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"Well, yeah!"
We stood there, glaring at each other, until finally Brandon reached up and tugged at his hair, causing it to stand up for a moment before it flopped back down.
"Where are they?" I asked.
He didn't say anything. I stomped my foot.
"I know you have them. Where are they?"
Like a guilty teenager, he pulled the flimsy box out of his pocket and held it up. I bit my lip, willing myself not to yell when I found that the box was almost empty.
"This isn't healthy," I said.
"Skylar, it's just a way to deal––"
"That will eventually kill you," I cut him off. "I'd like to be your wife without having to cart you to chemotherapy every other day, thanks. Not to mention I'd like you to stick around to see our kids have kids. Cut it out."
Brandon opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"You need to cope?" I said as I stepped closer, back into the space where our bodies naturally seemed to draw toward one another. "Call a therapist. You call me. I'll sing Springsteen to you over the phone during a staff meeting if I have to. But you have got to stop finding coping mechanisms that hurt you or other people. Kieran...the therapists...even Cory! We're all telling you the same thing: something has to change. And you're not listening."
We stood there for a moment, still not touching, blue eyes meeting my green while Brandon clenched his jaw. He knew I was right. But the decisions he had to make weren't ones I could make for him.
He leaned in, sensing my resolve breaking. But the scent of nicotine wafting off him made me think of something else.
"Besides," I said as I stepped back. "I told you before. I can't kiss a smoker."
At that, Brandon's eyes genuinely bugged out. "You were serious?"
I crossed my arms. "As a heart attack. Or, you know, emphysema."
It took him exactly two seconds to stride to the trash bin a few yards away and toss the cigarettes and his lighter into it. He came back with a satisfied look.
"Done."
"Yeah, I've seen you do that before."
He took a pack of gum from his pocket and put a stick in his mouth.
I just shook my head. "And that doesn't do anything to hide it, just so you know. I could taste it when you came to bed two nights ago, and last Friday too."
Brandon frowned as he chewed. "I thought I did a good job of hiding it."
"Brandon, how much time have you spent with your tongue down my throat?"
In response, all I got was a very self-satisfied leer. I rolled my eyes, but couldn't quite stop myself from smiling.
"Fine. I'll get the patch," he conceded as we turned back to the river.
The lightness faded as the events of the evening washed over both of us again. The sounds of the city were slightly muted by the wind filtering through the trees, and here and there I could hear squirrels chirping at each other as they went to sleep.
"I don't want you to attack Jared's family," I said quietly.
"No."
Brandon's response was immediate, without the usual room for negotiation he generally showed me. I opened my mouth to argue back, but he shook his head, the motion causing a few errant curls to fall over his forehead.
"This isn't about vengeance, Red. If it were, I'd have already torn apart George Rounsaville's firm. Shit, I could do a lot more than that, and you know it."
