Page 79 of The Two of Us

“I think we’ve just witnessed her villain origin story.” Ambrose nudges me in the side. I swat his arm away with a smirk.

“An honor, if you ask me,” I say, pushing my glasses farther up the bridge of my nose.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses now.”

Alecia’s shouting orders from the top of the tree house and I laugh. “What? Oh. Yeah. I guess years in front of a computer screen have finally caught up with me.” I usually wear contacts but I found Otso eating the contents of my contacts case yesterday. I spent thirty minutes on the phone with the veterinarian making sure he wouldn’t die right there at my feet.

He smirks, walking backward toward the other guests. “You look good in them.”

I shudder.

Dear Lord, give me strength.

We’re picking at the remaining snacks on the buffet table when we hear a loud crash. Anya hovers near the group of parents lounging in Adirondack chairs, a broken beer bottle at her feet and Ambrose and I rush over.

I grab an empty trash bag nearby. “Anya, are you okay? Don’t move, I’ll grab a broom for the glass.”

She looks up and I can’t stop the gasp that escapes my mouth. She looks awful. Her eyes are so bloodshot, the whites of them are almost nonexistent. Her hair hangs limply over her shoulders, so greasy it’s obvious she hasn’t washed it in days. Her body is slumped and her pupils are so small they make her look like a deer caught in headlights.

She sways toward me, flip-flops crunching over the broken glass. “You wiggle your way back into Ambrose’s life and now you think you can have my boy?” Even her flush of anger seems to exhaust her.

“Anya,” Ambrose warns.

The parents surrounding us watch in silence and, I’m sure, horror.

“Anya. Let’s go inside and get you cleaned up. We can talk there,” I say gently, moving closer.

She stomps her foot down, and glass pierces her shoe. Blood begins seeping over her sandal, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m not going anywhere with you, bitch. You’ve taken everything from me. Everyone.”

Before I can ask what she’s referring to, she says, “Jason loved me. We had issues, but he loved me and now he’s gone because of you. Because you couldn’t mind your own damn business.”

Shit.

“You deserve better than him.”

Her laugh is pained. “And Ambrose deserves better than you. You’re the reason she’s not here anymore. You do know that, right?”

“That’s enough.” Ambrose’s back straightens.

Anya turns to the silent group of parents around her, as if suddenly realizing their presence. “Did any of you know Catherine King? Do you know what happened to her? Mara can tell you.”

“That’s enough,” Ambrose growls.

The smell hits me. A pungent aroma of ammonia wafts around my nose and I look down. A spot on Anya’s white jeans is growing larger by the second. She’s urinating herself.

“Mommy?” Matty’s staring at his mom with a mixture of fear and confusion in his eyes.

My heart breaks. “Anya,” I whisper, moving forward quickly to cover her front side with the trash bag.

What happens next is a blur.

I can only assume from the burn in my eyes that Anya’s thrown a nearby cup of alcohol at my face. As I stumble backward, the adults around us unfreeze from their positions, their voices erupting in a frenzy. Arms carry me away and Anya’s screams of protest get quieter as I’m led to the kitchen sink. I flush my eyes out with cold water and when my vision clears, I thank Mrs. Sanchez, who I only met this afternoon, for helping me.

“Está loco como una cabra,” she mutters.

“Don’t say that.” I frown. “Thank you for your help, but don’t say that.” She throws her hands up and shrugs. Anya’s not crazy. She’s sick. Drugs make people a shell of their true selves and they need more of our empathy and less of our judgment. When I finally return outside, everyone has already left except Laura and Mrs. Sanchez’s son. I apologize to her for how the party ended and she tells me not to worry about it, leading her son to their car.

“Where’s Anya?”

---