The Way We Burn

by M. Leighton

  Keep at it. Give her time. She’ll come around. She loves you, man. She loves you.

  I tell myself that more often than I care to admit, but it’s better than the alternative—to acknowledge that I may have screwed up so badly that I’ve lost her. Completely lost her.

  I go by the diner again in the evening. Still no Poppy. So I go back to my apartment and I wait. That’s all I can do.

  Wait and text.

  The next morning, I go by the diner early again.

  No Poppy.

  I go back in the early afternoon, thinking she’s returned to her normal evening shift and will have just arrived.

  Still no Poppy.

  I go back to my apartment and I wait.

  Again.

  The next day, I repeat the same process. When she’s still not there for yet another evening shift, I force myself inside, even though I hate going in there now. I don’t like the attention. But I’ll do it for her. I’d do just about anything for her.

  I spot Tilly, who I motion for when she looks my way. My booth in the back corner is empty, so I head for it.

  Tilly comes over when she finishes taking the order of another table, her expression a little frostier than I’m used to.

  “What can I get you, Noah?”

  “I’m looking for Poppy. Do you know if she’s working tomorrow?”

  “Why don’t you ask Poppy?”

  I sigh through my nose. “I can’t really do that if she won’t talk to me.”

  I watch Tilly’s lip curl up into a sneer. “I told her. I told her you were too perfect, that you had to have a flaw. And you do. Boy, do you ever! But why did it have to be this one, you asshole? Why did you have to be a cheater? Why couldn’t you just have a curved dick?”

  With that, she turns around and walks off, completely dismissing me. I guess I won’t be getting any information about Poppy from her.

  I leave. No point in staying.

  I stand at the curb for a few minutes. It’s late. I should just go back home, try again tomorrow, but…

  I don’t want to. I don’t want to wait. I don’t want for this to go on one more second, much less one more day. That’s why I turn to go up the sidewalk, toward Poppy’s building, rather than going back home again.

  As I walk, the air whips through my hair and I’m reminded of yet another season coming to a close since I lost Carly. I can’t tell if time is flying or if it’s crawling.

  I push those thoughts out of my head and trudge on. When I get to the main door, I pause, looking at the buzzer button with 203 printed on the little tag beside it. If I ring, Simone could answer. Is it worth it? Is it worth the risk?

  After a good five minutes of deliberation, I decide that it’s not, so I hail a cab and go back home anyway. Maybe I can do some more research on Simone, get my mind off Poppy for a while.

  I’m just opening the door to my ride when my phone chirps. My pulse speeds up when I see Poppy’s number appear. Either she’s just now ready to respond to me or Tilly called her and told her I came by looking for her.

  My vote’s on Tilly.

  I close the door to the cab and motion for the driver to go on, which he does, angrily speeding off down the street.

  I click on the text.

  What do you want, Noah?

  The phrasing…the tone…it’s so unlike the warm and loving Poppy I’ve gotten to know. It hits me square in the chest, the knowledge of what I might’ve done, what I might’ve lost. What I might not be able to get back.

  But the question itself—it’s loaded! Fortunately, the answer can be summarized in a single word. I just hope she understands the depth of it, the truth of it.

  You.

  And I do. She’s all I want.

  I told you to leave me alone. It’s too late for that.

  I grit my teeth, the urge to refuse to even acknowledge her words strong.

  I punch out my reply.

  Don’t say that. At least give me a chance. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. 100% honesty. I swear it. Please, Poppy. Give me another chance.

  Silence.

  No bubbles. No response.

  I refresh the text again and again and again.

  Nothing.

  I think she’s not even going to answer me at all when I see the flash of those bubbles. There and then gone.

  She’s thinking.

  And as long as she’s still considering it, considering me, there’s hope.

  I wait. The cooling night air is barely able to penetrate my concrete lungs. My chest aches—the muscle, the bone, and everything underneath. Still I wait for her to continue typing and eventually she does.

  Fine. You can come over for a few minutes, but if I ask you to leave, you need to go.

  I hope I can reason with her before that happens, but I’ll agree to just about anything to get up there and see her.

  Okay. Whatever you want, I’ll do. I’m right outside.

  I walk back to the door and hit the intercom without hesitation this time. Within seconds, the door buzzer sounds and the lock pops open. I wrench it back and take the stairs two at a time. When I reach the top, the door is cracked, but there’s no Poppy.

  I step inside, closing it behind me, and walk tentatively toward the living room, where I assume she’ll be. And she is.

  Poppy is wearing fuzzy pink pajamas with white polar bears on them. I’ve never seen her in them before. The only thing I can think is that she’s trying to be as nonsexual as possible. What she doesn’t realize is that I don’t care.

  I love her.

  All of her.

  Every aspect. Even the part that buys and evidently wears fuzzy pink pajamas with white polar bears on them.

  She hardly looks at me as I make my way to the sofa and sit beside her. She’s balled up so tight in one corner, I’d have to scoot way over to get anywhere near touching her. I keep my distance because that’s obviously what she wants and I don’t want to push her.

  I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. She just sits quietly, staring at the blank television. Finally, after a few tense minutes, I break the silence.

  “I’ve been waiting for you at the diner.”

  “I quit.”

  “What?”

  “I quit.”

  Oh shit.

  “Because of me?”

  Now I feel even worse.

  She doesn’t answer, just shrugs. “I’m over that place.”

  My eyebrows draw together. That doesn’t sound like Poppy. Then again, maybe she’s over it because it reminds her of me. And she thinks I betrayed her.

  “Poppy,” I begin, but then stop on a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to convince you that nothing happened, that she means nothing to me, that you are the one I want. I love you.”

  She turns her head and locks eyes with me. Part of me is just grateful to get some eye contact. It’s strange how much that can mean when it’s withheld.

  She doesn’t say anything. She simply watches me, like she’s trying to see inside my head, to see for herself if I’m telling the truth.

  I keep my expression as open and honest as I can make it.

  When she looks away, I have to ask, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “How do you know I was looking for something?”

  “Because I know you, and I know you want to believe me, but you feel like you can’t because of Simone, but Poppy.” I reach across the span between us and take her hand, hoping to get her eyes back on mine. It works. She pins me with eyes that used to shine, but are now dull and lifeless. I hurt her. And I feel like hell because of it.

  When I have her full attention, I continue. “I would never ask you to choose. I would never want to come between you two. That’s why I didn’t tell you right away. She’s your best friend. You’ve known her most of your life and loved her just as long. You’ve only loved me for a little while. I would never want you to give that up for me.” I take a de
ep breath. “I know she loves you, too. I don’t think she was trying to hurt you on purpose. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell she was trying to do, but what I do know is that I love you. I wish I’d said it sooner. Before. But it’s true. It was true then and it’s true now. It’s been true for a while, I was just…I was afraid. Things have been…hard for the last couple years. But Poppy, I swear to God, all I want is you. For you to be happy. I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. Just tell me how. Tell me how to do it. Tell me how to make you happy.”

  Again, she says nothing, just stares.

  I try a different tack.

  “Look at me. Really look. Can’t you see how sincere I am? After all this time, I thought you knew me. That you could see me and feel me. And I think you can. I think you see it now, but you’re afraid. And I get that. I know fear. I know heartache and disappointment and confusion. I know it all. But don’t throw us away because of fear. At least give me one more shot. At least try. ”

  Something in her gaze softens. It’s such a small thing, I could easily have missed it had I not had every sense and every iota of concentration focused squarely on her.

  But I do. And I didn’t miss it.

  I saw it. It was there.

  Maybe she’s not lost to me after all.

  “Please, Poppy. Jesus,” I say, bringing her fingers to my mouth and then to my closed eyes, “I’ll beg if I have to.”

  I slide onto the floor, onto my knees.

  “Please. I’ll do anything.”

  We sit like that for a handful of protracted seconds, during which I have no idea which way this will go, but then I feel her fingers twitch within mine and she pulls her hand free. I glance up to see her pushing up from the couch. Her eyes are on mine, but they’re fathomless, unreadable.

  I watch her as she steps over in front of me and comes to a stand, perfectly still, with her toes right at the tips of my knees.

  Slowly, as though she’s still not sure, she reaches for the hem of her fuzzy pink shirt with white polar bears on it and she peels it over her head, revealing the creamy flesh, the lush breasts and the trim waist that I can’t seem to get enough of.

  My breath hitches in my throat and I curl my fingers into fists. I can’t touch her. I have to let her do this, do it her way at her speed. I’m just happy as a damn lark that she’s doing it at all.

  She lets the shirt drop from the tips of her fingers, a graceful movement that I could watch over and over and over again for some reason. Then she reaches for the elastic band of her matching pants, hooking her thumbs in the waist and dragging them down her long, lean legs, inch by excruciating inch.

  When she’s standing before me in nothing more than her ponytail holder and a conflicted look, I speak. “God, you’re beautiful. So beautiful it hurts.”

  She steps toward me and takes my hand, tugging until I come to a stand. Without a word, she leads me to the bedroom and then turns to start taking off my clothes.

  I let her. I keep myself in check and I let her do things at her own pace until I, too, am standing naked at the foot of her bed.

  Poppy’s eyes drop to my erection. I suck in a breath when she reaches out with one small hand. I know the sensation is going to rock me.

  And it does.

  When she curls her fingers around me, it’s all I can do not to growl like a wild animal and throw her on the bed. Ravish her. Take what’s mine, consequences be damned.

  I remain motionless when she releases me and turns to walk to the bed. I watch as she crawls up onto it and swivels to face me, on her knees again. With her eyes locked on mine, she brings one hand to her breast and starts to rake the nails over it gently. Back and forth, back and forth. Then she gets a little more aggressive, kneading the plump flesh, pausing to tweak the nipple.

  I’m hard as granite by the time she brings her other hand into play. I’m helpless to do anything but stand and watch her. And ache.

  Then she pulls another surprise, turning her back on me and folding at the waist, putting that delicious ass right in my face and peeking over her shoulder to whisper to me.

  “Take me from behind. I want it rough.”

  I pause.

  And thank God I do.

  That’s when I see the glint in her eyes. I notice the pinkish tint to her lips, like she’s just washed off lipstick. I didn’t pay much attention to it earlier, but I’m paying attention now. I also see how straight her hair is, like she’s had it up all day.

  Or smashed under a plum colored wig.

  My hesitation is a second too long. I see the change, see the way her hips seem to go liquid as she wiggles, see the way her lips curve into a different kind of smile.

  This is Simone.

  “Come on, Noah. What are you waiting for? Isn’t this what you want?”

  I’m stuck. I don’t know what to do. Scenarios are rolling through my head.

  Is this Poppy? Is this just a side I haven’t seen of her yet?

  Or is it really Simone? Pretending to be Poppy? Is that even possible with dissociative identity disorder?

  Is it possible that I witnessed a switch as she shifted from one personality to another?

  Or, worse, is this another personality, one I’m not aware of? I know for a fact that’s a possibility.

  I’ve known about Poppy for a while. I knew after the first couple of months that she and Simone weren’t just roommates, weren’t just friends, but were two distinct sides of the same woman. I knew I shouldn’t get involved, no matter how much I wanted to, no matter how much she sounded like my Carly, no matter how good it made me feel to listen to her. I knew the risks. Dr. Cane warned me to stay the hell away from Poppy. He warned me, but I didn’t listen.

  Obviously, he was right.

  He told me interfering with personalities could result in disaster, but I didn’t listen. Then, once I got involved, I tried to stay away from Simone, tried not to rock the boat, thinking that would make everything okay.

  I tried.

  I really tried.

  But she wouldn’t stay away from me. Which sort of makes sense, I guess, that she’d be attracted to me just like her other personality is.

  Poppy Simone.

  Simone Poppy.

  What do I do when she blurs the lines? What do I do if I can’t tell them apart? Without certain cues, I can’t. No one could. Well, not without some clever digging.

  My phone rings, shaking me from my chaotic thoughts, saving me from having to make one of two very bad choices.

  “Shit! I bet that’s work. I completely forgot about them.”

  I don’t have to feign irritation. I am irritated. Very irritated—with myself, with this situation.

  I bend to dig in my jeans pocket for my phone. It is, indeed, work, which brings me back to reality in a hurry. Gregory, my partner, has something for me about our case.

  He thinks he might have a suspect.

  I wonder if I have one, too.

  “I have to go. I’m so sorry, baby,” I say, no trouble dredging up sincerity because I am sorry. On so many levels.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll finish hashing this out.” I rush over to kiss her before I jerk on my clothes and bolt out the door.

  19

  Noah

  M y only choice now is to follow Poppy/Simone. That’s the only way I’ll stand a chance of properly identifying Poppy and staying out of Simone’s traps. That’s also the best way to find out what Simone’s up to. I’ve got a bad feeling about her dealings on the dark web. My brain is starting to put puzzle pieces together and I pray to God I’m wrong about the picture that’s starting to develop.

  I leave her building and go outside to hail a cab. The window in her apartment faces the street, so I have to make a show of leaving, just in case she’s watching. When a yellow cab stops to pick me up, I have him take me around the corner where I hand him a couple bucks and get out. He drives away and I walk back.

  I stick to the shadows of doorways and buil
ding transitions, and make my way to where I can see Poppy’s building. When I’m in a good position, hidden but able to see the door, I settle in to wait.

  I text Gregory about his lead. He responds quickly. Turns out to be nothing I didn’t already know. I should’ve known. He’s a good worker, but he doesn’t harbor the hope that the disappearances of these criminals will lead us to Carter Finch, the man who stole the two most important people from my life. He robbed me of everything and the only day I’ll rest is when I find him. Or when I’m dead. Whichever comes first.

  No, in most missing persons cases involving law enforcement personnel—in any sector—the individual with the most vested interest in the victim usually stands the best chance of solving the case, and in this instance the most vested person is me. Not my partner. Not the FBI. Not the local police.

  Me.

  I’m forced to push all that aside when I see a woman—a blonde woman who is clearly Simone since she’s dressed in a tight black skirt, a crimson bustier and a black feather boa draped over her shoulders—leave the building. She looks like a hooker from a seventies movie. But hooker or not, she’s still beautiful. She’s still the woman I love.

  Well, sort of.

  Rather than catching a cab, Simone chooses to walk for a couple of blocks. I tail her easily. Comes with the training.

  Three blocks away, she veers toward a corner and lifts her hand for a cab. I stop where I’m at and do the same, keeping a low profile. I don’t make it obvious that I’m keeping an eye on her, just in case she were to glance back and see me, which isn’t likely, but I do keep her in the peripheral vision of my right eye. I’m locked onto her, sensitive to her every move, even as she ducks her head and climbs into a taxi.

  It sounds cliché, but I get in and ask the driver of my own cab to “follow that car”, because cheesy or not, that’s what I need him to do.

  Simone’s taxi takes a convoluted route through three different parts of town. When it finally pulls to a stop in front of a cheap motel, I have my driver stop far enough back that I can see her, but she can’t see me in the back seat, and I watch.