Jake’s lips twitch. “You shouldn’t leave snacks out.”
“They’re not snacks,” I snap. “They’re THC gummies. To help me relax.”
Jake blinks.
Once.
Then he says, “Okay.”
Okay.
I stare at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Jake,” I say slowly, “those are… those are weed.”
He looks at me, still maddeningly composed. “What do you mean, they’re weed?”
“Oh my God.”
My hands lift helplessly between us, like I don’t know whether to grab him or shake him.
“THC is weed,” I say. “It’s the active compound in marijuana.”
He processes that.
His expression barely changes. “They were really small,” he adds, almost defensively.
“They’re not candy,” I hiss. “They’re dosage.”
He frowns, like he’s trying to calculate something in his head. “I’m a big guy.”
“That’s not how it works,” I whisper fiercely.
He studies me for a beat.
Then his expression shifts into something like amused resignation.
“Are you mad?” he asks.
I stare at him.
I should be mad.
I am mad.
But I’m also seconds away from laughing, because this is so completely, ridiculously absurd.
“We are about to walk into a charity dinner with my father,” I say slowly, each word careful, like I’m explaining fire to a toddler, “and you are high.”
Jake’s mouth twitches again. “I’m not high.”
I point at his face. “You’re not grumpy anymore.”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Then says, “Okay, maybe I’m a little… relaxed.”
