25. Chapter Twenty-five #2
I checked.
Double-checked, actually.
Ace knows.
He knows.
What else does he know?
Does he know about the party? Does he know how bad the allergy is? Does he know part of why I can’t eat things is because I’m paranoid they’ll have nuts in them? Does he know the rest of why I can’t eat things is because of that phantom reaction?
Does he know about the juice earlier? Does he know I got sick?
Does he know I’m not real, I’m just a ghost? Does he know I’m already d-
“-berry, chocolate chip, and - oh man - these are strawberry cheesecake, which I don’t even know how you make into a muffin, but whatever. Here, this is for you.”
I’m being handed something. Casually. A tube.
He hands it to me and turns back around to open up the muffin box. It has six muffins in it, all of them as big as his broad palm.
He’s holding a muffin and I’m holding-
I’m holding-
I’m holding, I’m holding, I’m holding-
“You already have one stashed in your hiding spot, so that one you’re holding is all yours to do with whatever you want.
Keep it on you. Or don’t. Whatever. There’s one in every common room now, and one in your bedroom, too.
Sorry we weren’t on top of that. The order got delayed so I had someone else get them for me instead.
Which means we’re going to have a fuck ton when the original comes in, but you can never be too safe, yeah?
Or we can like donate them or something.
Stupidly fucking expensive. Should be illegal.
Hey, have you ever had these? Because they were on sale and seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I’m wondering if that’s a little too adventurous, you know?
Eh, whatever. You only live once, right? I think-”
I’m holding a tube that is white plastic on the bottom and orange plastic at the top and in between there is a bright yellow label with instructions beside a drawing of a person’s leg.
I’m holding an EpiPen.
He bought me an EpiPen.
He bought the whole house EpiPens.
I have one in my hand. I have one in my hiding spot. I have one in my bedroom.
Is this how Bryce saved me the night of the party, or did he use some other drug or technique?
I never asked.
But this will save me. Even if it’s not what he used that night, this will definitely do it.
I know that for sure. I always had one growing up.
Mamá and papá were always really careful to save up the money for it.
They never let it expire. It was always in my backpack, and if I was home then my backpack was always on the third hook by the door.
This is important, mi pollito. This will save you. Don’t lose it.
I never, ever lost it.
But they took it - the agents. They took it and I never got it back.
Now I have another one.
Now I have so many.
“-speak now or forever hold your peace, you know? Or not speak, obviously, but throw something at me. Not your EpiPen, though. Don’t throw that.
Uh - here.” Something is being shoved at me now.
A small, crinkly bag of plain potato chips, baked, with 50% less sodium. “Throw that at me if you oppose.”
If I… oppose?
Oppose what?
He sits in his chair, his long fingers settling on the keyboard.
I feel myself moving without thinking about it. It’s like my body knows that when he’s at his computer, I belong in my hiding spot. My legs take me while I’m still dazed by the pen in my hand. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I register the blankets.
There are blankets, a big pile of them, in my corner.
I can see a rainbow quilt, red and black plaid fleece, a knitted yellow, a fuzzy light blue.
On top of the pile is a new notebook, this one even smaller than the usual ones I can fit in my front pocket.
The cover is full of differently shaded purple stripes.
There’s a purple pen tucked into the spiral.
I fold down to the floor and take the notebook, opening it to see if it’s one of the ones with lines to write on or all the little dots across the pages.
What I find is a note, the handwriting matching the one he’d left on my bed. This one reads:
Figured you could use a go-to notebook to keep in here.
For song requests. Or disapproving assaults. Or whatever else you want.
Blankets are yours too. I tried to find the softest ones.
Charger to your left fits your iPod.
I’m probably forgetting something.
Let me know if you need anything else?
Glad you’re here.
A
Then,
P.S. Your favorite worry stone is on the side table.
It is, too. Placed perfectly on the corner nearest to me, the lamp hiding it from anyone who might sit on the couch. Protecting it.
I trace my finger over the words. So many words. Even in his notes, he can’t help but ramble a little.
I jump when the music suddenly starts, the song “Wannabe” kicking off with loud and high-pitched vocals.
I peek over the table to see Ace, unable to stop myself from seeking out the brightest light in the room.
He’s singing along, just as high-pitched as the Spice Girls, turning in his chair to point a finger at me as he belts the words out.
He’s doing this weird thing with his head, moving it to the beat of the song like a crooked bobblehead.
I watch him, watch the sunshine dazzle of his joy, the man lit up so bright that whatever darkness exists can’t touch him. Can’t touch me.
He looks over at me again, our eyes locking, and grins.
All of that sunshine pours into me, warm and brilliant, lighting me up from the inside out.
For the first time in a long time, I find it so impossibly easy to smile back.