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It was twelve-fifteen now, and Becca was walking down the wooden steps that led onto the sand. It was almost pitch-black, but she could see that he was there when he dragged on his cigarette. She walked toward the orange burn. It was because of her that he smoked. It was fucked-up, but she liked that she’d affected someone like that.
“Hey,” Johnny said.
“Hey.” She reached up for a kiss. He always tasted the same, every night they met. Like cigarettes and peppermint gum. She so preferred that to Max, who always smelled of soap.
He held out the cigarette for her.
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