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Summary
“Shit, are you high?” Trevor asks. Michael's temples pound, and the sensation of that awful twitchiness only doubles. “What’re you on? Frank, he’s leaving us out, can you believe it? What is it, some bad strain of weed? Coke? You’re shit at handling that stuff, Mikey.”
Michael had been determined to do this like a badass, quit cold turkey and then get his whole life together. Trevor could’ve come over, maybe would’ve noticed all the ashtrays are gone, and Michael could've breezily told him how easy it was to kick the habit.
Franklin and Trevor are now guessing what he’s supposedly high on now, laughing and slapping the table so hard that Michael's beer nearly tips.
“Let me tell you, Frank. Mikey here once did coke as a kid so he could fit in with his super cool jock friends, and he—”
“Shut up, T,” Michael finally says, swatting Trevor on the shoulder, before rubbing his face. He must look like shit, because both of them shut up instantly. Quieter now, like it's a shameful secret that everyone is going to ridicule him for, he says, “I quit smoking.”