Double Time ✓

15 | roll

She turns back around and hangs her head in defeat, slowing to a halt in a pool of lamplight. "Vierra." By the time I dismount and stroll up to her, she's propped an impatient hand on her hip. "What do you want?"

I grin at the subtle acidity in her voice. "How was your shift?"

"Fine until about three seconds ago, at which point my night went to complete shit."

"Ha." Bay starts to walk once more, and I quick step to stay by her side. "Let me walk you home."

"No, thanks."

"It's dark out, and you're alone."

Bay groans and finally admits, "I'm not going home."

From the pocket of her denim shirt, she pulls out a folded-up baggie with a half-smoked joint. It's in open air for just a second before disappearing. I shrug, my skateboard clutched horizontally in my hand. Maybe this will make me sleepy. "I'm game."

Bay's dark eyebrows dart up. "Did I offer?"

"Did you?" I return. With one hand I dig around in the pocket of my jeans. I'm the sort of person to never leave the house without cash. I flick open my wallet and flash a twenty dollar note in front of Bay's eyes. She purses her lips, deliberating.

She shrugs. "Fine."

Bay leads me to the back of the Philosophy building. There are winding metal stairs attached to the side of the red brick, but instead of climbing she wanders underneath the first flight and presses her back against the wall.

"Blocks the wind," she explains. I set my skateboard against the wall.

Flicking her Zippo at the blunted end of the joint, she takes a long drag, the embers glowing orange and hungrily crawling up the roller paper. She passes the joint to me with an assured, elegant hand. I draw in breath, hold the smoke deep in my lungs until it starts to burn my throat, and then exhale slowly. Bay's hand rises, her fingers cold and satiny on my cheek.

She's never touched my face before, and I'll admit, my mind plunges into a vivid daydream in which I grab her chin in return and angle her mouth to mine—

Then I see her nose wrinkling and realize she's turning my head away to stop my smoke hitting her.

"Sorry," I cough. I don't know where my thoughts are coming from. A tingling heat settles into my chest. Heat from embarrassment, heat from the smoke, but also heat from Bay's touch, so gentle it lingers like a breeze. "So—"

"—you don't have to fill the silence with obligatory conversation—"

"—have you ever dated anyone before?" I finish daintily. "Like, in a serious relationship." I know she's hooked up and had situationships before.

Bay snorts, pressing her full lips to the joint. "No." I keep silent and wait her out. "Relationships have bad odds at this age."

"What makes you say that?"

Bay passes the joint to me and starts to speak as I smoke: "The person I date has to know me. They have to see me as an equal and an individual."

"Naturally."

"But do you know what I see in most men in college? They are simultaneously sexually attracted to and emotionally repulsed by women. They love their boys, their masculine hobbies, their own perspectives. They hate women's conversations and our hobbies, they hate our emotions and our detailed observations. The only reason they entertain it is because they want to find a Mommy McBang who will fuck, cook, clean and perform all their emotional labor."