short stories

cigarette kisses

"I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his neck. He smelled like jolly ranchers and burnt-out magic."

Nolan had lived in the small, two-bedroom house next to mine for fourteen years, before his parents filed for a divorce in mid-Autumn.  In the early hours of a brisk November morning, I could hear the three of them, Nolan, his mother, and his father, screaming at each other from their living room.

At school that same day, I saw Nolan walk past me with an irritable scowl and dark, gray circles under his eyes.  His backpack had been slung over his shoulder haphazardly, and his curly blonde hair had been unattended to, sticking out in random directions.  I waved at him in the hall, and he gave me a weak smile before pushing open the door to Biology.

I had known him since he was a toddler, and I remember we would walk across his backyard with thick, dimpled legs in our early years.  He always had the same unkempt blonde curls and stone-gray eyes.  His nose was pointed, and his signature half-smile could place a grin onto anyone who saw it.

Whether or not he knew I had feelings for him, I could never tell.  As first graders, I scraped my knee on the playground, and he ran to the nurse to get me a bandage.

Not all heroes wear capes.

After school, instead of walking home like he usually did, Nolan took an opposite turn toward the back of the campus.  I had only been back there twice, and each time ended in me (almost) getting drunk.  Thinking nothing of it, I turned the other way and started back toward my house.  At ten o'clock that night, when Nolan's parents showed up at our door asking "Have you seen him?  He hasn't been home after school and he won't pick up his phone," I put on my coat and hurried out the back door, jogging across the empty streets toward the school.

I found him sitting alone in a cloud of smoke, a cigarette resting between his fingers.  His knuckles were bruised and scarred, his face sunken, and his eyes weak.  I sat down next to him, holding back coughs.  We stayed quiet for the longest time, his longing eyes gazing into mine, tears rolling down his cheeks.

I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his neck. He smelled like jolly ranchers and burnt-out magic.  I wanted to say something, to comfort him, but his eyes told me not to.  I looked up at him, and found his lips behind the haze of smoke.  After another moment of loud silence, I reached up for him and our lips intertwined.  His mouth was warm and sweet, and as we connected, I clutched the hem of his shirt.

We broke apart, and looked at each other empathetically.

"I love you, Nolan," I whispered, my lip trembling.

"I love you too, Tristen."