Page 36 of Someone Exactly Like Me (Wounded Hearts 1)
Dirty cigarette butt in my hand, I walk back toward Destiny. A different kind of peacefulness fills me as I watch her. She’s not doing anything but eating, yet she makes me feel at peace. I toss the butt into the fire and sit back down in my chair to finish my meal.
“I’m sorry.” Sorrow colors her soft voice. “I didn’t mean to pry about your dad.”
I wave my hand. “No, it’s okay. It’s,” I hesitate, “it’s hard for me to talk about him.”
“I understand.” She pauses. “I can’t help but wonder, if smoking took your dad’s life, don’t you worry it will take yours?” Where most people ask this question in such a malevolent way, her gentleness brings compassion to her curiosity.
“Every day.” I confess.
“Have you ever thought about quitting?”
“All the time. I’ve tried to quit, a couple times.” I put the last bite of sushi in my mouth. “The desire is so strong it’s unbelievable. It’s a love-hate relationship. I hate knowing I’m killing myself. I hate the way I smell, I hate that I’m exhausted after climbing a flight of stairs, I hate the addiction. Then, I love the calm it brings me, and the feeling that I can take on the world and, this is so stupid.” I shake my head. “But it — it makes me feel connected to my dad.”
“Mmm.” Her lips tighten together and she nods.
I laugh at how ridiculous that must’ve sounded. “I know, it doesn’t make any sense. You probably think I’m crazy.”
“No. I don’t think you’re crazy.” Tenderness wraps around her words. “It sounds like you had a close bond with your dad and, even though you know it’s going to kill you, because it took him from you, doing it somehow makes you feel close to him still. The mind connects things in interesting ways.”
“It’s true.”
My smoking typically elicits judgement and criticism from most people. Destiny listens with an open heart, removing the shame I often feel when people ask me about it.
“Here’s the thing, your mind is also powerful enough to break that connection. And you’re the only person who can do that, if you want to.”
Whomph. With empathy and respect, she puts an imaginary mirror in front of me, reminding me that my habit, my addiction, ismychoice — and I’m the only one who can change it.
“Are you ready for the first and most delicious s’more of your life?” She stands up with a playful smile on her face.
“Iam.” I’ve seen pictures of them and I’m excited to make my first one, with her.
We gather our dishes and bring them inside. She opens a cabinet in her kitchen and takes out a glass jar filled with large marshmallows, chocolate bars, and another glass container filled with graham crackers. She hands both glass containers to me, opens a drawer, and takes out two long, silver forks on wooden handles. Before going back out, she grabs paper towels, two paper plates, and turns on some music.
When we get back to the fire pit, the flames of the fire have died down.
“The fire is perfect now for roasting our marshmallows.” She sets down on her tray the things she was carrying and turns the tray to the side of her chair. Then she turns mine to the side of my chair and I set down the containers. “Here.” She tugs her chair closer to the fire. “Pull your chair closer.”
I pull my chair closer to the fire and closer to her. She prepares our plates by snapping the crackers in two then placing half a chocolate bar on one of the halves. Taking one of the long silver forks, she pulls on the end of it, extending it to three times its length.
“Whoa. You’re serious about your s’mores.” I chuckle, reveling in how cute she is.
“Oh, s’mores-making is a very serious thing in these parts.” She smiles and winks at me then slides a marshmallow on the tip of one of the forks and hands it to me then sits down. Sliding another onto hers, she holds it toward the fire. “Now, the genius of these s’mores sticks is that you can rotate your stick by the base.” She demonstrates by twisting the wheel at the top of the wooden handle.
“Okay. How do I know when it’s done cooking?”
“Well, there are full debates about that and it really comes down to personal preference. Some people like theirs more stiff and underdone, some people like to catch theirs on fire and burn them to a crisp, and some people like them somewhere in between.”
“What do you like?”
Her gaze remains on her marshmallow as she slowly rotates it over the embers. “I like mine golden brown, hot enough to melt the chocolate and deliciously gooey.”
I sit quietly and watch her. The lyrics from the song “Breaking Me” float softly through the air from her house. The sun dips farther into the ocean, casting its glow on her fair skin.
“Nicco!” The alarm in her voice startles me from my trance.
My marshmallow is on fire. I pull it from the pit and wave my stick wildly, sending the marshmallow flying into the sand. She doubles over in laughter and I join her.
“What happened? Did I leave it too long?”
