Bobby shrugged his shoulders and reached down to pick up the bike. “Well,” he said mischievously, “I have something you can take a break with if you’re up for it.”

“What’s that?” I skeptically placed a hand on my hip.

Bobby looked from side to side and reached into his pocket, pulling out a rolled up piece of white paper.

“Robert Fitzpatrick Lightly!” I scolded. “Reefer?”

“Shhh!” He flitted his eyebrows. “You want in?”

“I’m getting married tomorrow!” I insisted in a hushed tone.

“God Lil, you’re not dying tomorrow, just getting married.” He jutted up his chin. “Have you ever?”

I had, once before. With Margaret MacDonald, my old college roommate. She was dating a townie and he gave her a cigarette laced with some marijuana. We stuffed towels under our room door and exhaled out the window. I didn’t feel much. “Yes . . .”

This was the fun I had with Bobby. He was spontaneous. And I wanted to be spontaneous, too. Rory was predictable, and I loved that about him. He was a safe place, but Bobby kept me on my toes. Bobby and Rory were like two ends of a seesaw, and I spent my time with them standing in the middle, teetering. That balance was what made our threesome so much fun.

“And for your information, I don’t think I am dying tomorrow, whatever you meant by that. Just that I want to be in a good state.”

“You’ll be fine in a few hours.”

I crossed my arms and watched the joint twirling in his fingers. “Well, fine, but we need to do it somewhere quiet where no guests can find us, and quick before Julia starts sticking her nose everywhere.”

“Hop on then,” Bobby ordered, wrapping his leg around the bike.

I sat sideways on the top bar as he pedaled to the furthest end of the estate, by one of the docks. We jumped off the bike, where he abandoned it, and then we trudged past some low-hanging branches into the untamed woods we both knew so well. We found a downed tree, where we thought we would be safe from prying eyes and noses, and sat.

Bobby pulled out a Zippo lighter and placed the flame to one taut end of the joint while he pursed his lips around the other and sucked in. The end of the white paper curled into a burnt orange and black ember that illuminated as he drew in and dulled when he stopped.

“Here,” he said hoarsely, his chest puffed up while he held in the smoke.

“Maybe I shouldn’t.”

A hazy white trail snaked from his lips as they formed a plump O. “You’ll be fine tomorrow. But it’s your call.” His tone was indifferent, but he couldn’t resist adding a light jab next. “What? Just ‘cause you’re marrying my brother, you’re supposed to suddenly become a nun or something?” he hissed acerbically. “Can’t fool me. I know ya’, Lil.”

“Oh and Rory doesn’t?”

“I never said that. Just that he sees you differently. Like a prize. Rory’s all about winning things.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You’re right, I don’t know my brother at all,” Bobby retorted sarcastically.

“And I am no thing to be won,” I snapped.

“Never said that either.”

“And how Rory and I feel is none of your business anyway.” I shifted my seating position in protest to Bobby’s observations. I was inclined to ask Bobby how he saw me. But that would show too much deference to his opinion.

“Yeesh. You’re awfully defensive today. I thought you would be flattered.”

“You? Flatter me?” I barked out a sarcastic laugh. My eyes wandered back to the joint between his fingers.

“It’ll take the edge off, if you’re nervous.”

“Nervous? Why would I be nervous?” I countered defensively.

“Isn’t everyone when they’re getting married?” he posited innocently. But his words had spoken to a secret I had been hiding.

“I suppose.” I rolled my eyes. Maybe Bobby was right. Maybe it was normal to feel hesitant. To not gush at the thought of my impeding union with Rory. It was normal to feel off before a wedding, wasn’t it?

I gave one last hard look at the skinny cigarette and pulled it from his fingers.

“Atta girl,” he said.

“I’m older than you.”

“Hardly,” he muttered. I thought I heard a hint of annoyance.

I inhaled the smoke, but unlike the cigarette I smoked with Margaret, this one seared my lungs and I choked on the burning pain as my throat spasmed. I let out a hacking cough and wheezed as I tried to get some air.

Bobby relieved me of the joint and gently slapped my back. As soon as I lifted my head, the world was soft and light. I could hear birds chirping I hadn’t noticed before, leaves rustling in the breeze, yet somehow things seemed quieter.

“I think I’m high,” I sighed.

Bobby laughed. I laughed.

“Me too,” he grinned.

And just as I hadn’t noticed the birds or the way the breeze tickled my ears before, I saw something in that smile, something familiar and new all at once. My heart raced and I snatched the joint away from him to distract myself.

“We have to save some for the guys,” he insisted.

“Rory’s smoking?” I asked in shock.

“That’s why I got this. A little fun on the water.”

“Well, I’ll say.” I nodded and frowned, impressed with the whole scheme. “If Mildred and Agnes were here . . .” I chuckled to myself.

“I think they like me,” he offered with a devilish grin.

It was unusually bold for Bobby. He usually downplayed the attention he got when I teased, but I guess marijuana weakens modesty. I choked on another inhale. “Well—aren’t—you—astute—” I cleared my throat. “Was it the drool, or that fact that they refuse to blink in your presence? Ugh, you and all your little girlfriends.”

“I don’t have girlfriends.”

“That’s my point. Women shouldn’t be things you trade around.”

His shoulders stiffened. “I take offense to that. I don’t trade girls.” He was visibly upset.

“Oh god, Bobby,” I declared dismissively. “Don’t be such a baby. I understand your plight. You just sit there and take what they throw at you. How can you be expected to choose just one when you can have any girl? None of it’s your fault.”

“Not any girl.” He murmured so quietly, I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to hear him or not. “Besides, why are you always giving me guff about the girls I date . . . jealous?” he asked snidely.

I tensed up, at a loss for words. I didn’t know why his trivial joke turned me into a blubbering fool, but I had no clever response. It had to be the reefer, I thought to myself.

Suddenly, I jumped up. “Crap. I’ve lost track of time. How long have we been out here?”

“I don’t know,” Bobby laughed, entertained by a high Lilly.

“This isn’t funny.” As I stood and tried to ambulate, I realized I was more than just a little high. Though details were made sharper, the world was draped in a haze that made focusing on any particular task extremely difficult. I couldn’t imagine facing my mother, older sister and the occasional passing family member in this state. “Oh lord. Can you tell?”

“Tell?”

“Bobby, I’m asking if you can tell how high I am.”

He laughed harder.

“Damn you! You are such a terrible influence. You are just bad news. Bad, bad news,” I declared gruffly, traipsing in a tight, panicked circle.

“Lil . . . Lil . . .” he called through laughter. “Just relax.”

Bobby stood in front of me and gripped my shoulders, affixing his honey-hued gaze to mine, pulling me out of my erratic orbit and grounding me to him.

“Lil,” he chuckled, brushing away a rogue lock of chestnut hair—the hair he ruined—with the tip of his finger, away from my face. “You’re fine,” he recited reassuringly. “You look like a million bucks. The only people who’ll know are you and me. Promise.”

There was something sweet about that moment. It was a rare glimpse into that space between silly childish rivalry and adult formality. It was genuine and caring. It was tender. It was comforting and disconcerting all at once.