Max is at class. I know his schedule. Know he won't be back for at least another hour. Maybe longer if he stops somewhere. If he hides.
I shouldn't. This is wrong. This crosses a line. This is—
I step inside anyway. Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck all of this.
It smells different in here. The first thing I notice. The thing that hits me immediately.
Wrong.
No…Not wrong. Different. New.
The room used to smell like sex. Sweat and release and perfume and cologne all mixed together. The scent of bodies and pleasure and letting go. Like cologne and sweat and spilled whiskey. Masculine. Dark. Ours. Now it smells clean. Soft. Domestic.
Like fucking laundry detergent —something floral, something fresh— and something sweeter underneath. Faint. Subtle. But there. Definitely there.
I shouldn't be here. Know it. Feel it. The violation of privacy. The line I'm crossing.
Don't give a shit. Not even a little bit.
Now I'm just angry. Tense. Wired. Still pissed. That girl's perfume is lingering on my shirt —cheap, cloying, nothing like whatever this is— and all I can think about is how this used to be our room. Ours. The three of us. Our space. Our rules. The one place in this massive house where we could bring whoever we wanted and not deal with Dad's judgmental looks.
Max Carter took that from us. Stole it. Without asking. Without earning it. Just moved in and claimed it like he has any right to anything in this house.
The bed's made. Neat. Hospital corners. Pillows arranged. Everything perfect. Everything in its place. Like he's a fucking hotel guest instead of someone who lives here. Like he's temporary. Like he doesn't belong.
He's right.
He doesn't.
I move to the desk. My boots are loud on the hardwood. I don't try to be quiet. He's not here. No one will know. Laptop closed. Password protected, probably. No way to access it without breaking in. Boring. Nothing to see there. Nothing to use.
The dresser then. Dark wood. Six drawers. Organized. Neat.
Top drawer. I pull it open. The runners slide smooth. Expensive furniture. T-shirts. Folded like he's got OCD or something. Each one identical. Edges aligned. Perfect rectangles. Color-coordinated. Pathetic. Control freak. Or maybe just damaged. Probably both.
Second drawer. Jeans. Folded the same way. Dark denim on the left. Faded on the right. Everything organized.
Third—I open it. More clothes. Sweatpants. Joggers. Then my hand hits something unexpected.
Something hard under a stack of shirts. Solid. Cylindrical. Hidden.
I pull it out. Wrap my fingers around it. Lift it free.
Orange pill bottle. Bright. Unmistakable. Medical. No label. Nothing. Completely blank. Just blank orange plastic that's been peeled clean. Deliberately. Someone removed the label. Someone wants to hide what these are.
Hiding something. He’s definitely hiding something.
I twist the cap off —it fights me, child-proof, I have to press down and turn— and shake a few pills into my palm. They tumble out. Light. Innocuous. Small. Round. White. Unmarked. Could be anything. Bitter-smelling, kind of chalky. I hold them close. Sniff. Acrid. Medicinal. But what?
There are at least thirty of these fuckers in here. Maybe more. I shake the bottle. The rattle is loud. Substantial. This is a full prescription. Recently filled.
Could be anything. Anxiety meds. Xanax. Ativan. Klonopin. God knows he seems anxious enough. Antidepressants. SSRIs. Something to take the edge off his perpetual misery. Maybe the golden boy's got issues he doesn't want Mommy knowing about. Secrets. Problems. Cracks in the perfect adopted son facade.
Or maybe it's something else. Something worse. Something that would explain why he's so fucking odd. So closed off. So wrong.
I stare at the pills. Turn them over in my palm. Feel the weight. The texture.
I don't know what they are. Don't care. Not really. Not enough to investigate. Not enough to ask.
