Page 37 of Reverie

Lies. I put my guard up, standing up straight and preparing to walk away from Rio and this conversation. “Why?”

“Because you matter to Amelia,” he says simply.

I exhale, forcing myself to keep my frustration from spilling out onto Rio.

“I’m going to trust you, Rio.”

He smiles.

When he stands, moving much easier than his earlier movements, I prepare to leave the garden.

“Misha is rough around the edges, but he’s as good of a man that can exist,” Rio says.

“What does that even mean?” Not far away, the crunch of the pea gravel on the path distracts me.

“It means that all men have some evil in them. Some more than others. I’ve gotten very good at figuring out the people behind their masks.”

I catch a glimpse of long, dark hair. Ella. I return my focus back to Rio.

“And what do you see behind my mask?”

Rio smiles, a genuine one this time, and he unbuttons his shirt. In a quick jerk, he rips the bandage from his shoulder.

Instead of the raw wound that should be present beneath his collarbone, the skin is smooth and unblemished.

This can’t be real.

When Rio re-buttons his shirt, he says, “You’re someone who has been profoundly hurt, but you’re trying like hell to be good.”

And with that sage wisdom, Rio returns to the house.

He’s right. After all the shit I’ve done and all the shit I’ve been through…I didn’t used to care about what I did and who I did it with.

But once I became fully responsible for August, things changed. And then Winter came into my life, and things changed even more.

I run my finger along one of the dozen roses in my hands, pausing to take in their aroma.

Then, the smell of marijuana smoke blends with the floral notes.

Turning toward the scent, I take the steps necessary to reach Ella. It takes me ten minutes to find where she’s run off to. She sits on the short step of a cedar gazebo with her knees pulled toher chest. She holds a joint in one hand, watching me with a hint of wariness as I approach.

“Sharing is caring, Ella.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s alone, but I am surprised to find her sitting under a gazebo in the middle of Misha’s garden, smoking a joint.

A thin rivulet of smoke comes from the end of Ella’s blunt, and she raises an eyebrow as she inhales. The cherry at the end of the spliff glows bright.

“I don’t want to test your sobriety, H,” she says after blowing out a lungful of smoke.

“If there’s ever a time to indulge, it’s now, don’t you think?” I place the roses on the bench near my hip.

I haven’t smoked in quite a while, definitely not since August became my full focus. And while my sobriety coach might shake their head at my indulgence, the fact is we all almost died less than twenty-four hours ago, and taking the edge off is warranted.

Ella hums. “Touché.” She hands me the J, and I don’t hesitate to bring it to my lips and inhale deeply.

“Where did you get this?” I ask, holding in the smoke.

When I exhale, she says, “Max.” Then she shrugs.