SCARLETT PARKER
Its been two weeks since I saw those pills in Caden's pocket. Every-time I see him, the image of that baggy materializes in my mind and stops me short of any word I was ever gonna say.
He's none-the-wiser, and in fact, he seems to be happier than ever in my presence. I was worried he would somehow find out that I knew, and things would get messy, but any trace of the truth I try to find in his eyes isn't there.
He just looks like Caden.
I don't know what I was expecting. Sunken eyes, shallow cheekbones, grey-tinged skin? It's what I know from the past; the sight of him steadily deteriorating into the dirt. Or the velvet of his thousand-dollar casket. His mind was nuclear but his body was pollution.
He looks fine. Great, even.
Which is why the possibility of those few pills just being recreational pop into my mind. Some people can control themselves; they're all wild hair and sharp smiles. Not afraid of the fun many never grew into. Shades covering their eyes indoors; limitless energy and flashing lights. Hanging jaws bitten onto pacifiers.
They can take the drug, enjoy it, and stop.
It's a gift not many have, but i'm sure he's just curing his curiosity. Trying something out. If his tanned skin and bright eyes mean anything.
Coincidentally, he texts me, "Are u free Friday night?" It's Thursday now. I try to think if I've somehow forgotten any plans for tomorrow, but come up blank.
"No, why??" I type out, sending only seconds after.
"Someone from the team is throwing a house party. Wanna come?"
Honestly, I've never been one for parties really. They're too loud, and stuffy, and the music booms through the speakers so loud that your ears ring for days afterwards.
But I wanna see him, so I say, "what's the address?"
He sends it; only 15 minutes away from my house. That's fine. It'll be okay. I can just head over and hang out with him and the party will be fun.
"yeah i'll go! anyone picking up or do i drive myself?"
He responds, saying, "u drinking or no??"
Am I? I guess it could give me courage, but I don't need to if we don't have a designated driver or something.
A few minutes after I had sent a message consisting of, "depends..is everyone else drinking cause if we need a DD I can be it."
He texts back saying, "i'll prob be drinking if thats ok with u? u don't gotta be the DD we could send an uber or smthn??"
"idk if i can force my drunk self to order an uber at 2 am lmao"
"me neither...one time i jumped off the roof of this dudes house WHILE drunk and then PUKED everywhere when I was 14.."
And then, "I got in so much trouble for drinking."
My jaw drops, eyes nearly bulging as I send back an alerted, "you jumped off the ROOF? while drunk? at 14?!"
How is he okay. Like seriously.
"no i meant like into a pool..just casually mentions i fell off a roof LMAO"
Okay, that makes more sense. "guessing u still somehow got hurt?? imagine belly flopping when u hit the water."
"I don't have to imagine."
I spend the rest of the night laughing; texting him. It's nice.
_._._._._._._
Turns out that I do end up being the designated driver. I don't mind, I offered it up for a reason.
I had picked Caden up from his house. His lawn is slightly overgrown and his fence creaks when you open it. But it looks lived in; more than I could ever say about mine.
His dark brown hair was windswept, greenish-brown eyes glinting in the rays of the warm-toned sunset that was reflecting off the dashboard; eyes squinted. Royal blue converse thump the car floor to the beat of the music.
He had worn those same shoes the first time he came over.
"It's starting to really feel like spring," Is the first thing he says once we step outside of the car. "feels nice."
"Spring, as in, fifty degrees."
He laughs a little; white teeth flashing, "Shut up," we're parked curbside of a large brown home. There's dozens of cars littered throughout the streets—the line follows to the next block.
"But you know what I mean, like, that grass is green, green. It was brown slush a month ago."
"Green green?" I ask, following Caden to the home's entryway. The door is mahogany oak, and the design of artificial spidery cracks is carved into the stone of the patio's concrete walls.
"The greenest version of grass there is," his head swivels backwards to check that im still following him, and his steps halt as we come face-to-face with the doors sturdy oak.
He knocks once, twice, three times before the door whirls open to reveal a porcelain-skinned girl, her hair a pale blonde and her eyes a pale brown.
"Come in, come in," words slightly slurred, she ushers us inside the doorway with stumbling backwards steps. The air is tinged with the prominent stench of weed, it's skunk-like smell polluting the house. The floor is hardwood, but I can already see a few spills staining the floor. Solo cups lay abandoned and empty on every surface.
Despite what I originally thought, Caden does not go to immediately greet his friends, but instead slips his fingers around my wrist and lightly drags me along towards the kitchen. I have to repeatedly mentally scream at myself to breathe.
"Okay, so..." We push ourselves through the various groups of people crowded in the kitchen, his grip tightens when we squeeze through the gaps of the crowd. "There's vodka, there's wine coolers...uhm, beer, gin, tequila...I think that's it." He says, sifting through the bottles sitting on the kitchen's marble island.
Im still standing behind him, curled into myself as much as possible to seem smaller. This is making me claustrophobic. "What wine coolers are they?"
"Smirnoff," he says, "it's watermelon-something." Im able to move beside him when a group of people head to the living room, and I spot the box of wine coolers beside him. They're a deep-pink color and next to the blue and white cooler sitting to its right. I see that theres a few settled into the ice of the cooler, frost gathering on the bottle's foggy surfaces.
I remember something. "Oh shit, right, im DD. I almost forgot."
"Oh, yeah," he pushes away the box of wine coolers from my reach. "do not touch these." I smile a little when he points at me sternly, and nod my head to agree.
"What are you drinking, then?" I ask, leaning against the cool marble that digs into my bare stomach.
"Tequila—ready to not remember any of this tomorrow."
"In that case, I'll give you plenty of water to help the hangover."
"You're like some sort of guardian angel watching over me." He jokes and grabs the bottle of tequila. The pungent liquid splashes as it falls from the glass rim of the bottle, filling up a quarter of the plastic cup and dripping down his hand.
"Agh," Caden searches the room for paper towels, but only sets sight of an empty roll inside the holder.
"Just hurry and wipe it on your pants." He immediately follows my words and wipes it down the surface of his rough, black ripped-jeans. They're slightly baggy and worn down.
"No one will ever know."
"No one," I agree.
He sips from his cup, a grimace painting his face before he swallows and starts to repeatedly shake his head from side to side. To distract himself from the burn, im sure.
"Where are your friends?" I ask, finally. Honestly, I half-expected to get ditched by him the moment we walked through the door. Its nothing against him, I've just been subjected to Leah and Katie's party escapades for over a year now.
"Not sure." His voice echoes into the rim of his cup as he talks, tipping his neck back and taking a larger gulp than before.
"I thought you would want to go see them?"
"Later, probably. Right now I just want to be with you."
My heart beats a little faster at that.
"Or do you just need a ride home so you can blackout?" He seems a little looser now. Easygoing. Muscles relaxed and a smile curling his lips. I hope he doesn't actually blackout, dealing with drunk people is already annoying enough—add projectile vomiting and im out.
"Fuck, busted!"
We eventually venture off onto the couch. Its stiff and uncomfortable, clearly for appearance purposes rather than comfort. When we both settle ourself down onto the firm cushions, he leans back and lays his arm around the back of the couch.
We sit in silence for a short moment, the chatter and blasting music filling the absence of conversation. Its not a tense silence, but rather comfortable, settling between us as we take in the party around us. The air feels light and smooth around us despite the pungent smoke being blown only six feet away.
The culprit is a dark-skinned boy sitting on the floor with a group of people. Black hair tightly coiled; a deep-purple beanie wrapped snug around his head. I watch as he takes a drag of the slightly-crooked joint perched between his fingers, the ash collected at the end of the joint blazing a bright orange.
"What are you looking at?" Caden asks, startling me slightly. I turn my head to the right in his direction, "That group smoking right there. 'Smells strong."
"You smoke often?" His gaze has joined mine, locked onto the scene, before I look down at my lap to answer his question. "Not really, It makes me super paranoid."
"Oh damn," he says after swallowing a sip of tequila, "the opposite for me. Makes me chill out."
"Do you smoke?"
"Sometimes, not too much."
He gets up to head over to the kitchen and refill his drink. When I ask if I should come along, he tells me to make sure nobody takes his spot, so I curl my legs up onto the couch where he had previously sat.
To my discomfort, purple beanie guy soon notices my presence. Our eyes lock for a second before I flicker mine away and pray he doesn't acknowledge me again.
But he does, saying, "want a hit?". I'm confused—until I realize he probably saw me staring at him earlier and interpreted it as me wanting to join the circle.
"Uhm, i'm good." Caden still isn't back.
"'Aight, cool," he turns back 'round to his friends, passing the joint to a south-east asian guy with dyed red hair.
I wait a few more minutes. Shift in my seat to pass the time, watch as some blond-haired dude knocks his head back and downs a shot of beer after missing in beer pong.
Eventually, ten minutes later, he stumbles back clutching a full solo cup.
"Holy shit, Caden," I start, watching the slightly-yellowed liquid swirl around in his cup, "Is that just tequila?"
"Yeah, what about it?" This time when he takes a sip, he barely reacts—nose scrunching up just the slightest bit. He's getting to that stage of drunk when alcohol barely burns, barely tastes.
"Maybe you should slow down or something?"
"Scarlett," he turns to me, "I can control myself. I'm no lightweight."
"Okay, yeah, till you're puking in the bushes outside."
"I have more class than that," he gasps, mock-offended, "I'd find a trash can or a toilet. Acting like im a barbarian."
He's slowly draining his cup of it's contents, truthfully I've given up trying to stop him. I'd say that if he gets too messy, too drunk, I'll leave; but I know I won't. I'll probably rub his back to soothe him or some bullshit. God.
"Don't blame me when you get alcohol poisoning."
"Not planning on it." He laughs, setting the cup down onto the sticky wooden table sat in front of us. Before I can process that he's spoke once more, the joint is passed to him, and only then do I piece together his moderately-slurred words, "Hey, can I get a hit?"
When he inhales the smoke he holds it for a few moments before thick white fog spews from his mouth; near translucent as it evaporates into the stuffy atmosphere. Bright lights, slick bodies, wandering hands and condensation coated on beer bottles.
He doesn't cough. I kinda expected him to.
When he passes the joint back to it's rightful owner we're invited once more into the circle. Im hesitant, about not knowing these people, but when Caden nods and glances at me questionably I cave and agree.
He smiles. It's a sharp smile, rosy lips and whitened teeth, slightly-sharpened canines peeking through. He has a mole—right above his lip on his cupids bow, the left side.
Time passes quickly after that. Puff, puff, pass, but I deny each offer every time it comes to be my turn. Caden exchanges numbers with purple-beanie guy after they hit it off, who I now know is named Eden. He deals, apparently.
When I'm shoving him in my car he mumbles something incomprehensible. "What?", I ask, but he never responds.
I was wrong, he puked out the car window instead. I had rubbed his back comfortingly, just as I had predicted I would do so hours earlier.
He starts to speak, saying, "Sometimes when I look at you I feel..." he trails off, and I inspect his words and try to find a meaning. When he says nothing more I almost let his words go, until his low mumbles reverberate over the humming of the car, "I don't know, complete, I guess."
His words are slurred, droopy and loose, but I somehow understand him. I always do.
"Complete?"
"Yeah." He rests his head against the car window.
"Complete how?"
I wait for an answer, anticipation thrumming through my veins, but I don't get one.
And when I look over to my right, his eyes are closed and his soft snores sound slightly nasally. There's a thin sheen of sweat coating his skin, but he looks happy. Free.
He says I complete him, but that couldn't be further from the truth. He slots his way within my life and connects the pieces, brings me to life for the first time since Noah lost his.
Had I known he would rip the pieces apart only months later, disarrange the puzzle pieces of stability we had once built, break me in ways I thought I would never be broken again—I would have never allowed myself to love him then.
But I did.