Chapter 27

• “Are you gonna explain why we’re in your car smoking weed at 8 p.m., or are we just gonna sit here and pretend the smell is part of the ambiance?” I ask, passing the joint to Monique.
• She takes it without a word, places it between her lips, and inhales a long drag. Her head tilts back against the seat, and she exhales through her nose and mouth, the smoke curling around her like a lazy fog.
• Neither of us are actual smokers. Not really. I’ve had my share of weed and cigarettes in the past, but I never made a habit of it. Monique, on the other hand, only smokes when she’s stressed—and even then, rarely. Maybe three times since we’ve been friends. And every single time, she made me smoke with her. Said she needed someone.