Chapter Seven Nomi #2
He squeezes his eyes shut. “She knows how I feel about marijuana, she saw what it did to Dad! Saw how it ruined his life, then my life. Then her life. And his life,” he repeats, losing the thread.
My eyebrows rise. Even though Mom is close friends with Gisella, I still haven’t heard the full story of her late husband and Julian’s father.
All I know is that he passed away when Julian was young, and that according to Gisella, Julian was never the same.
He wouldn’t talk about him when we were in high school, and I never prodded.
Some people wear their grief like a sprung bear trap, and touching the area only makes it worse.
You try to talk to them, to let them know you can be a safe space for their feelings, but even that is unbearable, and they lash out at you, snarling, before hobbling off to seethe in pain alone.
I didn’t want Julian to push me away, so I never asked.
So why is he suddenly willing to talk about it now? Is he drunk?
“And now Mom’s smoking it, too. Just like he did.”
“Vaping it,” I correct. I sold Gisella the newest Pax myself, but I don’t tell Julian this. “Probably.”
He runs his palms down his cheeks. “Ugh. My mom vapes.” He twists to face me, his expression suddenly accusatory. “And you’re opening a dispensary!”
I sigh heavily. I wondered when we’d get to this. “Yep.”
“To dispense marijuana!”
“That is the plan.”
“To my mother?!”
“I mean…” I start to explain it’s not my role to prevent people’s mothers from using cannabis, but all I can focus on are his eyes. Because behind those infuriatingly hot frames, his pale-blue irises contrast prettily against the telltale pink sclera of the recently stoned.
Oh, fuck. Is Julian high?
It suddenly all makes sense. The roof, the rambling, the kindness. He’s high as fuck, and he doesn’t know!
How did this happen? The party’s purpose is no secret. There are signs everywhere asking for donations to support the dispensary. Does Julian not know what weed smells like? Tastes like? Did the table full of festively green, funky food with high price tags not tip him off?
“You ate something off the dining table, didn’t you?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Julian exclaims. “I paid your outrageous suggested donations!”
“What did you eat, Julian?!”
Julian huffs. “This is fat shaming. You know that, right?”
“Okay, you are not using that term correctly, we’ll talk about that later, but for right now, tell me what you ate!”
He starts to protest, but stops, his eyes cranking open. “Was the food poisoned?”
“Poisoned? No, you weirdo. But infused with Eve’s famous cannabis budder? Yes.”
Now Julian’s head is rattling side to side, a pure, unadulterated rejection of the truth. “No! They were protein bars! They’re good for you!”
“The Hemp Hemp Hooray bars?” My brows round into my bangs. They are one of the strongest edibles on the table, meant for our devoted fans of cross-country running while high. “How many did you have?”
Julian’s visibly frightened now. “Two? I didn’t know!”
“At ten dollars a pop?! You didn’t think that was weird?”
“They were delicious!” he wails before nuzzling into Big Bird’s fur, murdered birds forgotten. “I thought they were all natural! Fancy! Bespoke!”
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Julian has always been so dramatic. As if to prove my point even more, his head jolts up, his eyes full blue moons of terror.
“What about the cookies?” he hoarses out in a perfect horror-movie whisper.
A laugh bubbles out, which I instantly regret. Julian’s really scared, and that shouldn’t be funny. It’s not. It’s just, has anyone ever uttered those words with that inflection in the history of humankind? I think not.
“Nomi! What about the cookies?!”
Another laugh escapes before I can clap a hand over my mouth. Julian looks utterly betrayed.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “It’s just—you keep saying that so seriously, but they’re cookies, which are the least serious things ever, and—”
Julian takes me by both shoulders. “WHAT ABOUT THE COOKIES!”
“Yes!” I laugh out. “They contain five milligrams of THC each. Why, did you house those, too?” I wipe the tears leaking from my eyes as Julian’s hands slowly slip down my arms, then fall off completely.
He nods once, tight. Terrified.
My eyebrows rise. “Oh. Shit. How many?”
“I don’t remember,” he moans.
“Okay.” I force excess chill into my words, my demeanor, my vibe. Last thing Julian needs is to see me panic. “How much money did you put down on the table?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“Oh, boy,” I say softly. Fifty dollars’ worth of edibles, eaten all at once, would be a one-way ticket to space for experienced users. And Julian’s a total baby. Whatever he’s feeling now is just the beginning.
I do not tell him this.
“You’re going to be fine.” I pat him on the shoulder lamely. “You need some food and water, and then sleep. You’ll be back to normal in the morning.”
“I’m not going to be fine! I can’t get those brain cells back, Nomi!
Oh, God, no wonder I’ve felt so good—I’m stoned!
I’m addicted already, I can tell!” Julian shoves Big Bird at me, then bolts upright to his feet.
“I’ve got to call my advisor! Or is he here?
” Julian frowns for a second, then looks down at the party below. “ERIC?!” he screams at the lawn.
“Julian, whoa—wait a minute, let me help—”
“You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You probably think it’s hilarious!” Julian sways out of my reach, seemingly oblivious that we’re on a roof, and takes a step back. “You stay away from me, Nomi Wyeth! You and your—your baked goods!”
“Jesus, hold on to something! Julian, no!” I reach for him, but he’s already stumbling backward. A surge of horror floods my entire system as I watch his arms windmill by his sides for one terrible second before he falls, ass first, off my roof.