April 25, 1996

I wonder sometimes if your dad knows how much time we spend at my house. Your mom does. But she's not the one with the guns and the badge. You say you two talk about things and that she's cool as long as you're home by curfew. I can't say it surprises me that you're open with your mom about our relationship. She might not know just how few times my parents have been here when we are, but still…

It's been a rough day for you. You woke up late this morning; you got a C on your math test, which I say isn't bad but is completely unacceptable to you; and you had an argument with Alice last night over how much time we spend together. You're in a mood after school. So I sit you down in my beanbag chair and hand you my favorite glass pipe.

You glance from it to me and back again. "This is…nice?"

I laugh and grab the Altoids tin from my desk drawer. "I think you need this."

First, you raise one eyebrow at me. Then you tilt your head to the side, and a smile creeps over your face slowly. Finally. "I think you're right."

I get things ready while you fiddle with the stereo, finally settling on the local alternative station. You tell me you've never used a pipe before. I show you how, but you say lighters make you nervous. So I hold it for you while you take a tentative hit, and for whatever reason, I'm suddenly very turned on. Like that time you asked to try out my skateboard. It's a mystery to me.

I lie on the floor with my head on your knees and feel the tension go out of you. You play with my hair as I draw circles around your ankle with my fingertip, and the afternoon is suddenly slow and easy.

"Edward?" you say quietly after a few minutes.

"Hmm?"

"Can you…?"

I open my eyes and peek up at your face. You're holding the pipe and the lighter and grinning lazily. Hopping up to my knees, I plant my hands on either side of the beanbag, leaning over you. "Of course. But it'll cost ya." You meet me halfway when I lean in to kiss you properly for the first time today. It's sweet, soft tugs and suction and lazy brushes of tongue.

"Hi," I say quietly when I pull back.

"Hey," you whisper. "I love you."

I give you one last peck on the lips and sit up to help you with the pipe again. You take a long drag and try your best to hold the smoke in, but you end up in a coughing fit. I pat your back, half concerned and half amused.

"You okay, baby?"

Your demeanor changes fast. You glare at me as you take a deep breath through your nose to calm your coughs. "Don't call me that."

I have no idea why you're angry at me. I only know that I really, really don't like it. "What's—"

"I just really hate that. Baby. I'm not a baby."

"I'm…sorry?"

"I mean I'm no bra-burning feminist or anything, and it's not that I find it demeaning. I just don't like it. It sounds so…so cheesy."

My momentary angst at thinking you were mad at me dissolves quickly. "Okay. I won't call you that." I chuckle and roll to my back on the floor.

The commercial break ends on the radio, and a Hole song starts up. You reach up and change the station to classic rock.

"I hate Courtney Love," you mumble.

"God, I love you." Chuckling, I reach up and grab your hand to pull you down next to me on the floor. We lie there in comfortable silence, using my beanbag as a pillow. And you're tucked against my side just like you should be, where I always want you to be.