Addiction (Book One of the Addiction Series)

Chapter 7

Before we leave the school, we make a stop at Adam's locker. Most of the teachers are either in their classrooms or the crowded cafeteria for lunch, so no one sees us as we prepare for our escape.

"Here, try this," says Adam, handing me a woolly red sweatshirt. It is faded from use and soft from hundreds or thousands of washes, and it feels heavenly in my hands as I take it from him, uncertain. "That milk is going to start to stink really soon..." he teases as I hesitate, simultaneously wanting to give it back and never wanting to let it go. "Just swap yours out for mine, we can keep yours in my backpack until we get to your house later."

It seems wrong somehow to take him up on this offer. It seems like such an intimate thing to wear his jacket, and he doesn't owe me anything. The look in his eyes, though, is eager and hopeful: he wants me to wear it. It would make him happy.

I hand him the jacket back so I can pull my hoodie over my head. The milk is already starting to sour, and I wrinkle my nose as the wet stains smear the cloying chocolate back over my nose. I haven't taken off that sweatshirt for a week; I feel naked without it. Underneath I am wearing a snug-fitting white t-shirt that I outgrew as soon as I grew breasts a few years back. It is covered in stains and I blush as I realize that Adam is staring at it.

"No one was supposed to see it," I explain, hastily grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. It is at least two sizes too big for me, but I like the way it drapes over and around me like a big red security blanket. I zip it up, and feel a bit woozy again as the smell of Adam wafts up from it. It is a warm, now-familiar smell of Axe deodorant and something like cedar, and I have to fight the urge to pull the lapel up to my nose and sniff it like a crackhead snorting coke.

"No, it looks nice on you," he replies. As I pull my long, damp hair up into a messy bun, I realize he is blushing too. He recovers quickly, though, and smiles as he adds, "But my sweatshirt looks nice on you too. Ready to go?"

"Yeah."

He shuts his locker (I don't feel like going all the way back down the hall to mine) and he holds out his hand. I look up at him, matching him blush for blush, then I pull the much roomier sleeve of his jacket down over my hand and place it in his. He slings his army green backpack over his shoulder, and we head out the nearest exit door.

As soon as we step outside, we are no longer just outcasts, but fugitives. This gives me both a thrill and a pang of foreboding. I used to skip class a lot when I was deeper in the throes of my addiction, but I can barely even remember now what I did once I left the campus. I know it wasn't good, though.

But today is different. Today I am not alone, and I am not under the influence of anything but a schoolgirl crush, and I plan to remember every single second of it.

"Where do you want to go?" I ask Adam, as the fluttering in my stomach turns into full-blown butterflies. He is still holding my hand, and the combination of the feel of his magic pressing against me and the sheer closeness of him is making me feel almost giddy.

"Two places," he replies. "First, the Dollar General store."

"The Dollar General Store? What for?"

He gives me a secretive grin. "You'll see."

I bite my lip, intrigued against my will. "And then where after that?"

"A surprise."

"So many secrets..." I sigh.

He laughs, then we hear a car door slam in the senior parking lot and break into a run. We don't stop until we reach the parking lot of the Dollar General store down the street, where we pause for a moment just outside the sliding doors. I am wheezing from the exertion and from being out of shape, but we are both laughing. Already this was a good idea.

"Okay, you wait here and I'll be right out. I can't take my backpack in." Adam hands me the backpack and before I can protest, he disappears into the store.

I feel strangely empty as I stand there on the sidewalk alone. I have his backpack in my fingers but I miss his hand. I can't feel him anymore with the glass doors between us, and I am suddenly filled with a fear that I can't explain. What if he never comes back? What if I never feel his presence again?

I sit down on the dirty ground and hug the hunter green backpack to my chest. I can smell my own sour jacket inside, but I wonder what else is in there. Books, surely, but what else? What personal effects has Adam just trusted me with, without even the slightest hesitation? Doesn't he know I am not a person you can count on?

A few minutes pass, and I take this opportunity to sniff the collar of Adam's jacket. It makes me feel warm and safe and comfortable inside, and I wonder why. I also wonder if it is Adam himself that has made me fall for him in such a pathetic, "head over heels" fashion, or if it is the magic. If it is the latter, I should get out now. If it is the former, I have no clue what to do.

Adam finally reemerges from the store about five minutes later. He is carrying a plastic bag and grinning wider than I have ever seen him. His entire body is buzzing with enthusiasm and pride at his own cleverness.

"What did you get?" I ask, standing up and brushing off the seat of my jeans with one hand while I heft his book bag with the other.

"These." He pulls out two pairs of plain, black, "magic stretch" gloves. They are the kind that grandmothers use as stocking stuffers at Christmas, or the kind that you buy for fifty cents when it's cold and you left your actual, sturdy winter gloves at home. They are made of a soft, spandex-like material, and one package reads "WOMENS," the other reads "MENS."

"Gloves?"

"Yep." He rips the paper from the top of the WOMENS pair and hands them to me.

"For what?" It's a chilly October day, but not really chilly enough for gloves. It is just chilly enough for sticking your hands in the pockets of your oversized, borrowed sweatshirt, nothing more.

"Put them on and I'll show you."

I do as he says. I set down his backpack and pull on the gloves while he does the same. The gloves fit almost perfectly over my hands; they are like a second softer, slightly itchier skin. Once we are both finished, Adam reaches out and takes my hand, weaving his fingers between mine.

"For this." He smiles at me, a shy smile this time, one that says that he hopes I like this idea as much as he does.

I look down at the thin fabric barriers between us – the only things keeping me from involuntarily (or perhaps a bit voluntarily...) getting a taste of the magic inside him. This is the sweetest thing that anyone has ever done for me, and I feel a lump in my throat.

I look back up at his face as he quietly waits for my reaction. My heart is so full that I swear it could burst, and I find myself doing something even the old, more reckless me would never have done. I lift my free hand to my lips and kiss the tips of the gloved fingers, then I press them to his cheek in a gesture of silent adoration.

The light in his eyes brightens exponentially, and the affection in them grows even stronger as he squeezes my hand. "So, I did good?" he asks me, stepping a bit closer.

"You did really good," I reply.