LANA MASON
Sitting in the passenger seat of Christopher's black Corolla with the heat on high, I watch him jog up to a less-than-luxe apartment and knock on the door. He waits for a minute before a guy opens the door and gestures for him to come inside. Christopher glances back at the car and seems to be explaining that I'm waiting for him, so the guy nods and retreats back inside, closing the door. He looks like what every drug dealer I've ever imagined looks like-long untamed hair and baggy clothes that he could have picked up from Kurt Cobain's closet.
When he opens the door again, he hands Christopher a brown paper bag and they exchange a few words before my cousin starts heading back to me. The intrusive thought pops into my head that he's had sex with Maya multiple times, and the most disgusting thing is that I could too if I really wanted to. We're only related because my parents are dead. No blood or DNA has any part to play in that.
"Sorry," he huffs as he sits down in the driver's seat. "It's fuckin' freezing."
"Yeah," I bring my elbows into my sides with my hands in my jacket pocket, dreading the idea of leaving the warmth of the car. "So, where do we go now?"
"I know a place," he cryptically says as he begins to drive back the way we came.
That place turns out to be a playground and an extremely shitty one at that. We're still in the car, but I can tell from here that most of the equipment is rusted and there's only one adult swing and one baby swing. In place of wood chips, there's just concrete. It looks more like a trap from one of the Saw movies than it does a place for children to play. I would never bring Jane here.
"And you trust this, right?" I ask as Christopher fishes out a joint from the paper bag.
"Oh, yeah," he nods with great confidence. "Sam is one of my best friends and I've been buying from him since I was about 16."
"That's right, I remember your mom chewing your ass out for coming to my birthday party smelling like weed," I almost laugh, but I don't.
"Oh, shit, yeah," he chuckles with the rolled paper between his lips as he lights the tip.
I watch his chest expand as he takes a long pull, holds it for a few seconds, then releases it through parted lips. The thick smoke lingers in the car with us and I suddenly remember again why I don't usually smoke weed. The smell is awful, but I don't know how else I'm supposed to do Thanksgiving today. Because the restaurant is closed, Harry and I had planned for him to come over and eat my dad's deep-fried turkey and all of my mom's side dishes. He said he would love to come and that he would even make a couple of homemade pies when I warned him that they would all be store-bought and delivered by my aunts.
Now, I'm taking a massive hit off a blunt with my cousin in the passenger seat of his car, sitting at some sketchy park that looks like the perfect scene for a murder, and there's a hole in my heart. It quite literally feels as though someone took a hand-held paper hole punch and clamped it around my heart, taking Harry and Jane away with the piece that detached. Now there's just a missing space and this is my attempt to patch it up.
"So..." Christopher looks at me.
"What?"
He laughs. "Not that I don't like hanging out with you or anything, but you're usually helping your parents on Thanksgiving or playing with the kids or something. I thought your text was like a trap set by my mom or some shit."
"Oh, no," I hand him the joint back. "I'm just not feeling it this year."
Unlike everyone else in my life, he doesn't press me for details and ask why that is. Instead, he nods and takes another hit before giving me the joint again. I can already feel the drugs working on me, but I like the slightly numb feeling in my fingertips. I like it enough to keep smoking.
"How's Maya?"
