"Then I should be safe," Noah told her, ashing his cigarette and then lifting it to his lips again. "'Cause I'm not gonna look at you wrong. You and your sister might both kick my ass if I did." He exhaled smoke and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle. He'd known Bea for quite a while, on and off, and he wouldn't have wanted anything to happen to their mellow, low-key friendship. The possibility hadn't been quite enough to keep him away from Vienna, but fortunately that seemed to be a non-issue now that it was out in the open.
Bea's story told him something about what she and Vienna must have grown up with. Not in so many words, but reading between the lines. Often, Noah thought that was the best way to find out information. It made people less defensive than if you pried and tried to discover things about their lives. "My dad smoked like a chimney," he remarked. "Mom hated it. Sometimes she'd sneak attack him, spray him with a can of air freshener." Those were the kinds of memories he wanted to keep, the funny, non-traumatic ones. He knew his parents were probably dead, like most of the rest of the world, but he could pretend they were back home in Montana having war over his dad's cigarette smoking.
"You don't gotta convince me," Noah told Bea when she said she could still run six miles ten years later. "I know you're in great shape, smokes or no." He'd never be the sort who preached to anyone about their habits. He had enough bad habits of his own.