When we all stare at her in bemusement, she continues. "Three over from the edge of the swing and two forward."
"I ... guess," Lance says, like he can't quite see the pattern. But I have to smile, because only Ashton would remember it this way. And because it is so arbitrary, we'll probably never forget.
"I have an old jewelry box that will fit in there perfectly. We can leave the notes inside."
Ashton and I sit on the swing, sharing her vape, while we work out the mechanics of secret note passing in a tree. I had no idea the complexities that would go into signaling that a note is hidden, and indicating who sent it and read it. But we eventually work it all out, and it's hopefully easy to remember. And the fact that we're resorting to hiding notes in trees to pass along messages is sad in its own right. But it's better than throwing hollowed acorns in each other's windows.
When we return to the main path, I pause at the entrance of the rose trellis, watching Brendan and Lance continue toward their dorm. Ashton already left us to go to the library. Brendan must sense me lingering because he looks over his shoulder just before they disappear. A few seconds later, he re-emerges, without Lance.
"I'll answer five of your questions, if you answer five of mine." Maybe it's the mellowing effect of the THC that's making me so accommodating, because originally I was only going to answer three.
He grins. "Why five?"
"I was inspired by Ashton," I reply with an inadvertent giggle.
"These questions cannot be left inside the birch tree," he stresses. "It's in-person only."
"Of course," I say like he's crazy for even having to say it. "I would never want the others to know, or have it in writing."
"Good," he says in relief. "I'll figure out where and when and let you know."
"Okay."
"Why'd you change your mind?"
"Because I have a thing for knowing the truth."
"It's the only thing worth knowing." He winks before disappearing around the corner.
The first thing I do when I reach my room is dump out my personal possessions onto the bed, hoping my phone is inside and Niall overlooked it. But of course he didn't. The most valuable thing in it is my leather jacket, which I'm thrilled to have back. I'm shocked to find the tip money in a sealed plastic baggie. I lift the wedding band from the small pile of rings and bracelets I was wearing that night.
"Fucker." Of course I mean the man and not the ring. I wonder how Nick explained its absence to his wife. Which then makes me think of my mom.
And even though--or maybe because--I'm high, the worry that swarms inside of me feels as heavy as storm clouds. My mother isn't inept, but she's not responsible either. We looked out for each other. She calms me when I can't see beyond my own rage, which is usually incited by someone who hurt her. And I do everything I can to keep her from being hurt.
Now ... she's hurting and I can't be there for her.
I'm stuck here, unable to help her heart heal. She can't hear my words telling her she's so much better than half the people in her life. That they don't deserve her kindness or forgiveness. That I wish she didn't believe so easily. And she in return would say that she wishes I would trust more. That I should allow more people in so they can experience how caring and loving I truly am. I would then shrug off her words, allowing the anger to grow until it billows out and I end up in a fight with someone who says the wrong thing, or takes advantage of space that doesn't belong to them, or touches a part of me no one has a right to touch.
My mother would be waiting for me with an ice pack and a sorrowful expression. But never a lecture about how disappointed she is. She doesn't need to. Her eyes tell me more than that. They tell me she blames herself for who I've become, only making me angrier. Which makes being here that much worse, because right now we can't be there for each other. And I really need her now, probably as much as she needs me.
The heaviness of the storm swirling inside me turns volatile quickly. I let out a growling scream of frustration and tear the mountain of decorative throw pillows from the bed and pelt them across the room.
"I don't belong here!" My words are filled with anger, desperation, and helplessness.
I collapse on the bed and scream into a pillow at the top of my lungs. I keep screaming until there isn't any air left and the sound chokes out of me. I don't realize I'm crying until I lift my face and see the wet marks left behind.
A knock draws my attention. "Lana?" Ashton calls from the other side. "Can I come in?"
I brush the dampness from my cheeks and let out a long breath to collect myself before answering.
There's a woeful look on Ashton's face when she enters, and before I know what's happening, she's bending over and wrapping her arms around me. She practically suffocates me within her fierce hug, my face pressed into the sharp angles of her shoulder. I'm too shocked to do anything but hang limply with my arms by my side. When it's obvious she doesn't plan on letting go, I hug her back.
"My heart needed that," Ashton tells me with a warm smile when she eventually releases me. "Thank you."
How does a person respond to that? Then again, who says things like that?
"Uh, sure. No problem."