Page 13 of Severance

“Sure. Okay.” She does as I ask, wearing a defeated expression while my father stays unusually silent.

I slip back into the comfortable dark and shut off all my senses. My eyes are trained on the podium where people begin to speak, but I can’t hear anything or make out any of their faces. Mikah’s is also a blur. I watch him through an imaginary lens that makes everything look happier and I almost miss him crying. At the end of his eulogy, a single tear rolls down his cheek and instead of taking his seat, he hands his notes to his stepfather and leaves the room.

* * *

My teeth are chattering by the time I walk behind the building. Running outside without my coat in the middle of February isn’t one of my best ideas, but the truth is, I’m so numb, I can barely feel anything.

Mikah’s sitting on the edge of a massive concrete flower bed. It must have looked cozy and colorful during the summer, but right now, the soil is desiccated and covered with a blanket of dirty snow.

The gloomy, ominous clouds hang low above our heads, threatening yet another blizzard. This winter has been one of the longest and darkest I’ve ever seen, and I catch myself thinking that I desperately want it to end. Even if it would wipe out all the good memories. I just want to stop feeling broken.

Mikah’s turned with his back to me, cigarette smoke floating around him like a halo.

The snow crunches under the weight of my suede shoes as I try to step quietly over to the flower bed, my hands clutched in front of me, my heart rate kicking up. There are thousands of words in my head, but none of them seem to be appropriate.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” Mikah rasps out after a while without looking at me. He brushes the traces of tears from his cheeks, tosses the last of his cigarette on the ground, and draws another from the pack that’s sitting right next to him on the cement block.

“Can I have one?” I ask, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Since when do you smoke?” He chuckles, shifting to face me. His green eyes, still glistening from the tears, search mine.

“Since now.” I shrug, shuffling my feet. My toes are completely frozen and my body has reached a point where moving only makes it more painful, but if someone decides to shoot at us, at least there’s plenty of room to run. There are no walls and no missing exit signs.

Mikah rises to his feet and closes the space between us in three strides. “Here.” He takes off his suit jacket, puts it over my shoulders, and hands me his cigarette. When his gaze catches mine, we stand motionless for a few moments, staring at each other, each of us probably wondering if the things we’re feeling are any different. A strange type of connection exists when two people are grieving over the death of the same person. It’s frightening and nerve-racking, yet it’s like we have this invisible bond and understand each other without the need to speak.

I’ve never smoked in my life and I have no idea how to hold a cigarette and look natural, so I grab it across the middle with my thumb and my index finger, wondering which end goes into my mouth. Although I just saw Mikah smoking, my brain has completely lost it.

“The other way,” he says, stepping back to get another one for himself.

“Okay,” I mumble under my breath. I stick it between my lips but immediately remove it when the unpleasant taste of tobacco on my tongue causes my stomach to churn. My injured palm stings with the movement, but I try not to think about the pain.

“You dated a dude who was in a fucking rock band and he didn’t teach you how to smoke, church girl?” Mikah rolls his eyes and flicks his lighter in front of my face.

Bringing the cigarette toward my mouth again, I pause. “He doesn’t…” I trip over my words. “Didn’t smoke.” My heart feels heavy and swollen. All the little things about Dakota start to crowd my mind—the food he liked, the TV shows he watched, the bands he grew up listening to. It’s terrifying to realize how much a person can integrate himself into your life in such a short period of time.

“Right.” Mikah nods, averting his gaze. “It was a joke. You were supposed to laugh.”

“Oh… Sorry.”

Laugh?He wants me to laugh at Dakota’s funeral?

The air between us shifts again and we’re back to being distant and awkward.

I stare at the cigarette in my fingers while Mikah lights his. He inhales sharply, waits a few seconds, and then blows the smoke out through his mouth and nose, most of it hanging around me like a toxic veil.

“Isn’t smoking bad for your voice?” I ask, studying his features. There’s a tiny dimple on his left cheek and his eyes are big and wide, slightly slanted, like Dakota’s. They normally have a hint of playfulness in them, but not today. Today they’re miserable, with dark blue circles beneath them. It’s as heartbreaking as it is fascinating to see so much of Dakota in Mikah, and it makes something inside me twinge and burn.

“Kinda.” He gives me a one-shoulder shrug. “Not like I’m doing a lot of vocals, anyway. It’s just backup. No one cares what I sound like.”

“I do,” I say breathlessly, for lack of a better response. There are other questions lingering on the tip of my tongue—not ones to ask today or tomorrow, but they’re there.

Does this mean the band is over now that there’s no singer?

Mikah brings his lighter toward me, so I place the cigarette between my lips again and he curls his hands around the end, lighting it carefully. “Just breathe in,” he instructs. “And try not to burn yourself, all right?”

“All right.” I gingerly hold it between my index and middle fingers since that seems to be the least painful position, and then I inhale. The thick smoke coats the inside of my mouth. It tastes bitter and clogs my throat.

“Take it into your lungs,” Mikah says, slipping the lighter into the pocket of his slacks.

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