“Sorry, is that weird? I haven’t smoked in a long time.”
Dean shrugged. “Nah. Not weird.” But instead of taking another hit, he reached across her, passing the joint to the hand on her other side, already outstretched.
She knew it was Shane before she even looked up.
The first time she’d gotten high wasn’t with him—that would’ve been when she was fifteen, at the cast party forThe Miracle Worker,after which she’d spent the rest of the night hiding in the host’s laundry room, fending off a panic attack by reading the back of the fabric softener bottle over and over—but she was with him the first time she’d enjoyed it.
One night early on, when they’d gotten home at an ungodly hour, their next call time pushed to the afternoon to accommodate the mandatory twelve-hour turnaround, they’d lounged on his living room floor as he’d rolled them a joint. Lilah, already punch-drunk with exhaustion, hadn’t been able to take her eyesoff his hands, nimble and assured, handling the fragile paper as delicately as if it were a butterfly’s wing.
When he was done, he’d shifted so they were sitting facing each other, legs bent and overlapping as he sparked it. He’d taken a long drag, then leaned forward, gently cradling her jaw in his other hand. She’d opened her mouth for an endless, bottomless moment, the two of them suspended in the split second before a kiss, breathing in as he blew out, bringing the smoke deep into her chest and holding it. It was like they’d transformed into a single organism, four long legs and one set of lungs:Inhale. Exhale.
The high that followed was soft and safe, enveloping her like a hug, her mind quieting rather than shifting into overdrive. When they’d had enough, he’d stubbed out the joint and closed the gap, kissing her slow and deep, the taste of smoke lingering on their tongues. He fucked her that same way, right there on the floor, every sensation so heightened it was almost too much.
Okay,she’d thought as she’d lain beside him afterward, rug burn on her back and sweat cooling on their skin,I get why people like this.
She snapped back to the present as she watched the cherry flare at the tip of the joint, twin embers smoldering in Shane’s eyes to match. And that look in them, the one she knew well, like he was trying to burn her, too. Did he think she was trying to provoke him by asking Dean? It wouldn’t have meant anything with him.
Shane pinched the joint between his fingers, his hand dropping back to his side. She wasn’t sure if she moved into place or if he did, but suddenly his lips were inches from hers, his face cloaked in shadow again. She took a shaky breath, bracing herself.
What she didn’t expect was for his hand to come to her jaw, lightly tilting it toward him. The gesture was so comfortable, so familiar, so intimate, that Lilah jerked back involuntarily, stumbling a little. Shane’s brow creased as he stepped back, too, dropping his hand and stuffing it in his pocket, like he didn’t trust it.
“Sorry,” he said, the word escaping in a cloud of smoke.
“Sorry,” Lilah repeated automatically. “I just—I’ll do it. I can do it.” She held out her hand and Shane passed her the joint, and she took a sharp, too-deep inhale, already coughing before she was even finished.
“Thanks,” she managed to choke out, handing the joint to Dean before turning on her heel and fleeing the circle. She knew it was rude to hit and run, but her cheeks were burning, her face likely as red as her hair.
She sagged against the railing on the outer edge of the patio, trying to collect herself, already feeling more light-headed than she’d like. Her gaze snagged on the Edison bulb string lights, bobbing gently in the wind, going blurry and shimmery as her eyes slipped in and out of focus.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the group disband and make their way inside. A lone figure doubled back, heading toward her.
“Hey.” Shane’s voice was thick and slightly raspy from the smoke. He reached his arm out, like he was about to touch her on the back, then dropped it awkwardly. She still felt the ghost of it there.
“Hey,” she said, a sliver of wariness threading through her tone.
He came up beside her, resting his drink on the railing, not looking at her. “Weird night, right?”
“Yeah.” It came out under her breath.
“Have you been thinking about it?” he asked. She shot him a sharp look, as if he could somehow sense she’d been thinking about the season-one premiere party, when they’d narrowly avoided getting caught dry humping in the coatroom.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I mean…about what’s going to happen after. What we’re going to do next. On our own.”
“Oh. Yeah. I mean, of course.” She turned her back to the railing, resting her elbows on it. “I guess it depends how all this goes. If it works. If I get another chance.”
“To do what?”
“To do anything else. Anything interesting, I mean. To stretch myself. Not just scraps, playing someone’s wife or mom for the rest of my life.”
“What would you want to do? If you had your pick.”
She cut her gaze sideways, unnerved by the sincerity of his question. Even more unnerving was the fact that she actually wanted to answer.
“I don’t know. If you’d asked me a few years ago, I would’ve said…” She trailed off, reluctant to dredge up her false starts and failures. “Someone different from Kate. Someone unlikable, maybe.”
“I thought you said you wanted to stretch yourself.” Even the insult lacked the bite it normally would, an audible smile in his voice.
