“It’s better that way.” I adjust the handle of the bag over my shoulder and we walk toward a single-wide trailer. The siding is falling off, one of the windows is covered with a piece of plywood, and the lawn is nonexistent; instead there’s a layer of gravel, then a fence, followed by more gravel. It’s a total crack house, but that’s okay. This is the kind of place where I belong, in a place no one wants to admit exists, just like they don’t want to admit I exist.
“You know there’s no bus here, right?” He steps onto the stairway, and it wobbles underneath his feet. “It’s a freaking small-ass town.”
“That’s okay.” I follow him with my thumb hitched under the handle of my bag. “I’ll just walk everywhere.”
He laughs, shifting the box to one arm so he can open the screen door. “Okay, if you say so.” He steps inside the house, and I catch the screen door with my foot, grab the handle, and hold the door open as I maneuver my way inside.
The first thing I notice is the smell; smoky but with a seasoned kick to it that burns the back of my throat. It’s familiar, and suddenly I feel right at home. My eyes sweep the room and I spot the joint burning in the ashtray on a cracked coffee table.
Tristan drops the box on the floor, steps over it and strides up to the ashtray. “You good with this?” He picks up the joint and pinches it in between his fingers. “I can’t remember if you’re cool or not.”
It’s not really a question. It’s more of a warning that I have to be cool with it if I’m going to live here. I let the handle of the bag slide down my arm and it falls to the floor. “I used to not be.” I used to care about things—I used to think that doing the right thing would make me a good person. “But now I’m good.”
His eyebrows knit at my vague answer and I reach for the joint. As soon as it’s in my hand and the poisonous yet intoxicating smoke starts to snake up to my face, I instantly feel at ease again. The calm only amplifies as I put it to my lips and take a deep drag. I trap it in my chest, allowing the smoke to burn at the back of my throat, saturate my lungs, and singe my heart away. It’s what I want—what I need—because I don’t deserve anything more. I part my lips and release the smoke into the already tainted air, feeling lighter than I have since I got on that god damn plane.
“Holy fucking shit, look what the dog drug in.” Dylan, Tristan’s roommate, walks out from behind a curtain at the back of the room, laughing, and a blonde girl trails at his heels. I’ve only met him a couple of times during the few visits my dad and I made to Maple Grove to visit Tristan’s parents. He looks different—rougher—a shaved head, multiple tattoos on his arms, and he used to be a lot stockier, but I’m guessing the weight loss is from the drugs.
“Hi, Quinton.” The blonde waves her hand, then winds around Dylan and moves toward me. She keeps her arms tight to her side, pressing them against her chest, so her tits nearly pop out of her top. She seems to know me, yet I have no fucking clue who she is. “It’s been a long time.”
I’m racking my brain for some sort of memory that has her in it, but the weed has totally put a haze in my head, putting me right where I want to be—numb and obliviously stupid.
When she reaches me, she glides her palm up my chest and leans in, pressing her tits against me. “The last time I saw you, you were a scrawny twelve year-old with braces and glasses, but good God you’ve changed.” She traces a path from my chest to my stomach. “You’re totally smoking hot now.”
“Oh, it’s Nikki, right?” I’m remembering something about her… a time when we were kids and the whole neighborhood decided to play baseball. But it’s nothing more than a distant memory I’d rather forget. It reminds me too much of what was and what will never be again. “You’ve…” I scroll up her body, which I can pretty much see all of. “Changed.”
She takes it as a compliment, even though I didn’t mean it that way. “Thanks.” She smiles and shimmies her hips. “I always try to look my best.”
I still have the joint in my hand and I take another hit, trapping it in until my lungs feel like they’re going to explode, then I free the smoke from my mouth and ash the joint on the already singed brown carpet. I hand it to Tristan, allowing the numbness to leach into my body. “Where should I put my stuff?” I ask him.
Dylan hitches a finger over at the hallway. “There’s a room at the back of the hall. It’s a little small, but it’s got a bed and shit.”
I collect my bag and move around Nikki, heading for the hall. “I’ll take whatever’s easiest on everyone.”
Dylan nods his head at the hallway and then says to Nikki, “Nikki, why don’t you show Quinton where the room is?”
“Absolutely.” She flashes an exaggerated smile at me and snatches the joint from Tristan’s hand. She wraps her lips around the end, inhales, and then lets it out. She hands it back to him and then saunters in front of me so I can watch her ass as she struts down the hallway.
“Are you two dating?” I ask glancing back and forth between Nikki and Dylan.
Nikki rolls her eyes. “Um, no.”
Dylan departs for the small, cluttered kitchen in the corner of the house. “I don’t really date,” he points out with a nonchalant shrug as he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Besides, I have an old girlfriend of mine coming over tonight.”