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IF I CANNOT SMOKE IN HEAVEN THEN I SHALL NOT GO

T immy and I had talked long and hard about our move to this area of Sunset Cay, and he’d sworn that he’d stay close in the evenings, promising we’d settle into the neighborhood together.

But as soon as we move, I realize it’s patently untrue. Maybe those were his intentions prior to our relocation, but as soon as we move in, Timmy keeps leaving the apartment for cigarettes. Ten o’clock. Eleven o’clock. Midnight. We’re only days in, and he’s already slipping out like it’s a compulsion.

Each time, it’s ‘just for a quick smoke’—yet it never is. Fifteen minutes, thirty minutes. Much longer than it takes to smoke one cigarette. And that’s part of the problem. He has no money to buy cigarettes, so he has to prowl the streets for someone willing to give him one or bum a drag from—gross, mixing with random people in a neighborhood that feels more dangerous with each passing night.

I don’t want him walking around chatting with people in the middle of the night. I’m worried about him drifting toward something unsavory, unknowingly stumbling into the worst corners. This place hums with a strange energy after dark—a gathering of those who didn’t find a way out or who never intended to. Right before we moved, a teenager was shot in the head at the beach park right beside our apartment building, and apparently, it wasn’t a rare occurrence. It’s a jarring new normal that I’d rather not get used to.

But I can see him warming to it, slipping into a new rhythm, discarding all the promises he made to me like they never meant a damn to him. I wish he’d feel the unease I feel, the sinking feeling I get every time the door swishes shut behind him, the keypad beeping like an eerie alarm reminding me everything’s not okay. And I really wish that, to him, I was more important than a cigarette.

He doesn’t seem to understand why it bothers me, why I’m so against him walking around this neighborhood at night. But I’d feel the same way in other parts of the Cay.

I’m not particularly worried that he’s out looking for women—most of them out here are at least fifty or sixty years old and missing half their teeth—but this is a dangerous neighborhood surrounded by drug dealers and users, and, as the saying goes, nothing good happens after midnight.

In many ways, I wish we lived in a complex that wasn’t smoke-free, and that he could just go out onto a balcony and smoke like he did back at Matty’s place. I don’t miss the stench of tobacco by any means, and I don’t miss passively smoking by being around him, but I just don’t like him going out to the street at night without me. From my standpoint, it’s just not an appropriate thing to do.

For the next few days we argue. We argue about him going out for cigarettes, we argue about him not getting out of bed until the afternoon, we argue about the trip to the island to help his friend, we argue about arguing. He cries. I cry. I try to explain things to him over the next few days, but he seems to be oblivious, like he either doesn’t understand, or he does and he pretends not to. Every argument boils over into more tears, and no progress is made.

My anxiety is peaking thinking about the upcoming trip to Solvana. I’m so sad that we can’t just be here and figure out a healthier new normal and get everything in the apartment properly set up. The thought of traveling with a cat adds further stress.

I can barely bring up the upcoming trip without another fight. He knows I’m upset, and I can tell he is, too. But he feels this obligation to help his childhood friend. I kind of get it—Steve’s PTO is scheduled for specific days when they can get it done—but the dates had moved around a few times, and I’d assume there would be more flexibility than there’s proving to be.

It’s just a really inconsiderate and inconvenient time to be traveling, but at least Timmy will make some money for us by doing it. That’s the only consolation. I could really use some help with the rent and day-to-day living expenses.

Still, his behavior leaves me feeling lonelier than ever. This was meant to be our place. The location we were coming to work on our art, and our relationship. Instead, I’m left sitting alone at night while he gallivants around, smoking and doing goodness knows what else. I never would have moved there if I knew he’d act this way. And he knows that. We had extensive conversations about how this was a fear of mine, and each time, he reassured me I had nothing to worry about.

A few days later

We drive to the opposite shore, hopeful for a refreshing change of scene.

As soon as we get over the hill, however, his personality changes again. His face shifts, and his energy grows tense and bristling. It’s like a light switch every time we get to this part of the coast. I don’t know if it’s because it brings back difficult memories, or what it is, but Timmy just really seems to step into a different version of himself when we get over here, and it’s one I don’t particularly care for. His lightheartedness falls away, replaced by something else, an edge that feels almost dangerous. It’s almost as if memories of the past haunt him here, ghosts that come alive when he sees these familiar places from his childhood. I should have known better and suggested something else. But he was insistent on visiting surf shops to check out their latest goods, and so I braced myself for it—there was a futile hope within me that, for once, we could just come here without arguing.

The Next Day

“Look!” Timmy exclaims. His sudden shout jolts me from my thoughts. He’s in a chipper mood again, thank goodness, yesterday’s arguments once again swept away by a comfortable sleep.

I glance up from my computer, my heart jumping, and there he is, shirtless, covered in black marker scribbles. He’s drawn a giant face all over his torso, his nipples turned into makeshift eyes, and there’s a giant tongue that extends down to his bellybutton.

It actually looks quite disgusting, like a crude, mischievous child has somehow got hold of a Sharpie and gone to town on him.

“Um, wow,” I say. “That tongue looks a bit like a penis, by the way.” He has a total dick on his torso. Like… why?

“Ahaha! I know!” Timmy cackles. He goes and looks at himself in the mirror, posing and continuing to crack up, as if he’s both proud of, and delighted by, his masterpiece.

“Take a picture!” he demands. He poses while I snap a few shots and send them to him just to keep him happy.

He marches off to do laundry, still shirtless and covered in his ‘artwork’, and returns a short time later, looking shocked, “Oh shit! I forgot about this!” He chuckles, glancing down at his makeshift tattoos. “No wonder I was getting funny looks! People around here might be mad and think I was making fun of their tattoos.”

I take a deep breath, feeling the irony of it. He’s learning the new neighborhood quickly, but in ways that make me anxious, watching him take on its quirks and push its limits. It’s the kind of behavior that might seem a bit odd but generally harmless in a different setting, but here it feels like he’s courting attention from people who could be dangerous. He’s spent so much time warning me about the people that live in this area that it feels quite hypocritical.

For the rest of the day, he carries the giant stuffed baby shark toy around the apartment complex, as if it’s his badge of honor, Sharpie still smeared across his chest. People stare, some nod in amusement, while others glance at him with looks of concern and disdain. It’s as though he’s claiming his space here, doing whatever he can to make himself known. And even though he’s in good spirits, there’s something unsettling in the way he’s acclimating, blending into the wrong rhythms.

It’s strange behavior, but at least he’s in a good mood, so I don’t really question it. Clearly, he wants attention and so he’s acting out. But it’s not in a bad way, just a weird way, so I leave it alone.

There are worse things that he’s done, and I have bigger fish to fry.

Inwardly, I’m a mess. The trip looms in my mind, full of what-ifs. This was supposed to be a time to settle, to start afresh. But everything seems to pull us in a different direction, scattering any hope for stability. He’s adapting to the chaos, while I’m losing my footing, leaving me wondering whether this is a new normal I can even survive.