She places it between her lips, lighting it up.
I watch her closely as she inhales and exhales, releasing a cloud of smoke that curls around us.
She holds out the joint to me. “Do you wanna take a hit?”
“Sure,” I say, taking it from her. I take a puff but end up inhaling too much. The smoke burns my lungs and I break out into a fit of violent coughs. My hand tightly grips the railing as I gasp for air.
She laughs, patting me on the back. “You alright there, Dimples?”
Dimples.
A smile blooms on my face upon hearing that old nickname.
“Why are you smiling like that?” She looks at me, puzzled.
“Because you called me Dimples.” I continue grinning at her like an idiot.
“Okay, so what?” She shrugs, a rosy blush touching her cheeks.
“You’ve only been calling me by my last name.”
“It must have slipped out.” She quickly glances away, taking another puff of her joint.
It may be a small victory, but I’ll take it as a sign she’s slowly warming up to me.
“I can never get enough of this view,” she says, staring out at the Golden Gate Bridge sparkling over the water.
“Neither can I,” I agree, my eyes on her. “It beats the view I had when I was living in Houston.”
“What was it like living there?”
“It was pretty dope. There was always some kinda event going on, and the food was great. Tacos in Texas hit different. But the weather during the summer was unbearable. It feels good to be back in San Francisco. I missed it here.”
“I missed it too.”
I missedyou.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you really left New York?” I angle my body toward hers.
“I already told you, I wanted to be closer to my family.”
I let out a heavy sigh, not buying it. “I want therealreason, Annalise. You worked so hard to pursue your dream. I know you wouldn’t have given it up that easily. I know your family wouldn’t have let you, either.”
She takes a long puff from her joint, then puts it out against the railing before tossing it in a trash can to the side.
A heavy sigh leaves her lips before she starts. “When I graduated from college, I had an internship lined up with Camille Dubois. I flew back home to visit my family, and Abuelo was extremely ill. The doctors ran a few tests on him and found a mass in his lung. He was later diagnosed with stage-three small cell carcinoma.”
My gut twists with pain. Her grandfather, Emilio, is such a warm and gentle soul. It pains me knowing that he’s battling this illness.
Gently, I place my arm on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Annalise. I know how much he means to you.”
She remains silent, trying to fight back the tears.
“What’s his prognosis?” I ask.
“The doctor said he has a thirty percent chance of surviving with treatment.”
“I think he’ll beat the odds,” I say, trying to lift her mood. “He’s got a lot of spunk in him.”
