Ohana

"Whale vomit."

"Well?" Spencer demands.

I shrug my shoulders.

"You're right." I say.

"I'm right." He repeats.

"Yes. Don't you think I know that?"

"Then why the hell did you buy the box?" He demands. "You used to hate cigarettes! I don't understand!"

I know the kids could hear him yelling and I want to tell him to keep his voice down, but he will just start yelling again.

He studies me, and then knots his fingers in his hair.

"Audrey." He pleads. "I don't want to get divorced. Please. Please. I love you so much. What do you need? Therapy? What is it? I want to help you."

I run my right hand roughly through my hair, my left hand gripping my purse and the box of cigarettes.

"I need..." I swallow. "I need us to pretend we're back in time, back years and years ago, before we dated. Back when you were my best friend. The only person who could talk me into things that were good for me or talk me out of things that were bad for me. I need to erase the facts that we're married with kids so I can talk to you, as my best friend, not as my husband, or the father of my children. Can we...can we do that? Please?"

"Yes." He sighs, sitting down on the bed again. I kick my shoes off, dropping my purse and the box on the floor, walking over to the bed. I fall onto my back, pressed my left arm to my forehead, and I lay there with my eyes closed. He just sits there and waits.

"I..." I sigh. "In my whole life, I've smoked a cigarette and a half. When I was a child, I smoked the half because I wanted to see what it was like, and I hated it. I don't remember why. But a few weeks ago, on the balcony, I smoked..." I swallow. "And while I hated it." I remove my arm to look at him. "A part of me liked it. And now I'm scared I'm addicted. I don't know what to do. I hate cigarettes. I hate the smell of them. I hate people that smoke them, because most of then are bogans. But I saw them on the rack at Walmart, and the next thing I know, I bought a pack, and now I don't know what's to do. I don't want to be a smoker, but I'm scared I'm going to. Tell me what to do."

His eyes study mine for a really, really long time.

"Smoke." He says.

"What?" I ask.

"Smoke." He repeats. "Last time you smoked, you were drunk. Maybe you liked it because you were drunk."

I stare at him.

"What...what if I like it?"

He shrugs.

"You go to therapy."

I look at the box of cigarettes, and then I look at him.

"Will you come with me?"

He nods. I stand up, grabbing the box and the lighter from my nightstand, walking through the house. All four kids are in the living room, whispering to each other. Before they can see the box, Spencer shoves it into the pocket of his basketball shorts.

"Go upstairs." He says.

They all silently get up and go upstairs.

He opens the door to the back screen area and I walk out. He follows me, shutting the door.

I go way out of the way from the house and rip the packaging off the box. I pull one out and look at Spencer.

He nods. I set the box on top of the black trash can and flick my thing across the lighter a couple of times until a flame pops out.