Cate’s eating a scone behind the counter, having successfully rid Tea Cozy of tiny children, and the few filled tables are digging into cookies and coffees, so I can sneak out for a few minutes without being noticed. I take off my apron. Some weird logic has me worried that if my apron smells like weed, my mom will know what’s up. I tie my hair into a bun (didn’t someone say that helps with the lingering smell?) and ignore the no no no voice in my head that’s telling me to just have a normal day doing normal things. Reading books. Pouring coffee. Replacing the honey and the skim milk on the counter. I could give up on LBC and Assignments and be Tabitha from Before. She was okay, wasn’t she?
I have to do this, I think, and try to put all the fear and not-wanting-to in a box in the back of my brain.
The back door always sticks, and I have to push the full weight of my body against it to nudge it open.
“Tab! Jesus!” Paul waves his hand with the joint around. He can’t decide whether to take another drag, hold it behind his back, or stamp it out into the frozen ground.
“You sharing?” I say. No pause. No intake of breath. No hemming and hawing while I figure out how to phrase it. Inside I am a mess, but on the outside maybe I am pulling this off.
I’m looking Paul in the eyes. Our secret rule has been that I never look at him straight on when he’s smoking or high. It’s funny how those boundaries set themselves up and keep us safe.
And it’s even funnier how I’m out here kicking them down.
Paul’s either so shocked or so stoned that he can’t muster up an actual response.
“Do you have some for me?” I say. I pull my shoulders back like I’m all confidence. I reach my hand out, and Paul almost hands the joint over on reflex, I think, before shaking his head and remembering who exactly I am. You know. His daughter.
“Go inside, Tab,” he says. His voice is small and sad, and he shuffles his feet in the pile of icy leaves he is standing in. They crunch and the wind whistles and I pull my wool blazer more tightly around myself.
“I accidentally outed Elise. I have officially lost my last friend,” I say. I’m not sure making a plea about how shitty my life is currently is the best strategy, but I have to fill the silence with something, and the truth is what is most readily accessible. Paul reaches out his free hand to squeeze my shoulder, but I wince away from the touch so he knows that’s not what I want.
“Also, the school counselor, your good friend Mrs. Drake, basically called me a whore.”
“That is completely not okay. Cate and I can go in and—” Paul loses his words in a hefty cough and then seems to forget what he was saying. “Bad” is his epic conclusion.
“I’ll do it regardless,” I say, pointing at the joint when he has neither taken a drag nor handed it over to me. The joint hangs in the air between us, an unanswered question. “This guy I sort of like does it. Everyone does it. I thought you’d want me to try with you first.” I don’t say it like a threat, but I guess that’s what it is. Paul looks at me with his drooping eyes and pulls his winter cap farther down over his ears. He likes that I’m telling him things about my life, though. I can tell.
“Your mother will hate me,” he says at last, in a morning voice, groggy and slow. The pile of leaves gets picked up in the wind, spins around frantically, and drops down somewhere else.
“I’m not telling Cate,” I say. “I’m not crazy. This is a Paul and Tabby thing.” It’s a phrase Paul uses. It refers to used books, strong espresso, science fiction movies, staying up way too late, adding crazy garnishes to Cate’s perfect recipes, singing along with country singers using opera voices and cracking ourselves up, eating an entire block of cheese in one sitting, collecting photographs of New York City. And if all goes my way, smoking pot together.
Paul brags to his friends about Paul-Tabby things. “I’m not one of those distant, secondary-parent dads,” he’s always saying. “This one here’s my best friend. We’ve got something special. Cate and I have very separate relationships with her. Like it should be.” It is maybe the only thing Paul ever really gets on a high horse about.
It does the trick.
“I appreciate you coming to me about it, instead of going to some party and doing it there,” he says.
“Family of the Year,” I say. “I know I can trust you.”
“Okay,” he says. He rubs his forehead, like maybe he can dislodge some thoughts. “Okay,” he says again. He drops the last bit of his joint on the ground and rolls a brand-new one, his fingers moving confidently in spite of how high I’m sure he is. “Your mom’s busy in there?” He nods to the back door of the Cozy, and I nod back. He has got to know what a horrible idea this is, giving me drugs in the back of his family-owned business, pregnant Cate a few feet away. But Paul has never been much for carefulness.
“You’re the best,” I say without even trying to smile. I’m too scared and shocked and uncertain to muster up a normal facial expression. I’ve never even smoked a cigarette. I hear it burns on the way down. I’ve seen the way people cough it up, and I don’t like the strange, earthy smell.