Page 21 of Pot Shot
Julian draws his legs up to his chest, folding his arms around them, and starts rocking. This trauma response is deeply on the nose. “I was angry,” he begins.
“Okay.”
“I stormed inside, then upstairs.”
“In another person’s house. Sure.” My voice is wry.
He doesn’t notice.
“And then I just… kept storming.” His whole face wrinkles in confusion, as if his answer doesn’t make sense to him, either. He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes with a balled-up fist before putting them back on. The gesture is so—coarse. So unexpectedly childlike.Everythingabout Julian seems off right now. “That chimney came out ofnowhere.”
“Yeah.” I cock my head at him, fully suspicious now. “They do that.”
Julian nods glumly, like what I’ve said is the sad truth of it. He doesn’t argue, or frown, or roll his eyes with exasperation, or anything.
What’swrongwith him?
And more importantly, why is he here? Is he trying to sabotage the Pot Luck? Because if so, he’s either doing a terrible job, or his machinations are so brilliant, they’re undetectable. And Julian doesn’tdoterrible jobs. He’s uniformly, infuriatingly proficient. At everything.
Somethingpingsagainst the roof, an acorn maybe, tittering as it rolls over the edge.
Julian’s head swivels around. “Was that a raccoon?”
“No, it’s probably—”
“Shhh!” Julian scoots closer and presses a big palm over my mouth. The heat of him this close raises the hairs all over my body as his chest swells, hiding me in the shadow of his torso. His face is frozen, but his eyes dart all around. A distincttitta-titta-tittasound comes from behind us.
“Iknewit,” Julian says, his voice low and panicked. “You’re infested!”
I peel his palm off my mouth, disturbed to find that his other hand is pressed flat against my lower back in this strangely possessive, protective position, like he’s ready to fight whatever’s out here on my behalf, but he’s probably going to die about it. “Julian—there are no raccoons. Look.” I point to where the sound is coming from and the scrawny peach-colored kitten scratching its claws on the wooden shingles. “It’s just Big Bird.”
After a few, strained seconds, Julian slowly recedes from my personal space. I shouldn’t be amused, but I am, all the anger and anxiety at being fired at my own party dissipating in the wake of Julian’s ridiculousness. Big Bird must sense his need, too, because he hops gamely up into Julian’s lap. Julian immediately curls him into his arms, tucking Big Bird’s head beneath his chin.
“Why do you call him Big Bird when he’s so wittle?” He presses a kiss into the kitten’s head, which makes me laugh.
“Because the first thing he did when Eve brought him home was kill a big bird.”
Julian coughs and rears back, revolted.
“You still haven’t explained why you’rehere.” I articulate each word, hoping they’ll turn this ketchup bottle of an impostor upside down and shake him until therealJulian comes gushing out.
It earns me a quick, defensive cut of his eyes. “I didn’t intentionally crash your marijuana party, if that’s what you’re implying. Dr. Srinivasan needed a ride home because he was intoxicated, but when I got here, I couldn’t find him, which made me angry because I was starving, but then somehow, I was playingbeer pong? Which is weird because I never play games, but I wasamazing, Nomi, everyone was cheering, even your mean little lesbian—”
“Eve, cheering?” I blink. “You’re sure it wasmymean little lesbian?”
“Yes!” he insists. “She even called me son! Then my actual mother told me she was proud of me.” He sighs, resting his chin on his chest dolefully as he strokes Big Bird’s little kitten beard.
My head dips as I try to parse through this for any semblance of logical meaning. “And… that made you mad?”
“Very!” He looks at me with hurt indignation, as if I should know this already. “My mom was under the influence of cannabis, Nomi! Just like Dr. Srinivasan!”
“It is pretty weird seeing your parents high for the first time,” I concede, feeling a little sorry for him despite myself. He looks so despondent, and there’s something precious about a man cuddling a kitten, even a man and kitten as annoying as these two. “Not quite walking-in-on-sex level, but up there.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “She knows how I feel about marijuana, she saw what it did to Dad! Saw how it ruined his life, then my life. Then her life. And his life,” he repeats, losing the thread.
My eyebrows rise. Even though Mom is close friends with Gisella, I still haven’t heard the full story of her late husband and Julian’s father. All I know is that he passed away when Julian was young, and that according to Gisella, Julian was never the same. He wouldn’t talk about him when we were in high school, and I never prodded. Some people wear their grief like a sprung bear trap, and touching the area only makes it worse.You try to talk to them, to let them know you can be a safe space for their feelings, but even that is unbearable, and they lash out at you, snarling, before hobbling off to seethe in pain alone. I didn’t want Julian to push me away, so I never asked.
So why is he suddenly willing to talk about it now? Is he drunk?
