Page 47 of The Last Special Thing

Amelia pressed a hand against her heart, her breath ragged, eyes wide, and then the world adjusted back. The red flames had gone. Her body loosened, and her hand fell. She repositioned, extending her legs out in front of her. Her fingers snapped to the back of her neck, still moistened from sweat.

“You’re okay,” Art said faintly.

Her chest rose and fell.

“You’re okay.” Art’s voice was stronger this time.

He put his palms on her cheeks and turned her head to meet his eyes.

“You’re okay.” His tone was firm.

Her eyes fluttered closed. When she opened them again, he was still looking at her.

“I was on drugs.” She sought validation. She needed to know that she was not in a telenovela. No red flames were coming for her. The world was not opening up into another dimension. None of it was real.

“Yes.” Art said.

“But I didn’t remember I was on drugs. It felt real,” she insisted.

“Ah, that is the hype of salvia.” He let his hands fall from her, satisfied that she had returned from her trip.

“How long was it?” she asked.

Reyna checked her phone. “Ten minutes.”

Fuck. She would have believed Reyna if she had said hours.

Art handed the pipe and salvia to Max, who packed the bowl for Madisson.

Amelia was still, as everyone else took their turns tripping on the drug, but she couldn’t focus.

She didn’t laugh with the others, and she didn’t try to ground anyone. She was locked in her mind, trying and failing to make sense of her own experience.

Her fingers twitched against her chest, as if the mouse would reveal itself and she would learn that the drugs were real, and the reality with her friends in front of her was the false world.

Everyone else moved on after their turns, as if what had happened wasn’t terrifying. Maybe it was fun for them. Maybe it wasn’t meant to mean anything. But to her, it did. The world could be terrifying, and dancing in delusion could have consequences. Warning bells sounded, and she promised herself that she would never smoke salvia again.

Amelia didn’t linger at the apartment. After everyone took their turns, she let Art walk her to her car before the sun had even set. He drew a heart on her car, but the parting kiss felt hollow as her mind lingered on the salvia experience.

On the windy drive home, she wondered what Weston would think of her now. She had changed, she had warned him. He was better off without her. He had a path ahead of him, as she once had. Now she was walking in the dirt, trudging her own path.

This was what she had wanted - an adventure. Then she would get right back on the straight and narrow for UCLA.

Amelia parked and walked into her back house. Not a minute later, the light from her parents’ bedroom turned off.

Going through all the motions of what she should do: putting on her nightgown, washing her face, drinking a glass of water, the feeling still lingered that she was in the wrong reality.

When she folded herself into her sheets that night, she dreamt of a better time. She and Art, running on the beach, toes squishing into the sinking sand. They laughed, hair blowing.

She pushed out any other dream sequences involving a blond boy with disappointed eyes that tried to make their way in.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Afew days later, Amelia pulled up to the front of the fast-casual Mexican restaurant. Balancing on the toes of his skater shoes, Art waited on the curb with his dark hair blowing in the beach breeze. He leaned in and kissed her before sliding into the seat, resting a takeout container on his lap.

“Hope I didn’t make you wait too long.” The dashboard clock indicated that she did.

“Gave me more time to perfect your nachos.” His smile was easy, unbothered. “I sweet-talked the cook into giving me extra jalapeños.”