I sigh. He wouldn’t have headed out anywhere without telling me. Maybe he left something in his car. Maybe he’s on the roof. It wouldn’t surprise me. He always disappears up there whenever he feels like it.
Even though I’m out of the sun now, my skin feels like it’s burning up even more than it was before. My face feels so hot that it hurts and I’m regretting ignoring Mom when she pointed out that I should pack some aftersun lotion. Back then, I didn’t think New York could be this hot. Walking around Queens was definitely a bad idea. I think the only time we got shade was when we stopped for drinks. The rest of the time? The rest of the time gave me sunburn.
I try to blow some air back on my face as I make a beeline for the kitchen, straight for the second cupboard along from the left. It’s where the guys keep all the medicine and a first-aid kit, and if there’s any hope at all of me finding some aloe vera, it’ll be in here. I stretch up to the top shelf, unable to see as I rummage around for bottles. I find painkillers, the ones that soothed my headache last weekend, and I find Band-Aids, which are definitely no use, and I continue to find just about everything that I don’t need. No aloe vera. Sighing, I pull myself up onto the worktop, getting on my knees and peering into the cupboard for a better look. Even my shoulders are starting to burn like hell, so I keep fumbling around, stretching my hand straight to the back of the cupboard. I pause when I touch a glass jar.
When I squint at it, I think my breathing stops. It’s a Mason jar. Sealed and airtight. Inside, there are several clear, tiny Ziploc bags. The thing that takes me aback, however, is that inside them, there’s weed.
To begin with, I’m too stunned to even process it. I take the jar in my hand, staring down at its contents in disbelief, my lips parted. I don’t know why there’s weed in the apartment. There shouldn’t be. Tyler stopped smoking this stuff almost two years ago and Snake told me he doesn’t smoke, but knowing him, that could be a lie. It’s not mine, and I doubt it belongs to Emily.
My stomach tightens as I numbly glance back into the cupboard. There’s still that stack of lighters, the ones I discovered on Sunday morning as I searched for those painkillers. Why is this here? I think. Who’s smoking this shit?
I grasp a couple lighters in my hand, glancing between them and the jar for a few seconds. Eventually, I lay the lighters down on the worktop and focus all of my attention on the Mason jar. I don’t know what brings me to do it, but I screw off the lid, and the smell is so overwhelming and all-consuming that I almost fall off the worktop.
It’s so pungent that I almost feel sick. It’s so much different to the stench of weed as it’s being smoked and released into the air. Stronger, more musky. I slam the lid back on as fast as I can, almost gagging at the strength of the odor, and then glance back at the lighters. I stare at them for a while, trying to figure out whether or not I should just put everything back and pretend I never found it, but just as I’m deciding this, something clicks.
The lighters. On Thursday, Tyler and I lit candles. Tyler, who just so happened to have lighters on him. I understand there being lighters in the apartment. That’s okay. But in his pocket? Who the hell carries lighters for no reason? No one does unless they . . . unless they smoke.
My jaw almost falls open as the realization hits me. No way. No fucking way. Tyler stopped all of this years ago. He made it clear on my first night in New York that he was okay, that he didn’t need any of this stuff anymore. He wouldn’t have lied to me about it. It has to be Snake’s. The lighters have to be a coincidence. After everything, Tyler can’t be doing this again.
Fury overcomes me, and without another second of hesitation, I open up the jar and grab one of the tiny bags, holding my breath as I screw the lid back on once more. Somehow, I feel both numb and angry, and I swing my body off the worktop, stuffing the bag into the pocket of my shorts. I fling open the apartment door and head out into the lobby, gritting my teeth to stop myself from screaming in exasperation. I know Tyler’s on the roof. I know that’s where he has disappeared to. It always is, and as I slip into elevator, I realize I’ve never wondered why he always goes up there. Always alone, sometimes for hours at a time. Why is that? The answer seems more and more obvious, but I don’t want to believe it. There’s still no way in hell that this is really happening, that this is really true.
I take the elevator straight up to the top floor, and with my hands balled into fists, I make my way up the set of stairs to the roof. As silently as I can, I edge my body through the door, closing it behind me with an inaudible click. When I spin around, the rooftop is empty, besides one person. It appears I’m right about Tyler being on the roof.