I slip out of the bathroom, hoping to make it to the door without her noticing. I’ll happily sit in front of the coffee shop for the next half hour if it means I can avoid her right now.
But I’m not even halfway across the hall when I feel Aspen on my heels. “Whoa—look at you!” she squeals. “Where are you going looking all foxy and stuff?”
“Oh, nowhere. Just out for a bit.” I try to fend her off, but as usual with Aspen, I know my efforts are useless.
She grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around. “Felicity, what is going on with you? You’ve been avoiding me and you won’t tell me a thing about what you’ve been up to. Have I done something to make you upset? Because it sure feels like I have. We’ve always told each other everything.” Always? Well, I guess she’s always told me everything. In the short duration of our friendship, I haven’t had nearly as much to tell her as she’s had to tell me.
She tugs on my arm, pulling me toward the couch. And though I give into sitting down with her, I’ve made the decision not to ruin my own night by telling her she’s fired.
“Okay, fine,” I blurt out. “I met someone. And I feel guilty about it because I should be in mourning right now. Right?” Saying it out loud feels even more wrong than it sounded in my head.
“Awe, Felicity,” she croons. “Hon, you’re going to be mourning for the rest of your life. He’s your brother.” Thanks.
I think.
“Was,” I correct her. “He was my brother.”
She wraps her hands around my wrists, pulling me to look at her squarely in the eyes. “Don’t say that. He’s still your brother. And just because you met someone, doesn’t mean you love Blake any less. You took such good care of him. Always taking him in, helping him when he needed it. I mean, you made dinner for the guy every night.” I didn’t think she knew how much I did for him. Actually, I don’t think I realized how much I did for him. It wasn’t something I had to think about. He was—he is—my brother and if I could trade places with him right now, I would. “I’m pretty sure he’d want you to be happy, whether he was here or not.” Tears fill Aspen’s eyes and she swats her hand under her lashes to dry her face. “He’d definitely want you to be happy.” Aspen knew Blake, but I wouldn’t say she knew him well. Well, I guess she was around him a lot. She was at our house all the time, and Blake was almost always home. He’d been jobless for the past few months, which meant he spent most of his time on the couch or in his bedroom listening to music. “Is this mystery guy…Tanner?”
She’s so casual about her question, but mostly because she has no idea what really happened last year between Tanner and I. If she did, she’d know nothing with us would ever be that simple.
“It’s not Tanner.”
“Oh no.” She waves her hands in front of her face like she’s just smelled something nasty. “No. No. No. Don’t even tell me it’s Grant.”
I drop my head into my hand, already regretting the use of this discussion to avoid the other one. I get the whole girlfriends-tell-each-other-everything shit, and maybe if I did take the time to fill her in on my life, she’d know me a bit better, but it would take far too long to explain myself in that much detail. Plus, I think Aspen has painted a picture of who she thinks I am in her head, and I’m now seeing she has some of the details very wrong.
“Aspen,” I groan. “That’s gross. He’s old enough to be my dad.”
“Okay…so, I give up. Who is he? Tell me.” She hops up from the couch and drops down in front of me, grabbing my knees. “Just tell me already. The suspense is killing me.”
Why does she care so much? God. This is so much worse than—”Aspen, I have to fire you from Sur Le Feu.”
“Very funny,” she says.
“It’s true. Grant told me—I’m sorry. I have to fire you.” Her eyes go wide; her face, pale. Then red. Very, very red.
Shit.
She stands up, crossing her arms over her chest, and paces. I have no idea what’s coming next. It’s hard to tell how Aspen is going to react to anything. “Get out,” she says, flatly and quite definitively.
“Aspen.” I stand up and move toward her. “Let me explain.” I don’t understand how she can be so shocked about this. She was caught screwing someone in the freezer of all places. Who does that?
“What can you possibly say to make this any better?” She grabs chunks of her hair, crying out, “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“Grant is making me do this. He said he walked in on you having sex with—” I grab her arm, mid-pace, forcing her to look at me. “Who were you with in the freezer?”
“Please leave, Felicity.”
Fine. What’s left to say anyway? Maybe for once she could take responsibility for herself. I suppose I should just be thankful she didn’t throw a vase at my head. God. She has to know she was wrong…although, she’s usually been one to turn the situation around and point the guilt elsewhere. It’s a talent she has.
I leave, but I stop in the middle of the staircase, realizing I didn’t grab Hayes’s coat. Crap. As if I were doing the Walk of Shame, I re-enter the apartment and find Aspen curled up on the couch, crying. I don’t say anything as I reach into my bag beside the couch and pull out the coat, but she looks at me. “Is that the mystery man’s coat?” she asks in a sobbing whisper.
“Why do you even care, Aspen? You just told me to get out. Remember?” I’m trying not to be angry with her for putting me in this situation in the first place. Yet, she’s acting like this is my fault. I’m just the asshole messenger. “I didn’t do this to you. You have to know that.” I tuck the coat under my arm and press back toward the door. “And for your information, I fought for you. I tried to convince Grant to change his mind.”
She sits up, rubbing her sleeve under her nose. “Thank you,” she mumbles. “I just need some time right now. You don’t have to move out or anything. Just—I need to be alone for a bit.”
Great.
I walk out while I have the opportunity at a somewhat civil ending to all of this. Why do I have to add this to my list of worries right now?
My hands are trembling and my pulse is racing by the time I reach the bottom step. I know what my body wants, what it needs right now. But I can’t let myself do it before my date. I have a date. He’d smell it on me if he hasn’t already. Maybe I can consider this a good sign. I’m avoiding my vice for a guy. It could mean I’m not that addicted.
Having ignored the one thing that would have calmed me down, I find my palms are sweating, and my mouth has gone bone dry by the time I reach the Rastafarian coffee shop. I consider leaving before he arrives, debating if this really is a bad idea.
Before I have a chance to decide, I see I’m out of time.
Hayes walks toward me with a small bunch of roses in his hand. I take in the high-end casual clothes he’s wearing—a light blue collared shirt with a taupe blazer, dark blue jeans and brown suede shoes. He knows how to dress.
I watch his eyes scan over me as he approaches. A smile tickles his lips. “You look beautiful,” he says. He reaches toward me, slipping his fingers through a loose curl draped over my shoulder. “I like your hair like that.”
“And you…” I almost tell him he looks beautiful, too. I mean, he does. I hold back, though. “Thank you.”
“I want to take you downtown, but—”
“You’re embarrassed to be seen with me?” I joke.
“Yeah. About that…” He pauses. “Ok, just so it doesn’t seem like I’m still pursuing you for your looks alone, can you please tell me something about yourself? Anything. Then I’ll tell you something about me. And we won’t be so mysterious to one another. Deal?” He hands me the roses, and I press them up to my nose as I hand him his coat.
“My coat. This is great. Thank you. Well, have a great night,” he says, as seriously as he could. He turns, taking a couple of steps away from me before he twists back around. “Kidding.”
“And to think I almost got away without telling you a thing
about myself,” I say, struggling to hide my grin.
“No such luck. I want to know everything there is to know about you, Blondie-locks.”
Damn. “Well, what do you want to know?” I ask. How about we start with the latest; my house just burnt down and my brother, who I didn’t know was home, died in the process.
“We have reservations at seven. Let’s walk and talk.” He places a hand on my back and guides me down the street. “What do you do for a living?” he asks.
I can feel his hand melting through my thin coat and into my skin. The sensation sends goose bumps down my arms. “I’m a—”
“Wait, I changed my mind. I want to guess,” he says, appearing to contemplate his answer for a minute. “You’re a chef,” he spits out.
It wasn’t as much of a guess as it was a statement. I’m a bit shocked and taken back, trying to figure how he’d know. I look over at him, at the proud smirk stretching up his dimpled cheek. It was definitely a statement. “How do you know?” I ask.
He moves behind me, placing his hands over each of my shoulders, turning me toward a newish black pick-up truck. “This town isn’t that big, Blondie-locks.” He pulls a key fob out of his pocket and unlocks the doors, opening the passenger side for me.
I stop before climbing in, turning to face him. “I don’t know anything about you, and I’m climbing into your truck. For all I know, you could take me away somewhere and never bring me back.” Which honestly, doesn’t sound so bad right now. This living by the seat of my pants thing is so not me. But it’s kind of freeing.
“My name is Hayes Peyton. I’m twenty-nine. A Virgo. Single. Been single for about two years. Never married. I like to take long walks in the park at night, and I find myself incredibly attracted to girls with long, beachy blond hair, freckles, and doll-like eyes. Especially girls who can cook and who have a sense of humor.”
I finger the necklace dangling over my collarbone, looking down and away from his pointed focus. But he places a finger under my chin, lifting my face back up to look at him. “I used to be a detective, but I’m on a hiatus right now. By choice.” He pulls his hand away, letting it drop by his side. “And right now, I’m sort of kicking myself for planting the creep idea in your head.”
I’ve always claimed to be a good judge of character, and since my apprehension is melting away, I chance it and slide into his truck. When the door closes, I’m greeted with the aromatic combination of cologne and leather—a manly-scented wind tunnel of goodness. It’s nice.
Glancing around, I notice how immaculate the truck is. There’s nothing personal in here, except a small picture under his sun visor. I can’t tell what the image is…all I can see is the bottom of a purple floral dress.
When he drops into his seat, he tucks the picture further into the visor, as if he sees me looking at it. Then he adjusts his rear view mirror. “You good?”
If by “good” he means I’m at the point where I don’t care if he’s about to abduct me, then yeah. I’m great. “I’m fine,” I say, not sounding overly believable.
We end up stuck in downtown traffic, giving me a good opportunity to find out a little more about him, which I’m thinking is necessary. “So,” I begin, trying to give him warning of my incoming barrage of questions.
“So…” he responds.
“Why are you on a hiatus from work?”
He glances at me, then back out the front window. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, the whites of his knuckles expanding. The quiet pause grows longer and I’m now regretting my question.
“Do you like hot dogs?” he asks in response.
“Wow. You kind of suck at changing the subject.” I look forward, purposely ignoring his question.
“How about you tell me why you were crying the other night, and I’ll tell you why I’d rather talk about hot dogs.”
Is this how he gets to know someone, by extracting their deepest and darkest secrets first so the rest will be a cakewalk? If I tell him what my life consists of right now, I’m not sure he’ll stick around long enough to tell me his story.
“Maybe we should start more simply.” I press my finger to my lips, thinking of the least invasive question I can come up with. “Since you’re asking me about hot dogs, what kind of food do you like?” He relaxes in his seat, almost like he’s relieved to be off the hook.
“Hot dogs,” he says. Should have seen that one coming. “And you, Blondie-locks? What’s your favorite food?” He peers over at me. “Being a chef, it’s probably something crazy like Bird’s Nest Soup or something. Am I right?”
I twist my lips into a smirk. “You’ll think I’m crazy if I tell you.”
His dimpled half-smile reappears. Oh my God. He has to stop doing this to me. “Probably, but try me anyway.”
“Okay, but don’t laugh.”
“This is going to be a deal breaker, isn’t it?” he mutters to himself.
I cock my head to the side and playfully slap his arm. “It’s mac and cheese.”
“Get out,” he says, pointing to the door. “You’re too damn crazy for me.” He’s bone-dry serious for a few solid seconds. And then he busts out laughing. “There’s no way that’s your favorite meal. Chefs are supposed to have this high-class pallet thing going on. And you’re telling me you like mac and cheese?”
“Whatever,” I say. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I make the best damn mac and cheese you’ll ever have.” The longer I’m around him, the more relaxed I feel. I feel more like me. The me I was two weeks ago.
“I’m going to hold you to that.” His hand drops onto my knee for a brief second. It’s a friendly gesture, but his touch does something to me. It drives this overwhelming sensation through me, making me want more of it.
I must look like a schoolgirl with a crush by the time we park downtown, wooing over his looks and the way his eyes curve into half moons when he smiles. I should at least try to keep the drooling to a minimum.
He jumps out of his truck and races around to my side, opening the door for me, offering his hand as I hop out. Knowing how I already feel, I’m guessing once I touch his hand, I’m not going to want to let go.
Not that it stops me.
I slip my fingers into his palm as he closes his hand around mine, engulfing me with his warmth. I am crushing hard on this guy and I still know almost nothing about him. Maybe this is exactly what I need. Mindless, gratifying, instant attraction. I mean, he’s the definition of stunning, and he could most definitely have any girl he wants, which brings me to the brink of confusion. Why me? It’s not like we first bonded over some mutual love of a hobby or were even set up by friends. Maybe I’m lame, but it could be some weird kind of fate.
I figured he’d release my hand once I was out of the truck, but he’s holding onto me even tighter now as we walk down the street toward a food van. He pulls his phone out and clicks on the display. “Right on time.” He winks at me. “But, I don’t think they have mac and cheese here, so will you settle for a dog?”
“What about our reservations?” I ask.
“I didn’t tell you it was for dinner,” he says, nudging his shoulder into mine.
I love that he isn’t taking me to some fancy restaurant. God knows I spend enough time in one. I stand on my toes, looking over the person’s shoulder in front me. “I want a hot dog with everything on it. And I mean everything.”
He looks down at me, his lips curled into a pleased grin. “Another point for you.”
We grab our food and cross the street where we descend a small set of stairs, ending up under a small walk-through tunnel overlooking the river. “Is this okay?”
I sit down first, dropping my legs over the side. “Perfect.”
By the time we finish our hot dogs, the horizon has swallowed every last hint of sunlight, bathing us in darkness that’s only slightly illuminated by the glow of the moon on the water. “Look over there,” he points toward the center of the river, where two people in a small b
oat ignite a floating basin.
I’ve lived in Rhode Island my entire life. I’ve heard of the Water Fires a thousand times, but I’ve never seen it in person.
Fire. They’re starting a fire.
The flames look the same. The smoke, it’s strangling me. I clamp my hands around my neck, my eyes wide and set on the growing flames.
Am I breathing? My lungs hurt…
Blake!
An arm encircles me, pulling me out of my haze. “Hey—are you okay?” I’m not in my house. I’m outside in the midst of a crowd. Water Fires, Providence’s pride and joy. Not my house. “You’re breathing really heavily and shaking. What’s going on?”
I have to tell him. I can’t keep it in any longer.
“My house burnt down,” I say in nothing but a breath. “Last week. My house burnt down. It was a huge fire.” I look at Hayes, finding concern in his darkening eyes. He’s nodding with what must be confusion, but unfortunately, there’s nothing to be confused about. Every single, simple word I said points to one very basic fact: my house burned down and almost took me with it.
“What happened?” he’s asking with caution as if his question might set me off. Which it might. I mean, I’m still trying to figure out the new me. “Were you hurt?”
I clamp my lips together, desperately trying not to break down in tears on a first date. Wouldn’t that just be perfect? This is the exact reason I shouldn’t have done this. I can’t handle life. I struggle to pull in a breath, opening my eyes and revealing all of the pain I’m feeling inside, the place where my internal injuries have left a deeply embedded scar. “I have no idea how it started. I’m still waiting to hear back from the detective.” Obviously I did something stupid. “Smoke inhalation was the worst of my injuries,” I whisper.
“Was anyone else hurt?” Why that question? The one I may not be able to answer without losing it. It was not my intention to divulge the tragedy that has become my life tonight. But it’s obvious now, I can’t run away from it, or cover it up, or ignore it. I am a living tragedy.
I nod, a warning before I close the curtains on this night. “My brother, Blake, he didn’t—” I’m not crying. My chest aches and my heart is thundering, but I’m not crying. I may have run out of tears. Is that possible? He pulls me against his chest. I like being in his arms, but I hate the reason for it. “I’m so sorry. I ruined the night.”
Red Nights Page 6