My heart squeezes because I’m suddenly wondering if Colson had someone to turn to and confide in when he was a kid.
God. I hope so. No one deserves to grow up in an environment like this, one where it’s clear his mom hasn’t bothered to take care of anything.
“Here,” a feminine but raspy voice says.
Fear licks up my spine, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand. I move to my right, peeking around the curve of the wall. A woman, who I assume to be Colson’s mom, leans to the side with a wad of cash in her hand, offering it to a man sitting next to her. “It’s all there.”
“Better not be lyin’ to me,” he snaps.
“You said you’d give me half off for sharing what I had with you before. Count it.”
My guts coil tighter as I watch the man, clad in ratty jeans with paint stains and a hooded sweatshirt. He shuffles through bills, counting the money with a crease in his brows.
Am I literally watching a drug deal go down?
Oh God, please tell me it’s not.
I didn’t catch the exchange of drugs, but who’s to say that didn’t happen when I was still back in the room or maybe it hasn’t happened yet.
If Colson hadn’t told me that his mother is a recovering addict, I might not think much of it, but inviting a man into your home at midnight who you’re handing twenties to?
Yeah, that can’t mean anything good.
The man bobs his head in appreciation. “Nice doin’ business with ya.”
He moves for the exit, but Colson’s mom’s hands fly out, gripping onto his arm so fast that I almost miss it. “Hold up. Where’s my dope?”
He cracks a lazy grin, shoving the cash into one back pocket to pull something from the other. Flicking a baggie I can’t get a good look at onto the coffee table, the woman beside him darts for it, snatching it to her chest as he leaves out the front door. She turns, plops down on the sofa, and pulls an old shoe box from underneath it. She lifts the lid and tosses it to the side.
My parents shielded me from Harrison Heights for a reason, kept me on the other side of the Sycamore River to protect me from stuff like this. Never in my life have I seen something so raw and heartbreaking. To see someone intent on a substance so strongly that it keeps them going back for more…
My heart races as fast as a train as I retreat and press my back against the wall. Whatever is in that box…
This is why you should’ve stayed in the bedroom.
Shock twines around me so tightly, it’s like my body is hardened cement, motionless and rock hard. If I were to be thrown into a pool, I’d sink down, down, down to the bottom. I force my eyes shut, squeezing them through the sounds of her preparing whatever it is she’s about to do. The saliva that coats my mouth has a bad taste, but all I keep thinking about is the guy in the room who invited me here.
Colson, Colson, Colson.
How didn’t he become a product of his environment? What made him pull away? When did it click for him that this isn’twhat you’re supposed to do with your life? That there’smoreout there?
He’s more open now than he’s ever been but…the image of what he looked like when he showed up at my apartment bloody and bruised hits me. Why would someone do that to him? Is it related to the activities his mother does?
No.
Colson wouldn’t, would he?
Sebastian wouldn’t have invited him to live with him if he were into drugs, right?
Every time I’ve been around Colson, he hasn’t seemed like he’s under the influence. I’ve been to college parties where kids were too high to keep their eyes open.
He’s always been in control and aware.
Coherent.
But…there are so many questions.
I can’t help but wonder if it all comes back to this, to his mom and her lifestyle.
