Evangeline (Unedited)

32

W E L L , S H I T
(Woah..... Evie sleep deprived = Evie angry. Good luck!)

I stared at Andreas. I didn't say anything—what could I say? He chuckled, but the usual creases in his eyes when he laughed didn't show. I gulped down my nervousness.

"I'm... sorry," I whisper, not meaning to be so quiet.

"Don't be." He shakes his head, rubbing his face. "Lukas is the one who should be. He fucking should be."

I nod.

"What happened?"

Andreas sighed, looking at me as if he was checking if I really wanted to know. I tilted my head at him, eyes roaming his face too. I had never noticed how many mini scars littered his face. Little specks of white dusted over his cheeks. We had similar freckles.

"He didn't just used to buy shit. He... he sold it too. For cash." He sighs. "He'd come waltzing into the penthouse with wads of it. We all knew—except for the twins—what he was doing. Nobody stopped him. Tommy tried. Alessandro tried. It... he wouldn't listen, you know?"

I nod. I knew.

He stares at me for a moment, and sniffles.

"Why'd you nod?" He asks, closing his eyes with a shake of his head.

"I..." I sigh, and then turn to him more. "My mom and stepdad were drug addicts. I get it, a little at least. They didn't sell but... I couldn't stop them either."

Andreas sighs, an understanding flowing between us. It was sad, really. The most we had bonded, the most we understood about each other, was among addiction and grief. Anger and sadness. I smiled sadly, reaching out to place my hand over his. He glances down and then squeezes my hand.

"He came in one day with his hands full of cash. We all thought it was normal—or, as normal as he was, at that point." He mutters. "My girlfriend didn't answer me that night. She didn't pick up her phone when I called, she didn't text me back, she didn't even text her other friends. They found her body the next day. She overdosed."

Realization floods through my brain.

"He sold it to her?" My voice is unsteady as I ask. I barely recognize it.

Andreas nods, his eyes watering again. He looks away, shoulders shaking.

"He... he knew she was on shit already. He knew. He fucking knew. But his selfish ass just wanted the cash, he just wanted his fix." He cries into his hands and my face droops. I reach forward and wrap my arms around him. I say nothing.

For a few minutes he just cries, shaking under my hold and ranting about it. My own eyes tear up, but I steel my impression when he looks at me.

"He watched her take it, man. He watched her, and he knew. And he left her there." He sobs.

I swallow hard, the words rolling down my throat and dying in my stomach. My fingers twitch on his back like they want to hold his grief for him, hold his hatred for him. What can I say that won't make it worse? What can I say that won't make him worse?

He suddenly pulls away and looks at me.

"Thank you." He whispers, laughing emptily. I tilt my head.

"For what?"

"Not making me pretend I love him. Not making me pretend I don't care anymore." He looks at me. I nod, smiling sadly.

"You're allowed to care. Even if it doesn't make sense to other people." I tell him, hypocritically. "Feelings don't need to be understood for them to be there... they just... are."