Page 49 of Backslide
“Eh,” I say, letting my face fall. I can’t lie. Not to John.
“I’m here if you need anything,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “You’re okay, kid.”
It’s work not to well up.
Before I can pull it together or fall apart, Cara runs up beside me, squeals, and grabs both my hands. At some point during the ride, someone put a tiara on her head to remind us that she is the un-bride.
“Isn’t this the best?!” she cries.
And it is. It really is. There is nothing I love more than wandering a quaint town with my favorite people. But I need her to stop jumping up and down while holding my hands. Against my will, I wince.
“Oops!” she says, a hand to her mouth. “Shit. Your arm. I keep forgetting.”
“Totally fine,” I assure her. “All good.”
I swivel around, taking in the delightful single-story tea shops and sundry stores selling olive tapenade and handwoven table runners; clothing and home decor boutiques; tasting rooms and eateries with al fresco dining areas strung with twinklers and cordoned off with blooming trellises. Vintage streetlights stand guard outside a town hall with proper archways and colonnades.
“Isn’t it so cute?” Cara gushes.
“The cutest.”
I love seeing her so happy and free.
“And,” she adds, leaning in, “I may have the antidote to your problems.”
I doubt it. But then she has no idea how myriad they are.
Still, I know this look on my best friend’s face. It’s the best kind of trouble. Cara is up to no good.
This is the look she gave me in sixth grade when she stole a cigarette from her stepfather for us to try in Riverside Park. This is the look she wore in tenth grade when she presented me and Sabrinawith homemade—pretty believable—fake IDs. This is the look she gave us over fall break in college before she whipped out quaaludes and tickets to Liz Phair at the Troubadour in LA—and convinced us all to get tiny ankle tattoos.
It’s good to see that look. I realize it’s been a minute, and I’ve missed it.
“Okay, CB,” says Sabrina, a hand in the back pocket of her high-waisted jeans. “Dish. Whatcha got brewing?”
“These!” Cara says, holding open a tote bag filled to the brim with every kind of edible imaginable. “Tada!”
Suddenly the Pharcyde song makes sense.
“Alright, alright, alright,” says Rita, nodding like she’s Matthew McConaughey inDazed and Confused. “This works for me.”
“Take whatever you want! There’s plenty,” Cara grins.
“Ooh!” Sabrina props her oversized sunglasses on her head and plucks a tin of pomegranate-flavored gummies from the assortment. “Good call. I was already psyched to wander galleries—and now it’s going to be next level.”
“Are there good galleries here?” Noah asks.
“Nope,” says Sabrina. “Which will make it even better.” She pops a gummy in her mouth.
Lydia grabs a weed lollipop, of course. Because she sucks. And she sucks.
Cara’s college friends choose sour lemonheads. Damien sorts through each option until he finds the highest dosage product—a 20mg tincture with a skull and crossbones on the label.
Then Cara turns in my direction, sifting through what’s left and presenting me with a package of grapefruit CBD gummies. “I know you’re not really a weed person, so I got you these. No THC. Just straight chill. And they’re good for pain, probably!”
Damien scoffs. “Good for pain but not for fun.”
“What are you, an afterschool special?” Sabrina snipes, scrunching up her nose at him. “You’re going to peer pressure Nellie into takingdrugs?”
