Page 79 of 72 Hours of You

“Oh, I’ve heard of it,” Peter says. “I’ve just never read it. I prefer his brother’s books. Sick lit isn’t really for me.”

“Okay, well, the character, Gus, in the book, he puts a cigarette in his mouth but never lights it. Like … a metaphor. For being in charge of his life or something?” I’m explaining this for shit, and I’m rambling like a fucking idiot, but I just cannot process the scene in front of me right now.

“Well, this is not a metaphor or a simile or a tobacco-infused metonymic device. This is a cigarette, and I intend on smoking it.” He slides one out of the packet and holds it between his fingers.

“But. You don’t smoke.”

“Today I do,” he says. He places the cigarette between his lips, and the absolute wrongness of it makes me want to throw up.

“What the hell are you talking about? No one smokes. It’s disgusting. That shit kills you.” No. Just … no.

Peter shrugs (fucking shrugs!) and slips a lighter out of his front pocket.

God, his mom’s texts must’ve really sucked because who even is this? His face is all hard and stony. And I get that this day is apparently going sideways for him, but I always assumed he’d make up for a bad day by like, blowing cash on a Barnes & Noble binge.

Even unlit, just seeing that death stick between his lips is so … What the actual fuck is he thinking?

I cross my arms. “You cannot do this.”

Peter shrugs again.

“Okay, fine, then,” I say. “Give me one.”

Peter pauses and lowers the lighter. “No, Sydney, this isn’t …”

“Come on,” I say. “If you’re so dead set on being bad, then me too. Give me one.” I put out my hand.

Peter hesitates. I push my hand out farther. “Come on.” My fingers shake just the tiniest bit, but I keep my eyes steady.

Finally, he takes the cigarette out of his mouth and I feel like I can almost breathe again.

“Is this about your mom?”

Peter pauses. “My mom?”

“Yes. You were weird about that appointment or whatever with her the other day. And you’re being weird today. And you’re avoiding her texts like they’re radioactive and you said she used to be a doctor but isn’t anymore and like … I don’t know. Is that what this sudden Look at me, I’m an iconoclast cigarette thing is about?”

“It’s not about my mom. She has her own shit going on. That’s not my stuff.”

“Then what is your stuff? What are you doing?”

“I told you. I’m smoking a cigarette. It’s not that big of a deal.” He throws his hands in the air. “Jesus, don’t you ever just want to … do something?”

“I thought we were doing something.” Against my will my voice cracks a tiny mortifying bit, and I can feel angry tears starting to prick at my eyes. Fuck. I blink and cross my arms.

The silence lasts for way too long, and then Peter slips the cigarette back into its container. “You’re right, Sydney. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He walks over to the trash and tosses the pack into the garbage. He comes back but I just keep my arms crossed, holding them against myself, staring into the sky until the blue turns white, the breeze making me colder than I already am.

“I really am sorry,” he says, softly. “This was so stupid. I just … Sometimes life feels really big and really small at the same time, you know?”

Shit. Yeah. I know. I uncross my arms.

I turn to face him. He looks desperate for me to let this go, and really, after everything he’s done in the face of all my baggage, after everything we’ve done together, I think I should just give it to him. I mean, we’ve both seen so many Clockers in the last couple of weeks that of course it’s getting to him.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Just … don’t ever pull that shit again. Okay?”

His shoulders relax and he reaches for my hand. “Okay.”