Lock and Key(60)

This was because I was also drunk, the result of the pint of vodka we’d shared soon after I’d arrived. That I remembered at least partially—him pulling out the bottle from his pocket, along with a couple of orange-juice cartons someone had nicked from the cafeteria during breakfast. We’d poured some of each into an empty Zip cup, then shook them up, cocktail style, and toasted each other in his front seat, the radio blasting. And repeat, until the orange juice was gone. Then we’d switched to straight shots, each burning a little less as they went down.

“Damn,” he’d said, wiping his mouth as he passed the bottle back to me. The wind had been blowing, all the trees swaying, and everything felt distant and close all at once, just right. “Since when are you such a lush, Cooper?”

“Always,” I remembered telling him. “It’s in my genes.”

Now he took another deep drag, sputtering slightly as he held it in. My head felt heavy, fluid, as he exhaled, the smoke blowing across me. I closed my eyes, trying to lose myself in it. That morning, all I’d wanted was to feel oblivious, block out everything I’d heard about my mom from Cora. And for a while, sitting with him and singing along to the radio, I had. Now, though, I could feel it hovering again, crouching just out of sight.

“Hey,” I said, forcing my eyes open and turning my head. “Let me get a hit off that.”

He held it out. As I took it, my fingers fumbled and it fell to the ground between us, disappearing into the grass. “Shit,” I said, digging around until I felt heat—pricking, sudden—against my skin. As I came up with it, I had to concentrate on guiding it to my mouth slowly, easing my lips around it before pulling in a big drag.

The smoke was thick, sinking down into my lungs, and feeling it I sat back again, my head hitting the fender behind me. God, this was good. Just floating and distant, every worry receding like a wave rushing out and then pulling back, wiping the sand clean behind it. I had a flash of myself, walking through these same woods not so long ago, feeling this same way: loose and easy, everything still ahead. Then I hadn’t been alone, either. I’d been with Marshall.

Marshall. I opened my eyes, squinting down at my watch until it came into focus. That was what I needed right now— just any kind of closeness, even if it was only for a little while. Sandpiper Arms was only a short walk from here, via a path through the woods; we’d done it tons of times.

“Where you going?” Aaron asked, his voice heavy as I pushed myself to my feet, stumbling slightly before regaining my footing. “I thought we were hanging out.”

“I’ll be back,” I told him, and started for the path.

By the time I reached the bottom of Marshall’s stairs, I felt slightly more coherent, although I was sweating from the walk, and I could feel a headache setting in. I took a moment to smooth down my hair and make myself slightly more presentable, then pushed on up to the door and knocked hard. A moment later, the door creaked open, and Rogerson peered out at me.

“Hey,” I said. My voice sounded low, liquidy. “Is Marshall home? ”

“Uh,” he replied, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“It’s cool if he’s not,” I told him. “I can wait in his room.”

He looked at me for a long moment, during which I felt myself sway, slightly. Then he stepped aside.

The apartment was dark, as usual, as I moved down the hallway to the living room. “You know,” Rogerson said from behind me, his voice flat, “he probably won’t be back for a while.”

But at that point, I didn’t care. All I wanted was to collapse onto the bed, pulling the sheets around me, and sleep, finally able to block out everything that had happened since I’d woken up in my own room that morning. Just to be someplace safe, someplace I knew, with someone, anyone, familiar nearby.

When I pushed open the door, the first thing I saw was that Whitman’s sampler. It caught my eye even before I recognized Peyton, who was sitting beside it, a chocolate in her hand. I watched, frozen, as she reached it out to Marshall, who was lying beside her, hands folded over his chest, and dropped it into his open mouth. This was just the simplest gesture, taking mere seconds, but at the same time there was something so intimate about it—the way his lips closed over her fingers, how she giggled, her cheeks pink, before drawing them back—that I felt sick, even before Marshall turned his head and saw me.

I don’t know what I was expecting him to do or say, if anything. To be surprised, or sorry, or even sad. In the end, though, his expression said it all: I Could Care Less.

“Oh, shit,” Peyton gasped. “Ruby, I’m so—”

“Oh my God,” I said, stumbling backward out of the door frame. I put my hand to my mouth as I turned, bumping the wall as I ran back down the hallway to the front door. Vaguely, I could hear her calling after me, but I ignored this as I burst out into the daylight again, gripping the banister as I ran down to the parking lot.

“Ruby, wait,” Peyton was yelling, her own steps loud on the stairs as she followed me. “Jesus! Just let me explain!”

“Explain? ” I said, whirling to face her. “How in the world do you explain this?”

She stopped by the banister, hand to her heart, to catch her breath. “I tried to tell you,” she gasped. “That night, at your house. But it was so hard, and then you kept saying how things had changed, anyway, so—”