I’m relaxed on Kelley’s chest, his fingers are lazily running up and down my arm, sending electrified goose bumps from my ears to my toes, and I release a small sigh of contentment. I feel a twinge of guilt, being so happy while Bailey is miserable, but the thought dissipates when I feel Kelley press a random kiss on the top of my head. He’s so attentive and affectionate that I could cry. Who’d have thought?
Kelley passes the bowl down to me and I take a hit, relaxing as the haze blankets me. I let it quiet the questions in my mind, the what-ifs and the how-tos and the worries are silenced, and I let myself just be.
The only time I feel safe enough to do this, smoke weed or get drunk or do anything that could threaten my handle on reality, is when I’m with these three people. Only these three people. And with college ending, our lives changing, evenings like this probably won’t be happening much longer. So, instead of organizing my mental to-do lists, I sit back and let myself enjoy this moment with these people.
The past week with Kelley has been nothing short of blissful. It’s surreal and unexpected, but it feels like it’s always been this way. Like it’s how our relationship should have always been. I’m completely immersed in the ocean that is Kelley Pierce, only coming up for air to study and work.
I’ve managed to mostly ignore my concerns. When I start to feel anxious, I list out all the things currently going right in my life. I haven’t dropped the ball anywhere, so I let myself enjoy the bliss. I’m allowed to. I deserve this.
On an exhale, I tread lightly and say to Bailey, “I thought you guys knew each other. He acted like he knew you at the competition.”
“Nope,” she says quickly, emphasizing the P with a loud pop. “I definitely have never met that guy before. Ever.”
There’s more passion in her voice than I think she realizes, and even though I’m high, I can tell she’s hiding something. Because that picture she sent me from the night she went to Bar 31? The picture of the guy she was meeting? That picture was of Riggs Stanton, even if she won’t admit it. She may have said his name was Alex, but I’ve pulled the text back up and studied it. It is, without a doubt, Riggs Stanton. I want to ask her more, but she’s had a crappy day, so I let it drop for now.
“I can’t believe he’s a baseball player,” I muse after a few seconds. “It’s just so unexpected.”
“He’s not a baseball player,” Kelley chimes in. “He’s the baseball player. Pretty sure Riggs Stanton was courted last year by two different major league teams.”
“Then why is he still here?” I question.
“Dunno,” Jesse responds. “He just...turned them down, I guess.”
I pass the bowl off to Bailey, and we’re silent for a few minutes. I close my eyes and bob my head to the low music floating out of the Bluetooth speaker.
“Urrrrg!” Bailey yells, causing me to snap my eyes open and watch as she angrily blows out a huge puff of smoke, passing the bowl to her left. “I want to take his stupid palets de dames aux raisins and shove them down his stupid, ass-kissing throat and watch his beautiful stupid face turn purple while he chokes on them. And then I’ll do a dance on his corpse. While wearing my biker boots.”
I snort out a laugh at her horrible attempt at a French accent, and Jesse’s eyes bulge as he takes the bowl from her.
“Whoa there, killer. Weed is supposed to make you calm, Zen, not turn you into Ted Bundy. Say it with me now, woosah.” He reaches up and tries to rub her ear, but Bailey bats his hand away with a vicious growl.
“Hands off, Hernandez, or I’ll bite you. I can’t help it that I have a violent imagination.” She sighs and adds wistfully, “It’s a fatal flaw. I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge it as a problem, but I don’t care enough to do anything to change it.” Bailey shrugs and shoves a whole fudgey brownie cookie into her mouth.
I reach out and take her hand. “I’m sorry, Bails. I know how hard you worked for this. Your cookies were really, really good.”
“That’s a fact.”
“They were, B.”
“Thanks guys.” Bailey sighs again. “I just feel like the dick cheated. He only made palets de dames because he knew the owner is French. Like from France. And I guess she still owns a patisserie in Calais or something, too. It was a total brown-nose, sleazy move. I just know it. He probably doesn’t even like French pastries.”
“I mean, he did say his mom is French,” Jesse says, but Bailey shoots him a death glare and he throws up his palms.
“Whatever,” Bailey says with a scowl, mouth now full of cherry cheesecake bar. She’s eating her feelings. “Mark my words. Riggs Stanton is a dirty dealing, boot-licking charlatan. He’s no good, and he’s gonna regret fucking with me.”
No one says anything for a good minute, and then we all crack up, laughing at the same time.
“Who are you, Al Capone?” Jesse snorts. “Take it easy, Barnes. We don’t need a murder on our hands.” She tosses a pillow at his head and laughs when he’s too slow to dodge it and it smacks him in the face.
“Seriously, thanks for being here, guys,” she says quietly. “You’re the best.”
Hours later, after ordering a pizza, watching a movie, and sobering up, Jesse announces that he has to take an Uber home because he has a volunteer shift at the hospital in the morning.
“You can totally crash on the couch if you want,” Bailey calls from the kitchen where she’s washing the empty cookie containers. We demolished almost every cookie she’d had in the kitchen, and after her week of frenzied baking, it was a lot of cookies.
“Ha, no thanks. Last time I crashed here I woke up terrified, thinking I was paralyzed because I couldn’t feel my feet. I’d cut off their circulation because I had to drape my damn legs over the arm of the puny couch just to fit.”
“Our couch is a perfectly acceptable size,” I defend.