The Destiny of Violet and Luke(85)

“I’m sure you are.” I’m amused. “I think you and I could end up getting along, Greyson.”

“You think so?” he teases in a light tone as he sets the spoon down. “You know what I think would be the perfect new roommate bonding moment? Baking some brownies together.”

“I haven’t baked any brownies or anything really since I was six,” I admit.

He presses his hand to his heart and shakes his head. “Well, we need to change that. Granted, the best kind of bonding brownies are pot brownies, but I don’t have any pot.”

“Pot brownies?” I ask interestedly.

“Oh yes.” He picks up the bowl and heads to the corner of the kitchen. “My parents were very hippieish and used to make them.”

“And let you eat them?”

“No, but I started sneaking them when I was about fifteen and went through my teenage rebellious phase. I’m not going to lie, I still do it occasionally when I want to relax.”

“Did you wear dark clothing and write depressing poetry, too?”

“Yes, to the dark clothing.” He opens the microwave and puts the bowl inside. “But no to the poetry. I was more into lyrics and music.”

“Do you still write?” I ask. “Or play anything?”

He shakes his head as he closes the microwave door. “Nah, I may have been into it, but I wasn’t very good.” He presses buttons on the microwave and it clicks on. Then he turns around and reclines against the counter, facing me with his arms folded. “So what was your rebellious phase, Violet?”

I glance down at my dark clothes, hiding my tattoos. “I think I might still be going through it.”

“And who are you rebelling from?” he wonders.

“Myself.”

He laughs under his breath. “What about your parents? Did they hate—or do they still hate your rebellious phase?”

My heart drops into my stomach and I suddenly remember where I was headed before I got sidetracked with this conversation. “You know,” I say as calmly as I can as I get up off the stool. “If you really want to make pot brownies, I can help with that.”

His brows lift as the microwave beeps from behind him. “Oh really?”

I shrug, backing for my room. “It’s up to you. I’m just offering.”

He moves away from the counter and pops the microwave door open. “Well, I’m not going to pass up an offer.”

I smile my fake, shiny necklace smile, the one I plaster on my face when I need to look happy. “I’ll be right back.” I duck into my room and go over to the boxes stacked at the foot of the unmade queen-size bed. I rifle through them until I find the prescription bottle I keep my stash in. I’m surprised Preston didn’t ask for it back, but he was probably too hung over on ecstasy to even remember I had it. But I don’t doubt that he’ll eventually remember and come asking for it. It seems like I should care, but at the moment I don’t.

I return to the kitchen where Greyson is reading the recipe book again, muttering the lyrics of the song under his breath.

“I’m going to have to tweak this a little now,” he says with his finger on the page.

“Well, tweak away.” I toss him the prescription bottle and his eyes widen as he catches it.

“Holy shit,” he says as he twists the cap off and glances at the fairly good stash inside. “Where’d you get this?”

“I have connections.” My smile is still bright like a polished cubic zirconium as I start for my room.

“Wait, don’t you want any?” he calls out.

“Sure,” I reply. “But I have to take care of something first.”

He gives me a puzzled look, but I walk away, leaving him in the kitchen to bake his pot brownies. I won’t go back and join him, not just because pot makes me evil and crazy like alcohol, but because I’m not in the mood for company anymore.

When I get back to my room, I lock the door. Then I head over to the window beside the bed and slide it open. I pop the screen off, set it down on the bed, then swing my legs out. I settle in the windowsill, staring down at the three-story drop to the concrete. I think I’d be able to survive it, but it’s hard to say for sure. If I hit my head, my skull would probably crack and if I landed on my feet, I’d probably compress my spine. Bones would probably break and my blood would stain the concrete like my parents’ blood stained the carpet, walls, and comforter on the bed. The fall would hurt if I survived, but for the briefest moment during the fall, I’d feel at peace, knowing that it could all just end.