“Sometimes I wonder why they don’t get a divorce when it’s obvious they hate each other. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with that. People do it all the time,” I say. What I don’tsay is that I wonder sometimes how long it will take for one of them to snap and actually kill the other, and that I wonder—sometimes late at night when I can’t sleep—which one of them it would be, hedging my bets on Nolan because Emily’s ability to provoke people and push them to the limit is next-level. Sometimes I think I could kill her myself.
“Does it bother you when they fight?”
“Sometimes. But mostly I just try to ignore it, to imagine I’m somewhere else.”
“Like where?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere they’re not.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
He says, “Soon you’ll be gone and you won’t have to listen to them anymore.”
I’m counting down the days.
Except the way he says it—soon you’ll be gone—is ominous.
He mocks Emily again. “This is a family vacation. You’re supposed to be with family, not isolating yourself out here.” It lightens the mood. I laugh, but then he gets more serious and asks, “What would she do if she knew where you were right now? If she knew you were with me?”
“Ground me. Literally never take her eyes off me for the rest of the trip. Never let me go anywhere without her. Never let me see you again.”
He says, “I wouldn’t let that happen,” and my whole body warms, because I’ve never had anyone in my corner like that, except for Skylar, but she’s not my friend anymore, I don’t think.
Daniel stops walking. He lets go of my hand all of a sudden, turning to face me, and I think that this is where it happens, this is where we kiss.
But we don’t. Instead, he asks, “Wanna hit?” while reachinginto a pocket for a joint, which he lights, rotating the tip in the lighter’s flame, the flame so close to his face that it illuminates it with an eerie glow, the fire reflected in his eyes.
I hesitate because I’ve only smoked weed like twice in my life—and only ever with Skylar, alone—watching as he sets the joint between his lips, a smoothness to it that I could never replicate.
“Is that a no?” he asks, pulling the joint from his lips, because of my hesitation. My throat tightens. When I say nothing, he says, “Don’t be afraid. It’s just you and me, Reese like the candy. No one will know. It will be our little secret.” He cocks his head, asks with that same voice from before, “You have smoked weed before, haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”
“Then show me.”
I take the joint. I press it between my lips. I breathe in, feeling my lungs instantly ignite. I fight the urge to cough though, inevitably, I do, and he asks, “You good?” grinning, his smile teasing and hot. He moves closer, setting one hand on the crest of my hip, lighting my whole body on fire, saying, “Don’t worry about it. Happens to everyone,” as if he can feel my embarrassment.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?” he asks, because I’m still coughing. For a minute, the clouds above us part, and in the moonlight, there is an intensity to his eyes, his eyes like black holes. He doesn’t blink, not often, so that I have to look away to lessen the intensity of his stare.
“Yeah.”
He takes the joint from my hand. “You’ve got to take smaller hits and slow your inhale, like this,” he says, showing me, and this time, I watch. I learn, like he’s the mentor and I’m his protégé. “Try again,” he says, his voice patient but persuasive, so thatI couldn’t say no if I wanted to. He holds out the joint. I reach for it, taking another hit, and this time, I don’t cough. This time, a lightness blooms through my body, spreading to my limbs.
He sees it on my face and in my eyes.
“There you go,” he says, smiling, pleased. “Good girl.” He leans closer so I feel his breath on my cheek. He asks, “Can I kiss you now?” while reaching out a free hand to move my hair out of my eyes.
And I want to say yes. Kiss me. But again, I think of what Skylar said about playing hard to get, about how when you give guys what they want, they don’t want you anymore. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” I ask.
He shakes his head, says, “No.”
“Then no,” I say. “Show me.”
He stares too long, his face too close so that I think he’s going to kiss me anyway and if he did, I’d let him. I wouldn’t say no. I’d let him do more than kiss me. But then he doesn’t. He takes the joint back. He takes another hit and then stubs it out, saving it for later.
