He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, but I see him nod a little. “And there’s nothing you'd miss?” the honeyed low voice rumbles.
I cock my head. “Is this you trying to talk me out of it?”
He shakes his head. “Just crossing the Ts, dotting the Is.”
My eyes focus on the cigarette dangling from his shadow-cloaked lips. “Can I have one of those?”
I don’t smoke. Not really. I mean, everyone smokes in rehab, but that doesn’t count.
“Sure.”
He tosses me the pack, then the lighter. I pull one out, slip it between my lips, and then flick the lighter with my thumb, touching the flame to the tip as I inhale.
…And immediately cough. Violently.
He chuckles as I wheeze, and then do a shitty job of throwing the lighter and pack at his feet.
“You don’t smoke.” He bends down to retrieve what I unceremoniously threw at him.
I manage to get control of my respiratory system and shrug as I take another puff. “Hey, if not now…”
He laughs quietly. “Take that, Big Tobacco.”
We smoke in silence for a minute, fifteen or so feet away from each other.
“Got any family?” he finally asks.
I nod. “A dad. A sister.” My brow furrows. “A stepmom, but she doesn’t count.”
He snorts. “Because she’s a stepmom, or because she sucks?”
“The latter,” I groan. “Nothing against stepmoms in general, but she’s Disney-villain level bad.”
He nods. “That's shitty. Your mom dead?”
My nose wrinkles. “That’s….”
“What, private?” He gestured broadly with his arms. “Think we’re a little past keeping secrets from each other, don’t you?”
I smirk. “Yeah, she is,” I say. “Dead, I mean. How about you? Any family?—”
“Just my dad.”
I tip my head. “You won’t miss him?”
“I’ll miss him a lot, actually,” he rumbles.
“So why?—”
“Will you miss any of your family?”
I shake my head. “Not really. My sister, maybe.”
“Friends?”
I look down, thinking of the friends I’ve made at the Zakharova Ballet where I dance since getting back to New York.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “I’ll miss them.”
