Jack sold weed. I used it as an excuse to see him, texting him to buy more before I had even finished my last half-quarter.
Sitting on the oxblood sofa in the living room, I busted some dope with a chipped plastic grinder and poured it into a paper. Specks spilled over the sides, falling onto the table. I brushed them to the floor with the back of my hand. I had meticulously styled my hair, blow-drying it smooth with a round brush, and with much deliberation, decided on a silky black mock-turtleneck dress. I spent an hour carefully lining my eyes, rouging my cheeks, and shaving my legs all the way up to my thighs, just in case.
The front door creaked open and my stomach began to flutter. I busied my freshly manicured hands in an attempt to appear casual. Jack’s shoes hit the floor with a thud, and the carpet muted his footsteps as he made his way down the hallway to the living room.
“Hey, kid.” Jack smiled, rounding the corner into the room.
“Hey.”
“You’re quickly becoming my favourite customer.” He dropped a Ziploc baggie into my lap, flopping down on the couch next to me.
“That’s awkward,” I replied, licking the strip on the rolling paper before sealing it. “Because you’re not my favourite drug dealer.”
He grinned, brushing his fingers through his hair. “Is that so? You must smoke a fuckload of weed.”
I placed a joint between my lips, lit it, and took a deep draw, exhaling a cloud of smoke in his direction. “You have no idea.” I took another drag before passing it to him; the imprint of my brick-red lipstick remained on the filter. He brought it to his mouth.
“So, I have a plan.” I hopped up from the couch. “Let’s build a blanket fort and watch a movie.”
“How old are you again?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Shut up.” I skipped to my bedroom. “Come on,” I called.
“I’m coming.”
I grabbed the bottom corner of my comforter, tearing it from the bed. The pillows flew to the floor, knocking against a lamp on my bedside table. Jack reached for it as it swayed in small circles, debating whether it would fall or not, before slowly settling back on its legs.
“Close call,” he said.
I shrugged. “I like close calls.”
I dragged the blanket toward the couch. My apartment was small, with only a bedroom, an ensuite, and a short hallway that led into the open-concept kitchen and living room. It did, however, have the most lovely backyard—which was rare in the city—so I made the decision to sacrifice spaciousness for the outdoor sanctuary.
As Jack and I began setting up, I remembered building intricate blanket forts with my brother and sister on days when the snow was piled so high it reached the tops of the telephone poles. We’d listen to the radio in the kitchen for the school report, each wrapped in a quilt, only our eyes exposed as the kitchen heaters clicked, smelling of burnt dust. “Closed for the day,” the host would announce, and we’d smile inside our cocoons.
“Let’s build a fort,” William would shout, tossing his blanket to the floor and running upstairs. He was the engineer, Annabelle and I were simply his helpers. The entrance would begin at the top of the staircase and run all the way to the end of the hallway. The sophisticated shelters with multiple rooms were indicative of someone with a mind for compartmentalization, the brain of a problem solver. We filled the darkness with lamps and cushioned it with pillows, collecting them from each room of the house, protective yellow light bathing the dim space. Sometimes, William would carry the tiny television into the fort and we would watch a movie, smushed together.
“After you.” Jack lifted the blanket.
I lowered myself onto all fours, the hum of the heaters dulling as I crawled inside. Evening light saturated the burgundy comforter and caused the area to gleam crimson. I could feel Jack close behind me. I settled cross-legged, and Jack did the same. The space was small and intimate, our shoulders slightly touching. I felt safe with Jack, insulated by those recollections of my childhood.
Jack lit another joint, his face illuminated in a glow of orange. The paper and weed crackled as the enclosure filled with grey haze. He licked his lips between each draw.
I stared at him, transfixed. I wanted his lips. My body was both tensed and relaxed, filled with the awareness of his shoulder against mine, hovering between barely touching and touching too hard. I wordlessly willed him not to move.
“Grace?” Jack’s head turned and his eyes met mine.
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever wish your parents had stayed together?” he asked. “Made it work, you know? Despite all the bullshit?”
“No,” I replied. “I wouldn’t wish their relationship on anyone.”
He took another draw on the joint, biting his lip. “I’m glad they split.”
“That’s kind of rude,” I laughed. “Why’s that?”
He leaned closer. “Because if they hadn’t, I never would have met you.”