Page 143 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“Please,” she begs. “It’s spring break. I wanna have fun and do something I’ve never done before.”

“How about we go snorkeling or something, not gethigh?”

“How about we do both?” she counters.

I tap the entryway table in my room, shaking my head and thinking about it. Then I look back up at her. “Come on, pretty girl. Let’s go have a little fun.”

35

Mason

The boat rocks gently beneath us as we drift at the dock, engine off, just the sound of water slapping softly against the sides. The sun is still out, but it’s cloudy today, so the breeze is keeping it pretty chilly. Simone sits cross-legged across from me, hoodie pulled over her head, watching me with curious and cautious eyes.

“You’re gonna hate the taste,” I warn.

“I drink cheap tequila on the weekends, and whatever is in that ‘boy punch’ y’all make,” she says. “I think I’ll survive.”

I hand it to her, and she takes a generous hit.

She immediately coughs—likereallycoughs. Then throws her hand out to give it back to me.

She stares at it in my hand after I take it like it offended her.

“Oh my gosh,” she wheezes, eyes watering. “Why does it taste like that? Why does it burn? Is itsupposedto burn? Damn, I think my lungs mightactuallybe on fire.”

I take a slow hit and hold it in. “Yeah, the burn means it’s working…just like when that tequila goes down.”

She shakes her head, still coughing violently. “What the fuck—”

I laugh, reaching out to steady her when she leans forward. “Breathe.”

“Iambreathing,” she protests between coughs. “This is just…aggressive.”

When she finally sits back up and stops coughing, I hand it back, and she takes another hit—slower this time.

A few minutes pass as she stares out at the water. Then back at me.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “I think it’s happening.”

I raise a brow. “What’s happening?”

She squints at her own hands. “They feel…loud.”

I lose it. “Loud?”

She nods seriously. “Yeah. Like they’re yelling.”

She bursts out laughing—full, unfiltered, head thrown back laughter. And something in my chest loosens watching her.

She tells me that’s all she can handle, so I finish off the blunt myself as we start talking. It’s slow, and easy…and about nothing at first, and then everything.

All the walls feel like they’re down—the high making not hiding less scary.

“What were you like as a kid?” she asks, eyes getting heavy.

The question takes me aback, and I don’t really know how to answer it, seeing as I try not to think about my childhood much, so I answer with the first thing that comes to mind. “Nota kid…”

She looks confused.