“When’s that damned habit of yours going to stop?” he asked.

“When the memories stop coming back,” she said before she took a drag.

“You can’t just pretend like nothing happened,” he said. Her house always smelled like Newport 100s. When she lit them, it made him gag.

“Tell me,” she said as she tapped the cancer stick against the glass ashtray and blew a puff of smoke, “Would you be able to live with yourself if you were in my place?”

He thought about this question. He knew she’d ask him. He was thinking for a while. And then he didn’t want to think anymore, so he looked out the window. He never even looked at her since he came in. He couldn’t even remember trading awkward smiles. How could he smile at her? He would have to glance at her, and that meant a chance of seeing her eyes. He loved her green eyes. That was always his favorite part of her. Second would probably be her hair. She had hair as dark as December nights. It was silky, too. It was hard not to just walk over and push her overgrown side bangs behind her ears so he could see those stunning eyes just one more time. That would make her smile and forget everything. It drove her crazy. And, damn, her smile. He loved her smile. He was convinced her smile could give life back to the millions of deceased stars they see every night. But he couldn’t think about that right now. So, he just stared at the blue jays outside, lining the electrical wires connected by poles. He wished he were like them with the ability to fly away at any moment. He couldn’t hear their chirping. She always kept the windows shut.

“I like feeling suffocated,” she’d say to him. He’d pout, which made her kiss him. He couldn’t think about that, either. He wouldn’t dare look at her old, beat up red 1975 Volkswagen bus. If he purposely did so, he would blush at the memories. He would have thought about the yellow sundress. He would have thought about how her lips tasted and how her breath felt against his neck. He would have thought about the nights they would drive endlessly when they didn’t want to live in Hanson anymore and how they’d stop at a truck stop and sleep in the bus, their legs laced together. But he didn’t. He swallowed.

She stared at him and he felt it. He was wearing her favorite shirt of his. It was gray shirt with VANS printed in black. He cut off the collar and sleeves – a makeshift muscle shirt. He liked doing that to his shirts. He wasn’t very muscular, but he wasn’t scrawny, either. It wasn’t for that. It was to showcase his tattoo sleeves. He was very proud of them. If she had to pick her favorite thing about him, it would be his tattoos. He wore his black shorts from Hot Topic and white on black vans. He had his little tunnels in his ears, too. They were just big enough so that a pencil could glide through without actually touching the tunnels. She almost wanted to smile. He looked so cute.

“Dame?” she said. And he shot his eyes back at her. Bad decision. He could see one of her damned emerald eyes through the onyx curtain. Her eyebrow piercing shimmered. She had also called him Dame, which was his “pet name.” He was Damien now.

“Huh?” he said.

“What would you do if you do if you were in my shoes? I didn’t want it to end like this,” and her voice choked.

He winced and whispered, “Damn, Ronnie,” he paused to correct himself, “Veronica… I don’t know. You could have told me. I… I…” he didn’t know how to reply. He buried his pale face into his calloused hands. He lifted his head slightly, resting his jaw in his palms now.

“You what?” Veronica inquired.

He sat up and lifted his shaking hands saying, “I don’t know. I just know that we deserved more. We deserve more…”

She watched him run his hands through his short, spiked hair. It was the color of milk chocolate with frosted tips. She’d tell him he was too 90s for her and laugh… if it were ten months ago. She always said that.

His words lingered in the air.

She closed her eyes and took in the cigarette longer than usual. She was upset. A bit of ash fell onto her ripped denim jeans and onto her cleavage. She blew out a bigger smoke puff than before.

“Do you want me back?” she finally asked.

Yes, he thought, more than anything. Instead he asked, “Will you put that goddamned cigarette out? You’re giving me a headache.” He forgot to take an ibuprofen before going to her house, which he usually did.

“This is my last cigarette,” she said as she brought the damned thing back to her mouth, inhaling its toxins once again. Another smoke puff. “I’ll enjoy it as I so damn please.”

He rolled his baby blue eyes. Damien wanted to cry. “Why?” he asked. “Explain to me what happened. Just one more time.”

“I don’t want to,” she darted back. He didn’t know it, but her eyes were starting to water.

He looked at her. Big mistake. Big mistake. She was wearing a navy blue top with daisy prints all over. He loved that shirt. It was just hardly her size. Her belly button peaked from below. She was chunky. Not enough for people to look at her and think fat, but not enough that she would generally be considered skinny. Curvy, he always thought. He wanted to smile, but he wouldn’t dare show her how much he missed her; how much he loved her. He wanted to know everything. She flipped her hair out of her eyes and there was that same twinkle he always knew. He must have blushed, because she smiled. She loved having all eyes on her. Another thing he hated. Her teeth were tinted yellow and her right canine tooth was crooked. He shook his head.

“Why not?” he insisted.

“I told you,” she said. It was nearly a whisper.

“Once,” he said. “I need to hear it again.

“I’ll cry…” she admitted. It surprised them both. He always admired her strength. On the rare occasion she was as vulnerable as she was now, he was her shield. But he couldn’t be now. Especially not today. If he reached a hand to rest upon her knee, he knew neither of them would be able to hold themselves back. And Damien needed answers.

Veronica sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he retorted.

“Never mind.” Her cigarette was hanging over the edge of the ashtray now. She tapped it against the glass and the ash fell silently.

“What?” Damien said, a little louder than they’d both expected. “Why did you want me to come here, anyway?”

She bit her lip, her cigarette held away from her face between her index and middle fingers.

“No,” he stood up, “No, Ronnie. You can’t just leave out of nowhere, call me three months later vaguely explaining what happened – no decency to even tell me in person, and call me six months after and refuse all the questions I ask! You can’t, Ronnie…” He grabbed at his hair and sat down. His hands clenched into fists at the sides of his head.

“How was I supposed to tell you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But, you should have called me… Came to me… Told me somehow.” He let out a heavy sigh.

The blue jays were no longer on the wires. Damien wished he could get away that easily now more than ever. He wanted answers, but he knew he wouldn’t like it – especially if it were the truth.

Veronica shut her eyes. She didn’t want to cry. Not now. “I wanted to,” she choked.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I was afraid.”

“I told you… I was here for the long run,” his voice started to get louder, “I promised you forever, and you gave me two years, eight months, and sixteen days!”

Her eyes shot up at him. “You remember that much?”

He shrugged. “I remember a lot of things. You were just my favorite memory.”

She tapped the ash off and took her cigarette in for a good, long while after. It was hardly a nub now.

Another big puff of smoke.

Damien sighed. “I get it. Deadbeat mom, your dad just died. Nick left for college a year ago. I get it-”

“Shut up!” she cut him off.

They lingered in silence.

Damien let out another heavy sigh. “Then, tell me. Tell me what I have wrong. Tell me all the facts. Explain it to me.”

She must have put makeup on yesterday and forgot or just didn’t bother to take it off. Eyeliner and mascara circled her eyes. She looked vaguely like a raccoon.

She took in her cigarette one last time only briefly. She snuffed out the tiny orange flames and held her hands together in her lap, letting out one last puff of smoke. Her nails had been painted maybe a week ago. They were painted a baby blue, except for the middle fingers on both hands. Those two were black. It was starting to chip a little on each and every finger.

“Fine,” she said with a sigh. She shifted in her seat, which creaked softly. “I’ll tell you everything you deserve to know. Where should I start?”

“The night you left,” he said. His voice was cold.