devours his bag with such enthusiasm that I feel a little jealous. But then when I bite into my chosen snack—tamarind balls—I forget where I am because they’re so good.
We consume everything we bought and return to raid the store for more.
After a few more snack trips, I manage to recall what we’re here for and drag Mason over to the seaquarium.
As we gear up, I get to enjoy the sight of Mason’s naked torso, but then, sadly, he covers it with a flotation device. Soon, we’re in the water and face to face with a pod of dolphins.
My heartbeat speeds up as a look of childlike wonder comes over Mason’s face, and for some strange reason, I picture a little boy with my and Mason’s features wearing that exact expression.
No. Hold up. That’s insane, and a great reason to say no to drugs from here on out.
“You really can?” Mason says to the more smiley of the dolphins.
“He can what?” I ask.
Mason turns my way. “Flop, here, can read my thoughts.” Turning back to his new friend, he adds, “And I his.”
Wow. Can he really?
No. That’s the weed talking… I think.
Flop gives me a squinty stare and chirps, as if to say, “Bitch, you doubt my mighty powers?”
“Kiss his nose,” the excursion guide tells Mason. “And I’ll take a picture.”
Mason reverently kisses Flop—if that really is his name—and I feel the greenest jealousy of my life.
Flop chirps excitedly, the smiling bastard.
“Now you go,” the guide tells me.
I point at a different dolphin. “Can I kiss her?”
“That’s a him,” the guide says. “But go for it.”
“No,” Mason states. “The only male she can kiss is me.”
With an eyeroll, I ask which dolphin is female and give that one a peck on her wet, rubbery nose for the camera.
“How was that?” I ask Mason sarcastically. “Did you feel like you were watching two girls making out?”
Mason seems too preoccupied with his telepathic connection to Flop, so he doesn’t answer for a minute or so. Then he snarls, “No, Flop, you can’t eat my cat.”
Flop chirps something excitedly.
Mason’s hand makes a fist, which makes my nether regions flutter. “If you so much as mention my cat again,” the owner of the fist growls, “I'll wipe that smug smile off your face with your gills. And yes, I know you don’t have gills.”
“And that is our cue to get going.” I grab a hold of Mason’s flotation device and drag him to the pool steps—before proper authorities get involved.
When we get into the cab, Mason looks around with a worried expression. “How come everyone knows I did drugs?”
Should I tell him that talking to dolphins could be a tiny clue? “You’re just being paranoid,” I say instead.
“No,” he says. “ They know.”
The way he says they makes me think of conspiracy theorists.
All right. I’ve got to help Mason. Somehow.
I frantically look around before settling on a possible solution.
“Sir,” I say to the driver. “Can I borrow those?” I point at the headphones lying on the dashboard.
“Five dollars, and they’re yours,” the driver says.
I pay the enterprising cabby his fee before putting the headphones over Mason’s ears. Connecting them to his phone, I unleash Pink Floyd on said ears.
As expected, Mason’s features relax, settling into a blissed-out expression.
Midway into the ride, without opening his eyes, he says, “I’m having such a great time with you.”
Me? Pink Floyd? Or did he reestablish his telepathic connection to Flop?
Either way, the words make a loveliness of ladybugs flap their wings in my belly. “I’m also having a great time with you,” I confess.
“Good,” he says, eyes still closed. “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
“What?” And again, I hope he is talking to me.
“I love you,” Mason says with a smile.
The shock is such that the ladybugs in my belly choke on their tongues. “What did you just say?”
And to whom?
Mason doesn’t answer.
He’s fallen into a drug-induced sleep.