Sativa.

16. Misfits

Travis proposes going to party. Whenever Blaine mentions the car impounding he answers with absent nodding. Realizing she won't get a straight answer until going out she, begrudgingly, leaves him gaming with his friend Antonio.

A half hour later she's smashed on a small bench seat between Travis on the passenger side and Antonio on the drivers. The tiny truck chugs noisily down the road and the steering wheel visibly shakes. Walking might be safer.

Useless chit-chat filters the air, mostly about construction progress or occasional inoffensive jabs at her sudden obsession with home decorating. It's easy for Blaine to paint her smile behind red lipstick while pretending to be "one of the guys".

She doesn't ask where they're going. Even after the unstable vehicle rattles down Main Street. They pass a few mini shops catering to an older generation -- or people that really like antiques, used furniture, and bookstores.

Travis loops his long fingers through hers, leading her across the street behind Antonio. She knows where they're headed now.

There's only one decent bar in this town. Tonight a long line snakes out of the main entrance. They wait under a flickering sign that reads Misfits. Fractures of purple neon ignite the sidewalk beneath their feet.

Violet lights Travis's face dimly. She can't tell much from his expression in the dark. He stares ahead with mild enthusiasm. Occasionally his eyes will squint when he strains to see over the crowd, looking for the front of the line.

"Happy hour all night, bro!" Antonio exclaims with such fervor Blaine's surprised he doesn't begin to victory dance or something equally embarrassing. "Cha-ching!"

It's probably the millionth time Blaine's rolled her eyes at him that night.

Slowly, the line trickles forward. Fifteen minutes pass. The man that finally checks their ID's is as tall as he is wide and, with a passive but apish grunt, he wraps a pink wristband around her wrist.

As with everything else in this town the bar is small. The tiles are pale white contrasting with erratic blue light hop-scotching patterns in sync with an electronic tune cranked so loud the sound crackles. A dancing Antonio dives into the thick of the crowd.

Blaine squeezes Travis's hand tighter then makes a beeline for the bar. Bottles glow neon from the lights and the walls, dark black with colorful paint splatters, and the place is dizzying. All the shimmery colors are starting to give her a migraine.

"Corona and lime." Blaine tells the tatted man serving shots.

Once their drinks are served she faces Travis, sipping from her glass. She's forced to shout over the music. "Is this your way of avoiding me?"

He leans closer. "I'm not avoiding you!"

"Then what about your sister?"

"I told her about the car."

"Does she really do drugs, Travis?"

He doesn't answer at first but she notices his Adam's apple bob. "Yes. She's gonna take care of it though. Nothing you and me can do about it."

With that he starts to dance, pumping his fist through the air a couple times while taking a long swig from his beer. How is he so indifferent about all of this? To her it's a big deal but he's behaving like the accusations towards his sister are normal. Maybe they are.

A headache blooms against her skull so intensely Blaine gets woozy. Not like it will help but she downs the rest of her beer in a single swallow. While they're still next to the bar she orders another.