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I take a second hit.

“Ninety percent,” I squeak out.

I pass it back and lean on my elbows, looking up at the sky above the yard. The first stars are starting to show, faint and stubborn against the last blue of evening. This high above the city, even these early stars are magnificent.

“You ever think about doing something different?” Paul asks.

“Like smoking mystery plants with naked men?”

“Like cooking.” The water sloshes around his legs as he turns. “I mean somewhere real. A decent restaurant. You clearly know what you’re doing.”

I look back at the sky.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“Rich-guy career counseling.”

Paul winces. “Sorry.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“I know. I just thought—”

“You thought you could save me from a life of infamy. Maybe save me from guys like you?”

I don’t say it cruelly—and only partly mean it that way.

He shrugs and nods, not taking the bait.

I watch a gecko dart across the wall, fast and ugly-cute.

“My grandpa taught me,” I say.

“Cooking?”

“No, stripping.” I laugh. “Yes, of course cooking.”

The weed makes the memory softer at the edges. Our small kitchen in South Louisville. Tomato sauce bubbling too hard because I was eleven and impatient. Grandpa smacking my hand away from the salt like I had tried to poison the Pope.

“He was Italian, but not like movie Italian. South End variety. Loved Mary and red sauce. Very suspicious of jarred garlic. But instead of a bottle of wine, it was a six-pack of Bud.”

Paul smiles.

I shrug, staring up.

“Yeah,” I say. “He was pretty awesome. Then when he died, I became the cook in the family.”

There’s not much of a pause before Paul starts giggling.

I turn my head and find him with one hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking like he’s trying to keep the sound contained and failing in little leaks.

“What’s jokey, smokey?”

“Sorry. I don’t know.” He lowers his hand, still smiling. “You just reminded me of my childhood.”

“Your childhood had strict opinions about jarred garlic?”