The door swings open almost immediately, a small smile on his face. “Hey—” he starts, his expression souring the second he spots me. “Oh. What do you want?”
Oh? Well fuck him too, then.
Sal, unfazed, leans against the doorframe. “I need a favor, my stash is low… loan me a joint?” She puts on a pouty face, batting her lashes and completing the expression with puppy dog eyes. On anyone else, it’d be laughable, but Sal has a way of getting what she wants. I’d be too scared to ask the man for a bottle of water, but I’m convinced Sal could punch him square in his too-pretty face and he’d instantly forgive her for it.
He rolls his eyes, “Sure, hold on.” The door slams in our faces, and we wait for him to reappear.
“God, he’s so grumpy.” I mutter, side-eyeing Sal.
She snickers, “Yeah, he’s an ass.” But the way she says it, the adoration in her voice, betrays that she feels otherwise.
When he returns, he shoves a joint into her hand before slamming the door shut again. Charming.
We retreat to Sal’s balcony, a hidden safe-haven strung with fairy lights, oversized cushions lining the bench along the railing. It’s our favorite spot in the house. Her mom doesn’t care if we smoke here, just as long as we’re not out roaming around, getting into trouble. Alcohol is where she draws the line, not that I mind.
Sal lights up first, takes a slow drag, and passes it to me. I inhale, the warmth settling into my lungs, my body unraveling with each hit. The night air is crisp, the stars scattered in the sky like glitter, the moon casting her silver glow over everything. It’s beautiful, peaceful.
Sal starts rambling about some fight she had with Jace, her voice a familiar hum, but my mind drifts, my thoughts pulling me elsewhere. To him. The attraction I keep feeling, the pull I feel. I wonder what he’s doing right now, what he does in his free time… if he thinks of me.
My phone vibrates in my lap.
A chill prickles down my spine before I even look at the screen.
Mom:I’m assuming you’re at Sal’s. You are to come home immediately tomorrow after school, don’t push me.
My fingers curl around the phone, my chest tightening.There is going to be hell to pay tomorrow, but I can’t find it in me to care right now.
Sal nudges me. “You good?”
I force a smile. “Yeah.”
She doesn’t believe me, but she lets it go. Thankfully. I’m done feeling things tonight.
We sit there, passing the joint back and forth, until our toes go numb from the cold, until my head feels light, until I almost believe that peace like this could last.
Eventually, we drag ourselves inside. The clock on Sal’s nightstand reads 2 AM.
I’m going to be dead tomorrow at school. But for now, I let myself exist in this moment, this borrowed quiet.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. I stare at the ceiling, my mind running in endless circles. Sal is out the moment her head hits the pillow, and I listen to her soft snores as she sleeps next to me. Eventually, I drift off into a restless sleep.
16
SOPHIE
Sal shakes me awake, and I sit up with a jolt, rubbing at my bleary eyes. Sunlight slants through the sliding glass doors opposite her bed, stabbing into my pupils. It hurts.
“What the fuck?” My voice is thick with sleep, disoriented, until my gaze snags on the clock and I realize we are about to be late. Fantastic. Great start to a Monday.
“Come on! We gotta go!” Sal’s voice is frantic as she wrestles with a pair of jeans, yanking at the fabric like it’s personally wronged her. I almost laugh, seeing her fight for her life against the denim, but there’s no time for that.
I scramble out of bed and dive into her closet, rifling through the piles of clothes in search of something that’ll fit right. We share clothes as much as we can, but not everything is flattering on both of our frames. I settle on a pair of black, stretchy leggings and an off-white, fuzzy sweater, yanking them on as I hurry to her vanity.
My reflection isn’t kind. Dark circles smudge under my eyes, souvenirs from a night I’d rather forget. I drag a brush through my hair, forcing it into submission, twisting it into aloose braid that falls down my back. Rebel flyaways stick out in every direction, but there’s no time to be picky. Whatever, it’ll have to do. A quick swipe of borrowed mascara, a dab of chapstick, and I’m done.
Sal is already grabbing her tote, cheeks flushed, her breath short from the whirlwind rush.
“Ready?”
