Chapter 3 #2
“It’s not mine,” I said easily.
That made his attention sharpen. “What is?”
“I thought you said you were good at reading people,” I said, reminding him of his words from last night. “Shouldn’t you already know?”
He smiled at that, but it wasn’t smug. It was curious.“I need more than one night,” he said. “People edit themselves too early.”
“I wasn’t editing,” I said.
“I know,” he said immediately. The certainty in it landed heavier than anything else he’d said.
“So,” I continued, “why do you care what color I like?”
“Because last night mattered,” he said. “It made me curious.”
“That doesn’t mean you know me,” I replied. “It was one night.”
“One night is enough to start something,” he said, like the idea had already taken hold.
I held his gaze. I wasn’t flustered. I wasn’t flattered. But I was paying attention. I noticed that he didn’t look away.
“I don’t give my number to people I don’t know,” I said.
I stepped back, not in retreat, just adjusting the space between us.
“Why don’t we leave it to fate,” I added, my tone light but deliberate.
“If we’re supposed to cross paths again, we will.
” I watched him then, curious to see whether he would push or if he would understand the boundary for what it was.
“Blair,” Cherry called from the front of the house. “The Uber’s here.”
I glanced toward the sound, then back at him. “If fate decides it,” I said, “we’ll meet again. If not, we won’t.”
He shook his head, smiling like he’d already accepted the outcome. “We won’t just meet again,” he said. “We’ll collide. You know it. I know it. So I’ll see you there when we do.”
I turned for the door, not looking back. But I felt the echo of his hand on my dress long after I left the hallway.
It took three times of asking Cherry if she wanted to see a doctor before she finally snapped.
“For the last time, Blair, I am not going to the fucking hospital, and if you ask me again, I will personally instruct the driver to pull over and leave your ass stranded in this…” Cherry trailed off, glancing out the window at the lavish houses lining the neighborhood Austin lived in.
“Fancy fucking neighborhood. I mean, where even are we? I refuse to believe this is the same city we live in.”
I squinted at her as she spoke, the chaos of her words both surprising and oddly comforting. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I feel fine,” she shrugged, though I knew she was lying at least a little. Her head was pressed against the glass, her eyes heavy, like her eyelashes were made of iron.
“It wouldn’t hurt to get checked out,” I argued. “We don’t even know what that jerk put in your drink.”
“You know as well as I do that if we went to the hospital, it would turn into a game of twenty questions,” Cherry said. “Starting with, what are your parents’ phone numbers, and ending with, why were you drinking underage in the first place?” She raised her eyebrows at me, daring me to argue.
“You don’t know that,” I said, lying through my teeth.
“I’m changing the subject,” Cherry announced, tossing her long, vibrant hair over her shoulder. “You, Miss Blair, my very best friend, have some explaining to do.”
“What?” I blinked at her. “About what?”
“Oh, give me a break, B,” she said, pulling a face that didn’t quite work on her, though I wasn’t about to tell her that. “You and Mr. Rich. The vibes were insanity.”
I fought to keep my expression neutral, even as a giggle threatened to escape. “And you picked up on these vibes while you were unconscious the entire night?”
Her hand shot out instantly, smacking my arm. “That’s why I’m asking you to fill in the blanks. I need details.”
“What details?” I played dumb. “There are no details.”
“No?” She gave me a patronizing look. “A guy has a nickname for you, begs for your number, and you’re telling me you didn’t even have a conversation?”
“How the hell did you even hear that?” I muttered, shaking my head. She had been on the other side of the room when that happened.
“It doesn’t matter how I heard it,” Cherry smirked, already confident she was going to win. “Spill.”
I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes as I stalled.
I wasn’t sure why I didn’t want to tell her every detail of my conversation with Austin.
She was my best friend. She knew everything about my life.
Maybe it was because this usually went the other way around.
Cherry was the one with the boy stories.
The one with flirtation to dissect and moments to analyze.
She treated boys like a revolving door, switching them out when she got bored.
“Tell me or I’m going to start crying,” she added, the devilish glint in her eye telling me she might actually mean it.
“Oh my god,” I laughed. “Fine.” Mostly to spare the poor Uber driver from Cherry’s theatrics. “It was… fine. Austin’s fine.”
“Yeah, I know he is,” Cherry cut in, her left eye performing an exaggerated wink.
“We talked about what happened,” I continued, ignoring her. “He asked me why I wasn’t upset that the drink was supposed to be for me, and I told him that fate knew what she was doing.”
“Oh my god,” Cherry interrupted again, her eyes widening. “You didn’t go into your whole hippy-dippy-fate-speech. Tell me you didn’t.”
“It’s not hippy-dippy anything,” I shot back, even though I couldn’t stop smiling. Cherry and I had this argument at least once a month. She thought I was crazy for believing in fate, for believing life unfolded exactly the way it was meant to. I thought she was crazy for not believing it.
“And he still asked for your number?” Cherry asked, disbelief written all over her face. “He must really be into you. Which, with a face like yours, how could he not be? The real question is why you didn’t give it to him.”
“I met him last weekend,” I reminded her, knowing she didn’t remember me telling her that the night before.
“Okay,” she said slowly, waiting for more.
“He was at that fucking drug house when I found Holden.” The impact was immediate.
“You brought your involuntarily drugged best friend to a drug addict’s house?” Cherry’s voice jumped several octaves, loud enough that the driver glanced back at us, alarmed. His concern was easy to read.
“Sorry, sir. Very sorry,” Cherry said quickly, waving a hand. “It’s a book. We’re talking about a book. It’s called My Best Friend Is an Idiot. Great read.” She waited until the driver’s eyes settled back on the road before lowering her voice. “He’s an addict?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, instinctively defending him. “He wasn’t high when I saw him. I asked him last night. He said he sticks to weed. But I don’t know. He was still there, for whatever reason. And you know I don’t want anything to do with that world.”
“You mean besides your brother, who lives in that world,” Cherry said quietly.
“Exactly,” I replied. “One person to worry about is enough.”
It’s hard to explain the kind of exhaustion that comes with loving an addict.
There’s the obvious part, watching the battles they fight inside their own heads.
Even on sunny days, without a cloud in the sky, even when they’re sober.
They look you in the eye and promise they will stay that way.
They believe it. They convince themselves the storm has passed.
The sun is shining, but you know it won’t last. You’re always bracing for the next rainfall.
The next lightning strike. The next time you find them on a bathroom floor.
Or, in Holden’s case, on the couch of a trap house.
I love someone with an addiction. But I will never love another person with an addiction.
My umbrella isn’t strong enough to shield me from two raging storms.
“Maybe he had a good reason,” Cherry said gently as the Uber pulled up to the house we’d been in the night before.
In daylight, it looked nothing like it had hours earlier.
No thumping music. No chaos. No drunken energy spilling out into the street.
Just another quiet house, blending in perfectly with the rest of the neighborhood.
We apologized to the driver again before stepping out, our conversation clearly having caught him off guard.
We walked in silence toward my car, still parked where we’d left it on the suburban street.
“Are you calling out of work tonight?” I asked once we were inside, suddenly remembering that our presence was required at the restaurant.
“Yeah, right,” Cherry said, pulling her seatbelt across her chest. “Imagine the shit Greg would give me if I called in on a Saturday night.”
“Fuck Greg,” I muttered as I pulled onto the road.
“I’d cheers to that if I had a drink,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Am I dropping you off?” I asked, slowing at a stop sign.
“No way,” she shook her head. “I want some of Mama Evanston’s hangover food.”
“You know she doesn’t make it because you’re hungover,” I scoffed.
“I think she does,” Cherry said seriously.
I smiled, choosing not to argue as I pulled into my driveway.
I knew why Cherry didn’t want to go home.
Her parents loved her, but they were sharper than she needed them to be.
Her mom’s disappointment seeped into everything she said, even when she didn’t mean it.
Cherry was more comfortable here, where no one commented on her hair or her clothes.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders as we walked to the door.
I didn’t need to say it. I hoped she always knew she was welcome.
“Blair!” my mom called the moment I opened the door. “And if it isn’t my second daughter. Why should I be surprised?”
“Hi, Mom,” I said, forcing a smile as she approached.
She didn’t look worried at all. Her blonde hair, wild and untamed unlike mine, framed her face. A paint smock was tied over her purple dress, splattered with colors so blended you couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.
“Jane,” Cherry said warmly, stepping into her arms.
“Where were you guys?” My mom asked, patting Cherry’s shoulder, her tone curious, not accusing.
“We went to a party,” Cherry said easily.
“Blair went to a party?” my mom said, stunned. “How on earth did you convince her?”
“I needed boy help,” Cherry replied, shrugging her shoulders like there could be no other possible explanation.
My mom laughed. “And did it work?”
“Kind of,” I said, hoping the questions would end there.
“And then we went back to my place and watched Netflix,” Cherry added smoothly.
“Sounds like a fun night,” my mom said, accepting the lie without question. “I was just about to head to the work room. I’m making this new piece. I basically fling paint at a canvas and see what happens. You two should join me.”
“Actually, Mom, we have work tonight,” I said. “So I think we’re going to take a nap.” I grabbed Cherry’s elbow and steered her toward the stairs.
“You know I would if I could, Jane,” Cherry said dramatically. “This one’s very controlling.”
I heard my mom laugh as we disappeared upstairs, though guilt settled heavy in my stomach.
Lying to her wasn’t normal for me. I didn’t usually have a reason to.
I was, as Austin had said, straight edge.
Cherry collapsed onto my bed like it was a pile of fallen leaves, her body sinking into the blue sheets.
I knew she wouldn’t last long without more sleep.
“Do you want something to sleep in?” I asked, opening my closet.
“No,” she mumbled into my pillow.
I smiled, even as I reached back to untie the ribbon cinched around my waist. I needed out of the yellow dress.
But as my hand brushed the fabric, I felt something tucked into the small side pocket.
I paused, confused, slipping my fingers inside.
I pulled out a folded piece of white paper, my brow furrowing as I opened it.
I remembered Austin’s touch against my pocket earlier.
there’s just something about yellow.