Page 57 of Thorns and Ashes
“So, is there a reason you don’t drink?” I ask once we hit the main road.
She snorts. “Why does everyone always ask that and not something more interesting? Like, why not ask, ‘Hey Rory, what’s your favorite color?’ But no. Everyone always goes for the obvious.”
I chuckle, feeling more at ease thanks to her easy-going silliness, and decide to play along. “Fine, let me guess.” I glance between her face and her hair. “Is it pink?”
A satisfied glow shines through her expression. “Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’ with a laugh. “See, isn’t that more interesting. Now you might wonder, well then, why would I make my hair pink? Right? But can you imagine if I walked around here with green hair? I mean, I already get enough looks as it is with the pink hair, but green? Some people can pull it off. I had a friend back in Tampa named Jes who rocked it, but for my complexion? Yeah, that’s a hard pass.”
Listening to Rory speak is like trying to follow a riddle. I’m not sure how I’ll get to the answer, but I know it’s in there somewhere. After a second of processing what she’s said, it hits me.
“So, green is your favorite color?”
“Exactly.” She smiles with satisfaction. “And the reason I don’t drink is because I watched my alcoholic mother drink herself into an early grave and choose to drink every day of my life instead of raising me. So, yeah, there’s that.”
My brows shoot up, and I blink rapidly at her nonchalant confession. She continues to drive like the weight of what she’s said has no effect on her, but something tells me that this is her way of dealing with whatever it is she’s been through. For some reason, I can understand that. Recounting trauma using facts without the emotions tied to it? Yeah, I’d say emotional dissociation is one ofmany coping skills that I’m familiar with. Sometimes it’s the only way to survive. I’m still working on the whole“slowly processing those emotions in a healthy way”part.
“I’m adopted,” I find myself saying after a minute.
“That’s cool,” Rory says politely before I can elaborate.
“I mean, I know what it’s like to have a parent not choose you,” I stammer, not sure why I’m telling her any of this except that it feels like I get it and want her to know that. “I was taken from my mother when I was three because of her addiction, too. Luckily, there was a family, my family, that had been waiting for a chance to adopt for years and had almost given up when they got the call about me. In a way, I know I’m lucky, but that type of thing leaves a mark, you know?”
She rolls to a stop at a red light
“Don’t I know it,” she huffs, more serious than I’ve seen her.
“Now, anyone who wants to be a part of my life has to prove it and be willing to stick around. I’m not exactly easy-going, if you hadn’t noticed.”
Her lips pinch as she fights a grin. Her tongue is poking at the inside of her mouth as she shakes her head. After hearing a muffled laugh escape her, which she tries to disguise with a cough, I narrow my eyes at her.
“Okay, what is it?”
“Nothing,” she says too quickly. When she sees my face, clearly not believing that, she continues. “You sound a lot like someone else I know.”
My stomach drops as Rory parks the car in front of my duplex.
“Speaking of,” she says. When my brows furrow, she dips her chin and looks over my shoulder and out the window. I turn in time to see Tris waving at Rory, but she stops when she sees me.
I let out a heavy sigh and drop my head. “Thanks for the ride.” I open the door, but pause, remembering something. “Can I ask you why I’m not allowed to talk about you at the station?”
Rory’s eyes grow comically wide, and she barks out a loud laugh. “Now that is a story for another time.” She leans to the right and looks past me. “Thanks for answering the phone, bitch. Better not pull that on Friday.” She shakes her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tris waves her off, but even from here, I can see a small smile.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Good luck.” Rory’s knowing smirk remains on her face as Ellie and I get out of the car and wave her off.
“What’s Friday night?” I ask Tris, climbing up the stairs.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She blows out a puff of smoke in my direction, and I’m hit with the smell of marijuana.
“Are you high right now?” My thoughts scramble to understand what I’m seeing, but there’s no doubt about what it is I’m looking at. Tris is bouncing back and forth in her rocking chair, smoking a joint.
“Wow, look at you, Mr. Judgey Pants.” She takes another puff, staring me down in a silent challenge, daring me to continue.
Instead, I grab a seat on my side of the porch as Ellie greets her.
I’m stunned into silence, trying to piece together everything I know about her, and this is one piece that doesn’t fit. She’s proven to crave control, to be able to handle anything thrown at her. I know she values these things, so something isn’t adding up. I personally have my own reasons for never touching the stuff, along with it not being allowed as a firefighter.
