Page 32 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

“Yeah…and he took out a fucking stop sign.”

I shudder. Hating the flashbacks shooting to the front of my mind.

“How long!” I yell again, watching Eli’s jaw clench tighter as he makes a sharp left turn.

The tires squeal over the asphalt. He’s driving recklessly, speeding, and bound to cause an accident, but I’m so upset that I don’t care.

“The whole time!” he finally screams, slamming his palm on the wheel and setting off the horn. “It’s my medicine, you ass. Medicine,” he says like I’m stupid.

“I don’t know of anymedicinecrushed up in a dime bag.” I’m huffing like a bull, so blinded by betrayal, I want to strangle him.

“You don’t know shit. That’s the problem. You with your perfect fucking life. Perfect everything. You don’t know a fucking thing.”

I dive over the center console, reaching into his pocket for the bag. “If it’s just medicine, I can take some too.”

“Phoenix, stop,” he yells, taking his eyes off the road and clawing at my hand.

“It won’t hurt me if I stuff it up my nose. It’s just medicine. Just fucking MEDICINE!”

I shake in Jorge’s arms.

“I’d be scared, too,” he whispers. “I’d push everyone away, too.”

“Since when do youdefend him?”

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I’m trying to help you…process this shit, man.”

I wipe my face and scoot away from him. It's only about two inches, but still. I flip on my back and cover my eyes with my hands, willing the tears to stop. “Ever since Oli overdosed, I can’t even fathom a reason why someone would do it to themselves. Why take the risk? Prescription or not?”

“Says the guy who can’t go anywhere without his vape.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Look,” he shifts onto his elbow, looking down at me, “I’m not giving you shit. But you have to see the hypocrisy there. Nicotine is just as addicting, just as terrible for you as any drug. You feel like shit when you can’t have it, feel better when you do.”

I glare at him through my fingers. “Sounds a lot like you’re defending my ex right now.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I did some research.”

Dropping my hands, mouth gaping, I ask, “Research?”

My best friend glances down at our feet, oddly quiet, considering he talks more than an excited four-year-old. “Did you know Hawthorne isn’t even his last name?”

“Woah, hold the fuck on.” I push him flat and lean over him to poke my head out of the bunk. Besides Terry listening to a podcast at a low volume, the bus is quiet. Everyone is asleep. I shut the curtain again and flip on my side to face him. “It’s not his last name?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the P. Whispering, he continues, “It’s Madden.”

I narrow my eyes into slits. “How do you know that’s not just another guy the same age?”

Now Jorge looks flat-out guilty. “Might’ve looked in his wallet the first time you brought him around. Might’ve…accidentally remembered his social security number.”

“You psycho,” I shove at his chest, “that’s got to be illegal.”

“Maybe, but…you’re my best friend. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t a convicted rapist or something.”

My mind is reeling right now. “And you're justnowtelling me this?”

“He wasn't a rapist. And I didn't want to be up in the business. I figured he'd tell you about his fake last name.”

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