He wouldn’t smoke again till he had that document, he told himself. Not anymore—because, well, he had been smoking a little. A very little. Just on the way back from rehearsals. It wasn’t like he was in the habit. Okay, he was in the habit, but he was just having a couple of hits a night. He had to conserve it since he didn’t know who to buy it from up here. He was mildly stoned right now, but what was the harm in that?

Honestly, what was so bad about weed? He’d never figured that out. As long as you weren’t out-of-your-head stoned behind the wheel, who cared? It was no worse than alcohol. It probably made more sense to make alcohol illegal since people often got angry when they were drunk. People who were stoned usually just mellowed out.

All Grant really wanted was to relax a little. Suzanne acted like relaxation itself was a felony. She would kick him out if she knew he was smoking—she’d already made that clear. So he was careful. He went to bed after her, scrubbing himself down like a victim of nuclear fallout and rinsing with mouthwash in addition to brushing. Suzanne was a real bloodhound when she was pregnant. She could sniff out souring milk days before the expiration date, not to mention meat that was on the verge.

His phone pinged. Maybe it’s a sympathetic pregnancy, Marie texted, continuing a conversation they’d been having about Adam’s headaches.

Maybe.

Remember how fat I got when my sister was pregnant? She wrote. I’m still fat. She lost it all, the bitch, but me, I’m still paying for that brat.

He wrote Hahaha.

He liked the fact that all she needed was a laugh, not reassurance that she wasn’t fat—though she wasn’t. Since when did a little meat on the bones mean someone was fat?

The two of them had dated for a while, after college. Not really dated. More like friends with benefits. They used to get together when they were stoned or bored, make out, sometimes more. It went on intermittently for years, in between girlfriends. Marie always said they’d get married someday. He’d apologized to her over drinks after he and Suzanne got engaged. “I didn’t mean I’d be your first wife,” she’d said dryly.

Grant took another sip of wine. Nick had a special refrigerator filled with bottles.

“Nice, very nice,” Nick said.

Grant nodded. “On the dry side.” He had a fifty percent chance of being right.

“I meant the house plans,” Nick said. “They’re nice, but they could be a hell of a lot nicer. Can I talk to you man-to-man?”

“Of course.”

“That house of yours is a tear-down. But you knew that when you bought it.”

Grant nodded tentatively. A fixer-upper, he thought they were called.