35. Aeron
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
AERON
Another frat house party at Hargrove. Oh joy.
As we leave Carter’s car and walk along the sidewalk toward the house, Carter is talking about some Hargrove swimmer who shaved two seconds off his backstroke, like I care about sports. I nod with a dumb fake smile on my face.
Just smile like everything is fine.
Last time I walked this path, I was nervous about my shirt. (I was such an idiot then.)
“You’re gonna love what they did with the lights,” Carter says. He’s got that puppy-before-a-car-ride energy. “Totally different vibe from last time.”
“Nice,” I say. I give another fake smile.
I’ve been getting pretty good at this smile because there have been plenty of opportunities to rehearse it these past few days.
At home, at breakfast with Mom, in the hallway with June.
I smiled and they believed me because people see what they want to see, and what they want is for me to be fine.
So I gave them fine. And they accepted the lie and went back to their lives without me.
(They always do.)
I glance at the groups on the lawn. Parties.
All the same. People getting drunk, hooking up, pretending the noise makes them alive.
Everyone here thinks what they have is real.
These twenty-year-olds are convinced their Friday night hookup is love, convinced their relationship will last beyond next semester.
It won’t. Half of them won’t remember who they were dating in college by the time they’re thirty.
They’ll age and settle into loveless marriages, have kids because the timeline said so, and stare across kitchen islands at strangers they chose when they were too young to know what choosing meant.
Just like Mom. She had a daughter she wanted and a son she didn’t, and she stayed, smiled, and made waffles in the morning because that’s what you do when you’ve committed to a life you only halfway chose.
“Earth to Aeron.” Carter waves a hand in front of my face as we get closer to the entrance.
“Sorry. Thinking about a project.”
“Man, you’re always thinking about a project. Tonight is about fun.” He grips my shoulders and shakes me playfully.
“Yeah.” I grin at him. “Fun.”
That’s what life is, right?
Fun?
Tonight the whole place pulses neon. Pink and blue pour from every window and run down the front of the house in bands of electric color, and the people on the porch glow like they’ve been rendered in a game cutscene.
Cotton-candy pink on one side, ultraviolet blue on the other.
No strobes. The light is continuous, unblinking, turning everyone into painted versions of themselves.
“See?” Carter spreads his arms. “Cyberpunk.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes because it’s a very June thing to do.
Inside, the neon is everywhere. There are LED strips along the walls and ceiling in parallel lines of pink and blue, turning every surface into a gradient. Faces glow. Drinks glow. Vape smoke catches the color and hangs in the air.
In a room where nothing is its real color, I can be anyone.
Carter finds his crowd—Hargrove bros near the living room, backward caps, loud voices. He slides into their circle the way he always does, and within seconds the group absorbs him like he was always part of it. I linger at the periphery, hands in my jacket pockets, watching through the neon haze.
He pulls me in. Introduces me to people whose names dissolve the instant they leave their mouths. Someone asks what year I am. I say freshman. They nod. They turn back to their friends. Carter hooks his arm around my shoulder and drags me to another cluster of bros.
“This is my cousin Aeron. He’s at Alaria. He’s an artist.”
They say “Nice,” or “Cool,” or “Sick, bro,” and their teeth glow pink when they smile.
I drift behind him like a satellite, nodding. Pretending to listen. Someone hands me a drink—beer, I guess—so I raise the red cup to my lips at regular intervals without swallowing.
After almost an hour of this shit, Carter pulls out a joint.
I blink. The neon catches the paper, turning it pinkish. “Why do you have that?” I ask.
He drops it in my hand. “Got it for you. Thought you might want one since you haven’t been hanging out in the basement smoking lately.”
I stare because Carter hates weed—hates the smell and the culture—but he brought this for me.
The jaggedness eases out of me at the kind gesture. I take it from him and turn it over between my fingers. The paper is rolled tight by someone who knew what they were doing. Maybe Carter took it from Dorien’s stash.
“Thanks,” I say.
“No big deal.” He gives his goofy grin, the one that makes him look fifteen.
“No. Carter.” I look at him. The neon paints half his face rose-pink and the other half deep blue. His smoky-amethyst eyes are bright in the colored light, and the grin is still there.
I hug him.
His body stiffens because this is the first time we’ve ever hugged. Then his arms come around me. He smells like cheap cologne and laundry detergent.
I think I’ll miss that smell.
“You were always a great cousin,” I say into his shoulder. “Thanks.”
He pulls back and the grin has softened. His eyes move across my face and for half a second I think he sees the decision I’ve made. But then the grin returns and he claps my shoulder with his open palm.
“You’re a great brother,” he says.
Brother.
I turn away because my face is about to betray me by looking weak. My eyes are already wet and I need to move before the hurt inside me comes pouring out.
“Bathroom,” I say over my shoulder.
“Kay,” Carter says, turning back to his group.
I weave between neon-painted bodies, not looking back. The decision has been made.
Instead of heading toward the bathroom, I head toward the kitchen. I’m almost to the kitchen hallway when someone grabs my arm.
I turn and find Dorien standing there, tall and dark-clothed against the pink-and-blue wash of the party. His coppery eyes catch the neon and throw it back warmer.
“Hey,” he says.
“Thought you couldn’t make it. That’s what Carter told me.”
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it further. “Yeah, I’ve been fighting deadlines, but my brain turned to mush. Needed a break.”
He’s standing with an easy posture, one hand in his pocket, but his eyes keep going back-and-forth across my face like he’s reading from a book.
“Cool,” I say, stepping back.
He fills the silence. “How are classes going?”
“Good.”
He nods and I nod. I can’t stop thinking about why he’s here. Carter said Dorien couldn’t come. Yet he’s here. June knew Carter was taking me to this party. June and Dorien are together.
(Ah, I get it.)
She sent him to babysit me.
My sister sent her boyfriend to keep tabs. Because that’s what she does. She arranges the pieces. She controls the gameboard. She never gives me space to be who I want to be.
(You win, big sis. You’ve always been the winner.)
To test my theory about why Dorien is here, I reach into my jacket pocket then hold up the joint. “Got a light?”
Dorien’s eyes drop to it and his mouth tightens. “Uh. We don’t need to smoke right now.”
I shrug and start to turn toward a guy leaning against the wall with a lighter visible in his hand.
“Hey.” Dorien’s fingers close on my elbow. “Carter says you were at the last party here. Show me around.”
My eyes narrow but I give a fake smile like I haven’t just gotten proof that Dorien, the person who first put weed in my hands and passed me joints in the basement without blinking, is suddenly concerned about me smoking at a party.
Because June told him to watch me. She probably gave him a list. Make sure he doesn’t drink too much.
Make sure he doesn’t smoke. Keep him in your line of sight at all times because he’s a toddler and might stick his finger in an electrical socket.
Typical.
I pocket the joint. “Sure. Come on.”
I lead him through the house. Kitchen, living room, back patio. The neon thins the farther we get from the main setup, giving way to standard porch bulbs and the dark of the yard. I loop us back inside and toward Carter’s group, where I know I can ditch Dorien.
It works. Carter spots Dorien and grins. He reaches out, clasps Dorien’s hand, and pulls him into a half-hug. Within thirty seconds, Dorien is absorbed into conversation with my cousin. Then his attention is split between Carter and the Hargrove guys.
I stand there for a handful of minutes. When the timing feels right, I pat Dorien’s shoulder. “Bathroom,” I say.
Carter laughs without looking over. “Didn’t get to it the first time?”
Dorien turns. “Hey, I might actually smoke but didn’t bring anything. Mind if I have your joint? I’ll pay you back with interest.”
(Liar.)
I hand it to him. My smile is the right amount of casual so he thinks everything is fine. “Sure, man. Enjoy.”
He takes it with a nod and turns back to Carter.
I stand there for one more breath, then I slip into the crowd.
I’ve spent my entire life learning how to exit a room without leaving a gap, and tonight the skill is flawless. People shift around me like I’m only a whisper of air. I move through the hallway, past a couple pressed against the wall, past a group arguing about music, and into the kitchen.
The kitchen is bright compared to the neon rooms. Bottles line every surface.
I find two bottles of vodka, both about half full.
I take one in each hand and keep moving.
Out the back door. Across the large patio.
Past the pool where someone cannonballs and sends chlorinated water across my sneakers. I don’t flinch.
I reach the garden.
Same overgrown bushes. Same cobblestone path winding between greenery. It’s dark and secluded here, just the ground solar lights casting small halos along the walkway. The orange trees still have most of their leaves, but some sections are bare, with branches forking against the night sky.