Not Today, But Someday(47)

“Far enough out that the sweater might not be a bad idea,” he repeats, removing the backpack from my shoulder. I roll my eyes obstinately, covering my arms with the soft, thick cotton. I feel much better, but I’m afraid he won’t pay attention to me like I want him to, my figure hidden under the huge sweater.

Okay, this is getting really confusing.

“So, I will pay you fifty dollars if you let me have one cigarette on the way home,” he says when we get to his car. He starts to reach for his own door handle as I reach for mine, but stops me in the process. He runs to my side to open the door for me.

“Thanks,” I tell him, slipping into the car and buckling myself in. He hands me my backpack before shutting the door and returning to the driver’s side.

“So what about it?” he asks as he settles in.

“Fifty bucks?” I clarify. I could buy some CDs that I’ve been wanting for fifty dollars.

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna pay me fifty bucks to endure your second hand smoke?”

“Did you want it first-hand?” he asks, producing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from under his seat. “I’ll let you have one.”

“Really?” I ask him. “You say it calms your nerves?”

“Yeah. You nervous about something?”

“Not at all,” I lie. “You don’t have to pay me a thing, if...”

“Here it comes,” he murmurs, backing out of his parking spot.

“If you let me have one, and if this is the last one.”

“Ever?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Ever for you, right?”

“For both of us.”

“You want me to quit cold turkey?” he asks, handing me the cigarettes. I wait until he looks at me to nod my head. “No, I’d rather pay you. A hundred,” he tries to bargain.

“We don’t have to smoke any right now. Or ever. In fact, I could throw them out the window...” He tries to grab them from me, but I manage to move my hand between the door and the seat just in time. “You should concentrate on driving, Nate,” I tell him seriously.

“Please don’t throw them out.” His voice is desperate. “I’ll quit cold turkey,” he tells me, “if...”

“If what?” I laugh. “I’m eating bacon. I don’t care. You can’t take that–”

“This will be my last cigarette if you forgive your dad,” he interrupts. I study the pack of Marlboros in my lap, eventually taking out two cigarettes. I hand him one, and he wastes no time putting it in his mouth. He inhales and lights it, breathing it in and closing his eyes momentarily. “So it’s a deal?” he asks, smoke streaming from his lips.

I hold the other cigarette between my fingers, mimicking how he holds it, and wait for him to light it. I don’t want to forgive Dad. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness.

“Is it a deal?”

“Will you light it already?” I ask him, frustrated.

“You’ve never smoked before.”

“No,” I admit.

“Here,” he says, trying to pass me his cigarette. “Take this one.”

“I want my own,” I argue.

He turns into a parking lot and parks the car. “Put it between your lips then, and inhale when I light it. But don’t, like, gasp... just slowly, a shallow breath... don’t fill your lungs.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Your lungs would probably fight back,” he laughs. “I mean it,” he says seriously. “Shallow.”

“Just light it!”

“So it’s a deal,” he says first, balancing the cigarette between his lips as he talks.

“Light. It.”

He leans back in his seat and takes another drag, blowing the smoke out of his open window. He’s ignoring me, enjoying his first smoke of the day.

“I’ll try,” I tell him.

“Will you make a better effort than you did with the sushi?”

“I’ll avoid the octopus,” I vow to him. “I’ll try.”

He smiles, sticking his cigarette back in his mouth and holding the lighter up for me. I place the cigarette between my lips. “Shallow,” he says once more.

“I know,” I respond.

“Last one,” he says as he lights it, watching me breathe in. Immediately, I start coughing, realizing what he meant when he said my lungs would fight back. It burns.

“First... one...” I choke out. How can he enjoy this?! “And definitely the last one.”

“Alright,” he agrees. “Ashtray,” he says as he points to a receptacle in the middle console. He takes the pack from my lap – and the lighter– and gets out of the car.

“Where are you going?” He shuts the door before answering, walking to a trash bin. He turns around to make sure I’m watching before he pitches both items into the can. I discretely try to take another puff before he comes back, but start choking again.

“If you can’t finish that one, I’d be happy to,” he says when he gets back in.

“How many packs do you have at home?”

“None,” he says. “You can search it when we get there.”