“Give it here,” I said, reaching for the joint he held between his thumb and index finger. He smiled at me teasingly, a wide, handsome smile, before blowing a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke in my direction. I fanned the air and he handed me the joint.

“Jerk,” I muttered. Before I could put it to my lips, he laughed and pulled me into his arms. I fell backward without a fight and he laid a single soft kiss on my neck. It gave me shivers. He wasn’t very affectionate; I cherished any neck kisses I could get.

I put the joint to my lips and breathed in until my lungs burned. Fairly new at this, I held the smoke as long as I could before exhaling. I felt him clutch me closer and I thought that I would melt. He took the joint back and sucked in so professionally, holding the smoke and breathing it out again.

“Why do you like me?” I asked him, picking at a loose thread on my quilt. I had been wondering this for some time, unwary about whether to ask and risk seeming almost as insecure as I actually was.

“I don’t know. Because you’re cute,” he said, taking another long drag on the weed.

Cute. Me, plain Lane, with dark hair, a too-long neck, and skin as pale as winter skies. I felt disproportionate, fat in all the wrong places, with thick hips and too-small breasts, and Nate thought I was cute. I shook my head at my internal opinions, wondering how any boys could find themselves attracted to my awkward self.

I looked at up at Nate.

He wasn’t really paying attention, I could tell, the high probably starting to kick in. He was staring at something on the far wall. His face was round and scruffy, a coffee-colored beard struggling to grow through. He had commented earlier that he needed a shave, but I rather thought it looked attractive on him. His skin was tanner than mine, his neck thick and sturdy. He wore a hat to lazily cover his stubborn dark hair, with the bill slightly off center. I wondered if that was on purpose.

Finally he caught me staring at him. “What,” he asked nonchalantly.

I looked away, poorly attempting to feign the same air of apathy. “Nothing,” I replied, “I just think you’re cute, too.”

He half-chuckled, half-snorted before taking another powerful puff on the weed. I let myself relax in his big arms, trying to put a name to the emotion I was feeling. Attraction? Curiosity? Excitement? Whatever it was, I knew for sure it was not love, but rather some other form of amorous fascination that I couldn’t seem to stifle. I don’t know what it was about Nate.

Nate and I were from two separate worlds. It was only by pure chance we started seeing each other, and even so, we were never exclusive. What we had was our own, not to be shared with friends or family – a mutual need for one another and nothing more. Which was just as well, considering all my friends disliked him. They saw him the way everyone saw him – a troublemaking, loud-mouthed stoner who didn’t care what other people thought of him or what tomorrow would bring. Bad grades, baggy clothes and a criminal record.

They didn’t see what I saw.

They didn’t see the big hands that appeared to be rough but were really capable of the softest touches. They didn’t see the apprehension in his eyes when we talked about the future, didn’t hear the distance in his tone when he tried to hide what he was thinking. They didn’t feel his solitary kisses on their necks – and I was glad for that. I secretly wanted to be the only one he kissed, even though I knew I probably wasn’t.

So there we sat, Nate and I, on my bed, basking in the warm spring sun that poured in through my bedroom window. I looked at the clock hanging above the TV. Four twenty-five. I knew he would be leaving soon, but I wished he wouldn’t. I wondered what would happen between now and five-thirty. I wondered if we would wind up in a tangle of sheets, naked but for our socks, smelling of pot and sex. I wondered if he would hug me. I wondered if he would kiss me good-bye.

He handed me the joint and I took it readily, wanting to get lost in the thick, sweet smoke. He started kissing my neck again, over and over, and I felt his rough hands hungrily grasp my breasts, my waist. I emptied my lungs of the last of the smoke and gladly let him take me, delighted to know where this was going.

Maybe I was just sick of being lonely. Maybe I just wanted a pair of lips to kiss, and Nate’s were readily available. I think I just needed that dose of attention to keep me going, whatever the reasoning behind it; needed something different, something new. Did that make me pathetic? Dirty? Foolish?

It didn’t matter. I didn’t care.
All my thoughts drifted to the ceiling and faded away with the smoke.

Perhaps things could be better, but they could definitely be worse.