To cut a long story short, life is a bitc
h who bites.
Kash is standing outside the ice cream parlor when I finish work, and the sight of him through the front window is a punch to my insides. He’s so pretty.
“Who is that guy?” Sara whispers, her cheeks flushing. “He looks like an actor or something.”
“Yeah?” I shrug, pretending not to care, and gather my things. “Will you close up? I don’t want to leave him waiting.”
“You know him?”
I enjoy her shock way too much.
He does look like an actor, I think as I step out into the warm early evening. Like a movie star from some sci-fi blockbuster, with the blue streaks in his white-blond hair and those icy eyes, the silver hoops in his nose and brows, in his ears, the unzipped hoodie and the threadbare T-shirt of a Metallica concert, the combat boots and faded blue jeans.
Elfin, and yet badass.
I try not to remember that I cried on his chest earlier, smearing it with snot and tears, or that I begged him not to leave us.
“What are you doing here? How did you even know where I work?”
He grins. “I asked Nate. Thought to walk you home.”
“Don’t you have to be at work?”
“I’m going in late today.”
I don’t want to ask about Nate, but when I open my mouth what comes out is, “How is he?” I adjust the strap of my purse on my shoulder. “Did he even go to school today? He wasn’t in my classes.”
“I haven’t seen him all day.” He frowns, pulls a rolled cigarette from behind one ear and turns it between his long, elegant fingers.
He has an artist’s hands, I think, a musician’s, or a painter’s. He lifts the cigarette to his lips and pulls out a lighter from his back pocket to light up.
“You smoke too much,” I mutter.
“Yeah. It’s bad for you. Don’t do it.”
I smile, not sure why I’m even smiling. “And they say weed addles your brain.”
“Not if it’s too addled to begin with,” he says, not missing a beat.
“I’m serious. You’ll get addicted to it.”
“I am addicted to it, Red.” He says it like it doesn’t matter. “I need it.”
“What for?”
He smokes quietly as we walk toward home. He puffs out a white cloud of smoke. “Anxiety.”
“Like earlier today?”
He glances at me, quirks a half-smile. “Yeah.”
Vowing to Google the long-term effects of marijuana, I skip alongside his tall, lanky form, trying to keep up. “You should quit.”
“Lots of things I should do.” He puffs out another cloud of sweet smoke. “But that’s how things are right now. What about you? Tell me about your mom.”
I lose my smile. “Not much to tell.”