I stand up, fully prepared to go back upstairs and lock myself in my room again because he has clearly lost his mind. “I’m not a beginner because I’m not starting.”
“Sit down.”
Against all of my better judgment, I do.
“Good. Now, I’ll get it started because all this excitement has totally killed my buzz.” He pulls a lighter from the pocket of his hoodie and lights the joint he rolled like second nature, inhaling deeply and exhaling.
“Your turn!”
“No way.”
“Come on, please. You owe me.” He holds the joint out, and when he says that, it’s pointed. I can see it in his eyes. It’s either this, or he’s gonna bring up what happened last night.
Why did I leave my room?
“Fine.” I take it from his fingers and look at it, a stream of smoke floating up from one end. It seems pretty self-explanatory.
I put it to my lips a suck in the smoke.
I’m not expecting it to burn.
It hits the back of my throat hard, throwing me into a coughing fit I’m not sure is gonna end. Mike, the asshole who didn’t warn me about that, doesn’t even look concerned for my life.
He just laughs, damn near rolling around on the couch.
“I hate you,” I tell him, trying to catch my breath. “I’m never doing that again.”
“Nooo, come on, try again. I’ll help you.” He gets up on his knees and moves across the couch until he’s kneeling beside me, balancing himself on my shoulder.
I hate being touched.
Especially without permission.
But something about Mike…
I don’t know, the dude seems completely harmless. I don’t honestly think he could do anything to hurt me. That’s all it is. The only reason I don’t pull away from his touch.
The only reason I like it.
“Open up.” He holds the joint up to my lips again, and god help me, I let him put the joint back in my mouth, even though I know what’s coming.
“Now, pull in until it hits, breathe it in, and hold it in your lungs, and then exhale,” he instructs, taking the joint back when he decides I’ve had enough.
I follow his instructions, and he watches my lips as I blow the smoke out.
I watch him.
We take turns hitting the joint, and I’ve started to get more comfortable with it. Not coughing my head off every time, to Mike’s disappointment. “That wasn’t funny,” I tell him, passing the joint that’s almost down to the filter.
“It was,” he argues, taking another hit. “Are you feeling it yet?”
I try to take stock of how I’m feeling, but I don’t get very far, because all of a sudden, the thought that I’m actually high ishilarious.
“I think you are,” Mike says, giggling along with me.
“Nate would kill me if he knew what I was doing right now.”
“He’s a prude.”
