Page 76 of Sweet Torment

I lead her to my bathroom, pop open the medicine cabinet, and shake a green, sugar-dusted gummy out of the packet as she watches.

“Start with half,” I warn. “They’re strong.”

She plucks it from my palm, giving me a look and her voice dips to a secretive hush. “Freddie… this isn’t my first rodeo.” Her lips curve up slyly. “We grew it in the woods.”

Another day, another surprise with this girl.

She pops the whole thing in her mouth, then fixes me with a stare while she chews. “Well? Are you gonna let me get high alone? That’s just sad.”

I really shouldn’t. I need to keep my wits about me. I’m usually the responsible one, aside from Weller— who doesn’t know how to have any fun at all... But Bianca’s smile is a force of nature and I’m beginning to realize I’d do anything to see it.

I shrug and toss a gummy in my mouth. “Cheers.” The fruit flavor does little to mask the earthy undertone. She lights up like I just made her day, and I’d eat a hundred of these if it kept that look on her face.

“How long until it kicks in usually?”

“Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour.”

“Perfect.” She’s practically bouncing now. “Now we should go make something delicious.”

“What for?”

“You know like old times… and for when the munchies hit.”

The gummies kick in faster than I expect. One minute I’m helping Bianca gather ingredients, the next my limbs are buzzing with a pleasant weightlessness. Whitney’s hell house suddenly seems less menacing and more like I just walked onto the set of the Twilight Zone. Did her father actually not see the ridiculousness of bringing Bianca here? Or is that all part of it?

With him, you can never really tell what the goal is. I’ve barely seen him show expression beyond minor annoyance. Which was usually aimed at Whitney’s antics.

“She would absolutely shit a brick if she knew her father brought you here,” I say, the thought bubbling up. A laugh escapes me before I think better of it.

Bianca’s eyes light up and she snorts. “Bet the bitch is rolling in her grave.” She dumps an armful of ingredients onto the island counter, examining each label with exaggerated concentration, her tongue poking out between her lips.

“So,” I ask, rolling up my sleeves and washing my hands at the sink. “What have you decided on?”

“Cupcakes.” She holds up a bottle of vanilla extract like she’s discovered buried treasure, her smile widening.

I wonder how hard it was for her at the refuge to give up all her favorite foods. Was it all protein bars, survival rations and squirrel stew? The thought sobers me for a moment.

I move around the kitchen helping, but I can’t stop watching her. A genuine smile plays at the corners of her mouth as she measures flour, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. She’s fucking beautiful in Weller’s oversized t-shirt with her hair piled on top of her head, loose strands framing her face.

“What?” she asks, catching me staring. Her eyes narrow suspiciously, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Nothing.”

But that’s a lie. It’s everything. The way she blows her hair out of her eyes every few minutes, still not used to the shorter pieces. How she occasionally touches the marks we left on her neck, her fingertips tracing them absently like she’s making sure they’re still there. The sound of her laugh that I’ve been starved of for five fucking years.

She always had this way of making everything lighter. No matter what shit was happening in my life, Bianca could always make me smile. Even though I know she despises being here, having her here, replacing the memories with new ones feels like a weight lifted. Maybe we can carve out moments of goodness here in this fucked-up situation until we figure out how to escape for good. And when we do... we’ll build her a real home with a real nest. A place that’s safe and warm and actually hers. Whatever she wants.

“Bullshit,” she says, jabbing a flour-covered finger into my ribs. She’s close enough to kiss. But I’m a chicken.

“Remember those cookies we made for Winston’s birthday? The ones we accidentally put salt in instead of sugar?”

Her laugh erupts immediately, her head tilting back to expose the column of her throat. God, I want to press my lips there and feel the vibration of her laugh. What would she do if I did?

“They were awful,” she says, eyes crinkling at the corners. Her scent blooms in the air… warm, sweet, content.

“But he ate two anyway just to make us happy,” I point out, chuckling at the memory of Winston choking them down with a forced smile.

“I miss the shit out of him.” The laughter is replaced by something softer and sadder. “I hope one day things can just be like... normal, you know? We could have him over for dinner or to watch football...” She trails off, lost in thought. “More like it used to be with all of us.”