Page 102 of The Last Special Thing

“Oh, another guest! Let me say hello.” Madisson beelined to a girl they had graduated with.

Amelia lingered in the kitchen. She drank half her cup, then refilled it. At Art’s height, it was strange she hadn’t seen him yet.

She was headed for the living room when the high school linebacker intercepted her.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you in forever!” he said.

“Not since graduation night,” she smiled politely back, her eyes scanning past him.

“Is Weston here?” he tried to follow her eyesight.

“No, he’s already on his way to MIT.”

“So you’re free then?” He leaned his block-shaped head closer to her.

“What?” She pulled back. It was strange that no one from high school knew Art existed, yet they stood in his apartment. “I’ve got to go,” she said, pushing past him.

Art’s Skyy bottle was on the living room table, half of it gone. Proof he had slipped by her.

Her eyes fell to Evan and Logan, the guitarists from Honey Cat, leaning against the wall next to the window. They would know where Art was. She made her way over to them, shoving around a large man.

“Where’s Art?” she asked, skipping the pleasantries.

They exchanged a look.

“What?” she asked.

“I don’t think Art wants to be found right now,” Evan said, taking a sip of his beer.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” she asked.

Logan looked past her.

“Logan?” she asked.

Evan and Amelia both stared at him.

“Listen, he was with some blonde chick outside, but that was like half an hour ago,” Logan answered. “You’re not going to do anything crazy, right?”

Crazy? Oh, she could be crazy.

“Is he cheating on me?” she spat.

“This isn’t our place,” Evan said with a belittling smirk.

“What the fuck, Evan?” Logan asked. He turned to Amelia, “He’s not cheating. It’s uh.” His voice dropped. “Heroin.”

The air knocked her lungs. Art had never done heroin. Not unless he lied about it on their first date or did it sometime between then and now.

She searched for a clue. Their conversation earlier was weird. She reached to recall exactly what he had said. No matter what happens, I need you to know I love you.

She should have known there was more to it than their fight. There was always more to it.

She pivoted on her heels, throat tight. She had to find him.

Outside, there were clusters of people. Panic, tangled with the alcohol, heated in her chest. She spun in circles.

Groups of men, groups of women, groups intermixed. But no Art.