We didn’t speak while we finished the main course and settled back to a simple dessert of strawberries and vanilla cream.
Elder didn’t have a sweet tooth, and after a second cream-covered berry, he pushed the dish away and reached into his pocket. Giving me a look that dared me to say anything, he pulled out a joint and a lighter then lit it without apology.
My mouth went dry as he inhaled deep, his head tipping to the ceiling as the end of the joint glowed red. He held his breath for a long second then exhaled a lungful of grey smoke, twirling and twining between his lips.
I knew I shouldn’t like him smoking. That smoking was terrible, and drugs were wrong. But my God, it made my heart hammer with interest. Why did he use? Was he in pain and it was medicinal? Was he a dealer and that was where his money came from? He wanted to know who I was, but in return, I wanted to know him.
I shifted in my chair as he inhaled again, his fingers slim and strong on either side of the weed cigarette.
After a few tokes, he glanced at me. Outwardly, he didn’t look any different. His eyes were still calculating and shrewd. His body still tense and ready to fight. But there was something less edgy about him—his mind perhaps? Something I couldn’t see, but I could feel. It had calmed down, muted the fizzing awareness between us, taming the drives that rode him.
I chewed my question before murmuring, “Why do you smoke?”
He smirked, holding the joint away from his mouth. “Ah, you’re too late for that question, Pim.”
I scowled. I knew what he meant. That night at the very beginning of whatever dance we rehearsed. He’d promised all his secrets if I just asked him that one question. At the time, I wasn’t ready mentally, physically, or in any way, but now, I wished I could go back and surprise him by opening my mouth to ask.
I dipped another strawberry into the vanilla cream. Even though he hadn’t answered me, I gave up a piece of myself in hopes he’d do the same. “A few years before I was taken, I tried it once. I didn’t like it. Made me paranoid.”
He inhaled deeply, holding his breath again until smoke curled from his nose, slowly siphoning like silver threads to form a halo around his head. “I’ve heard it can do that.”
“It doesn’t do that to you?”
“Never. If anything, it’s the opposite.”
“The opposite?”
He cocked his head, deliberating. “I’ll answer that question because one of us has to show some element of trust.” He took another drag then leaned forward and stubbed it out on a crystal ashtray in the middle of the table. “It allows me to relax—just like it does for a lot of people. But it plays multiple roles in my life.”
I kept my lips glued together so as not to ask. My curiosity nibbled at me, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
He chuckled quietly, seeing my internal battle. Standing, he ran a hand through his hair. “Marijuana doesn’t make me paranoid, Pim. It makes me open. The suspicion and doubt I have toward others when I’m sober are muted while I’m under the influence. It makes me a nicer person. It keeps other issues at bay. I can…relax.”
Before I could test out his theory—to see if he truly was softer and kinder and easier to talk to…he gave me a smile and left.
* * * * *
The next day, the sun hid its golden warmth behind wispy clouds, occasionally peeking out but most of the time sulking behind grey mist. The ocean was sullen and uninviting, making the Phantom seem like a comforting warm cocoon in the midst of hostile water.
I didn’t see Elder and settled for relaxing in my room, trying to recreate the origami rose he’d given me. Tearing a piece of paper from my genie notebook, I concentrated on folding creases and doing my best to turn flat into three-dimensional.
I failed even as time crept onwards and my attempts became sloppy as my fingers grew tired. Morning had switched to evening before a knock sounded on my door.
My heart skipped, hoping it was Elder, but as I opened the door, dressed appropriately in a lemon sundress, my hopes fell as a male steward smiled. “Mr. Prest wanted me to inform you we will dock in Monte Carlo at eight a.m. tomorrow and wishes you to be ready to disembark with him.” He looked over my shoulder to the jumbled mess of paper and half-concocted roses. “There is an alarm clock in your room. However, if you need help setting it or would rather a wake-up call, please just dial one, and we’ll arrange it.”
I nodded, slipping back into silence. I smiled to show gratitude, but for some reason, the thought of speaking to strangers still overwhelmed me. I’d become proficient at conversing with Elder first.