“Is that all?” I ask hopefully. I can feel him looking at me accusingly, as if he knows I was eavesdropping.
“You’re excused,” he says, walking back into his office.
“Pierce, you have to help her! She’s barely breathing, and she’s not responsive. She’s fucking blue, Pierce! Please, hurry! I don’t… I don’t know what to do!”
That’s the voice message that’s waiting for me from Shelly three months after my sister starts going out with Ryan Anderson, and I have to take the rest of the day off and run to her place. I take her to the hospital. Stay with her for the whole period—two whole days—never leaving her side.
Anderson never bothers to visit her. Not even once.
Can’t say I’m half-surprised.
She isn’t exactly in a coma, but she is out of it for long hours. When she finally opens her eyes, she smiles at me apologetically, and for one heartbreaking minute, she looks like the girl I used to know, the one who took me for an ice cream every Friday and helped me decorate the Christmas tree we had to order online because our parents never bothered to buy one.
“It wasn’t Ryan, Pierce. It was me. I did too much. He told me it was laced with something, that it wouldn’t take as much to get me high, but I guess I got a little carried away.”
I’m not a religious person, but if there’s a God, he needs to kill Ryan Anderson. Strike him down here and now. I clasp her hand in mine and smile, pretending not to give a damn, even though I do.
“It’s okay. Can I have his phone number?” I gave up on getting his address a long time ago, and now the only thing stopping me from finding out the information myself is the stupid loyalty I have for my sister. “I just want to let him know you’re okay.”
Gwen frowns, seeing through me, even in her state. “Pierce, no. I told you. This one’s on me.”
No, it’s not, Gwen.
No, it’s not.
After they discharge her, I lock her in my apartment. She doesn’t have a key, and I guess she can try to j
ump from the second floor I live on if she really wants to, but she won’t. That’s the only thing that gives me hope. Gwen doesn’t want to die. She just wants to be loved. Too bad she is looking for that love in the wrong place. From the wrong person.
I go to work, come back, and find out that my lock has been doctored. It can’t be Gwen because she is still a rich little girl from California at her core. But I know who it could be, and I’m glad I finally get to meet him.
Walking into my apartment, I find them lying on my sofa. Naked. Looking dead to the world.
I now have a face to the name. Ryan Anderson still looks like a kid. But also like a thug. He is tall and tan with trouble written all over his face. And he is slowly killing my sister.
I grab him by the throat and squeeze. His eyes are slow to adjust, and it takes him a minute to come out of his drug-induced daze.
“If you give her drugs again, I am going to fucking end you.” I smile, my voice easy. He’s so high off whatever the fuck his drug of choice is that he doesn’t seem to know where he is or what’s going on. I doubt he even knows what planet he’s on.
“What the fuck,” he says, scrambling and tripping out in slow motion.
I throw his clothes out the door and kick him out, hoping he’ll never come back.
“Is age an important factor in a relationship?” Samantha asks, tapping her chin with her pencil. Every Friday, I let my students pick the subject they’d like to debate. I find it makes them more interested and engaged in class, and it also keeps me in touch with their interests. I’m not that old. Twenty-nine is not exactly ancient, but I don’t have the time or the need to read their magazines and watch their stupid movies and shows to stay in the loop. So I take it. And every year without fail, this subject comes up.
“All right, Miss LaFirst, let’s hear your introduction to the subject.” I lean on my desk and listen to her. Herring, the preppy fuck who sits to Remington’s right, is slipping notes to her. I ignore them, if only to remind myself that I don’t have a particular interest in Miss Stringer herself, but in her brother. I better remember that, because the lines are beginning to blur, just a tad, and that makes me somewhat uncomfortable.
LaFirst talks. She makes sense. The class starts the discussion.
“I would not date an old dude.” A girl from class, Tiffany, snorts, widening her eyes. “I mean, what would be his motivation? Is he just a creep after fresh meat? Or does he want someone he can manipulate because I’m not as experienced as he is?”
“I would totally date an older guy!” another girl, Faith Matthews, exclaims. “In the end, it’s all about the connection and the chemistry between two individuals. Right, Mr. James?” She held herself back from winking at me. Just. I lift a brow.
“There are many issues you still haven’t touched. I want you to dig deeper into this subject: laws, expectations, stigmas, interest, and goals,” I answer dryly, my eyes scanning the class. I see Herring—the idiot—slipping another note into Remington’s palm. I haven’t even seen her open any of them, so I can’t pick on her. Not that I should want to, but it’s making me irrationally angry.
“Mr. Herring, anything to contribute to this conversation?”
He raises his head and grins slyly. This kid is a tool, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Mommy and Daddy are loaded, he wouldn’t have a single friend here.