I continue my long, careful drags, pushing down a slight urge to cough which comes with each one. It gets easier the farther down the cigarette I go. Whenever I feel a lump growing in my throat, I know that that is just my body trying to reject the smoke, and I respond by leaning into it, inhaling stronger and more profoundly, denying my lungs the normal air they crave, and through this, I know, they will learn to accept the smokey air that is given to them.

When I finish the last of the cigarette, I open my eyes to see Saxa staring back at me, her hands, empty as she must have finished her cigarette already – folded across her lap.

Unsure of what to do, I flash her an awkward smile, which she does not return. "W-where should I put this?" I ask, holding up the butt of my cigarette.

She looks out over the ledge and kicks her head back slightly. "Toss it," she says.

"Aren't you worried about...I don't know...worried about...your parents?"

"What about them?"

"Don't you think they'd care if they knew you were smoking?"

"Would your parents care if they knew you were smoking?" This isn't a sarcastic question, nor a rhetorical one. Her words are laced with such a tone that is more curious than anything else.

"I don't know." I take a few moments to think of a more detailed response. In truth, it was never a mystery to me that June and Jeff would care. They were never shy to voice their opinions on the subject, whether it be from people smoking in movies, from the huddle of kids found smoking just outside of the high school most days, from the truck drivers who blew smoke outside their windows on the highway before flicking their butts into the wind.

"The world is not your ashtray!"

I remember June saying this on every occasion she could.

"Just disgusting," Jeff would agree from the passenger's seat. "I just don't get it. You know, I once tried smoking. Back in college. I had a group of friends – we all worked at that buffet place with the really bad shrimp – you remember that one, Juney?" She did. "Well, they all started smoking so they could take more breaks, and I thought, you know, not a half-bad idea. Well, I took one puff and nearly threw up! I don't know how they do it. Disgusting. Never picked up another one again."

"Oh, and good thing. I nearly broke up with you when you came home that night. You smelled terrible!"

Turning to me, Jeff would say "And that's why you should never smoke, Jaime."

If Jeff and June saw me smoking now, there's no doubt that they would be displeased. The real question was, what would they do? Probably just pitch up a fight for whoever was watching. Tell me it's wrong, that they told me so, that I know better than this. Grab me by the ear and drag me back home. Then, once safely behind closed doors, they'd shoo me off into my room, tell me to "think hard" about my actions. And by the time I came back downstairs for dinner, we'd all just pretend that we had forgotten anything had happened.

I could tell Saxa this, but this seems like a time it might be better to lie.

"They would kill me," and I toss the cigarette as far from the house as I can, delivering with my words my best strong and convincing laugh.

"What are they like?" Saxa's eyes widen, that sad innocence returning.

"Who? My parents?"

She nods back, careful to not break her eye contact with me as she does so.

"Um...they're okay. Like all other parents, I guess. How about yours?"

She ignores my question. "Do you love them?"

It's an absurd question. Not because I don't know why she's asked it, but because I know that the answer doesn't matter. It's not my fault if I haven't been given parents I can love, and I know that I will be judged for this. She's the type of person who would tell you that family comes first, that there's no place like home, that blood runs thicker than water, always and without exceptions. And if you were to say to her, "No, Saxa, sometimes being family doesn't mean shit," she would reply that you've just got a clouded judgment, that you're not giving them a fair chance, that you're not making enough excuses for them.

I try to give her a better answer than the truth, one that she'll want to hear. "Of course, I do," but she doesn't seem satisfied with it. Instead of nodding, smiling, tagging on a charming "me, too," before jumping up and returning her stash of cigarettes back to the drawer like I would expect, she remains silent and still, keeping a pensive gaze on me, furrowing in her brow just a tiny bit more and leaning in just a hair closer to me. "They're the best," I add.

"Then why do they blame you for the accident?"

"What accident?"

"At the beach. When you fell from the rock."

"What?" The word leapt from my mouth before I even knew it was coming. I can hear the pitch of my voice. It's higher and stronger sounding than I would like. "Th-they...they don't," I say, consciously working on bringing my voice back down to a proper register. "Why would you think that?"

She doesn't hesitate before responding. "Because you blame yourself...and little kids don't just blame themselves unless someone tells them to." She must have had this prepared, like somehow she knew I would ask. When did she prepare, though? While I had my eyes closed, taking drags of my cigarette? While I had my back turned, peeking into her drawer when I was supposed to be fetching her the box? While I was staring at the photograph downstairs, barely recognizing her absence? Or, this could go deeper, I guess. Back to the car, when I told her of the accident. Maybe this whole thing – inviting me into her home, all just careful premeditation to tell me this very thing.

"Please," I beg, "can we talk about something else?"

"This is important."

"Anything else." I allow myself to raise my voice at her, something I never thought I would be able to do. It feels dirty, almost, to be angry with her. Was this her plan? Build me up with a promise of peace and comfort, just to cast away the cloud I was sitting on with a single blow.

I can tell in her face that she's not pleased. Her eyes narrow, and she reaches into the packet of cigarettes to pull out the last one. The box, she crumples into her hand and throws to the floor. "Sure," she mutters, striking another match and lighting the cigarette. "Why don't you like being called James?"