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“He thinks I’m sexy because he loves me,” she said. “He’s attracted to me because he’s in love with me. Almost like he has to be. You know what I mean?”

I didn’t. I don’t. Because I don’t think anyone has ever been in love with me. It’s only ever been attraction. That’s fine. It’s fine.

I catch Ash’s eye and signal to her that I’m going out for a cigarette.

Be right back, I mouth. She returns a worried stare that I pretend not to notice.

I zip up my jacket and step out the back door onto the patio. There are some picnic tables with ashtrays, white string lights overhead.

I sit on top of one of the picnic tables and put my feet on the bench.

Kevin comes out a second later. He hands me a cigarette. He smokes Parliaments. Ian smokes Marlboros.

I know what pain is. I know how to feel it, and I know how not to feel it.

“As a Girl Scout, you should know,” Kevin says, “that smoking is bad for you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I like things that are bad for me,” I say.

I put the cigarette between my lips, and he lights it. A real gentleman, this Kevin.

I exhale up at the string lights. They’re so bright, they burn.

“I think everyone likes things that are bad for them. Don’t you?” I ask, leaning forward and tilting my head back, making my neck long.

“Do you live around here?” he asks me.

He leans against a post. It’s working for him. He looks cool. The collar is popped on his jacket. The popular boys used to do that in high school.

I bet he was a popular boy in high school. Probably at my high school.

“I grew up here,” I say. “I don’t live here anymore. I live in the city. Manhattan.”

“Oh, nice,” he says.

For some reason this reaction is disappointing to me. I know the conversation isn’t going to go anywhere from here. He can’t keep up with me.

“You’re looking at me funny,” I say. This is a line. It has a high success rate.

“Really?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “You’re looking at me funny. Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” he says. He’s getting shy. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say, pretending I’m shy.

Let’s see if he can recover.

“You’re really pretty,” he says. “Gorgeous.”

Ah, Kevin. Proud of you.

“You think so?” I ask after a long drag of my cigarette.

“Fuck yeah,” he says.

“Yeah?”