Together We Caught Fire

by Eva V. Gibson

  Talking with my father was like reaching into a bag of Scrabble tiles, searching for that one missing letter. Coming up, every time, with a handful of question marks that didn’t belong in the game.

  “With the soap?”

  “Jesus. No, not with the soap, Elaine. With Skye. With me.”

  I had to bite back a smile. Dad had spent the time since my mother’s death focused on perfecting his craft, on running the business. On being a father. And he was good at it—all of it. But more than once, I’d wondered how long it would take him to grow weary of perpetual solitude.

  Right around thirteen years, that’s how long. Better late than never.

  “I’m fine, Dad. I’m happy for both—for all of us.”

  His relief was tangible, raw enough to make me wince.

  “Thank you. Thank you, Elaine. I’m so glad this is working out. Skye adores you, she truly does. And Greyson—you two seem to be doing well. Getting along. Bonding.”

  Yeah. About that.

  “We get along fine. He’s nice.”

  “Oh, he’s definitely a Nice Guy,” Dad chuckled. I could hear the capital letters, even without his air quotes. “Just ask his mama. But really, he’s a good kid. He’s polite, and kind; he excels in school. He follows the rules, no questions asked. He even sat me down to assure me he’d keep the door open, when you two are alone in a room. Which was awkward, I have to admit.”

  “He what?” My stomach hitched, sending up a splash of kombucha. It wasn’t any better the second time around, nor was it much worse. “Why?”

  “He wants to avoid a double standard,” he said cheerfully as I died inside, over and over. “Sadie’s mother requires her visits with Greyson to be supervised. Skye wants to respect that, so they have an understanding—she won’t hover, as long as they don’t shut themselves away. An ‘open door policy,’ if you will.” He chuckled again and rolled his eyes, delighting in his Dad Joke. “As if that’s a concern with you.”

  “Right.”

  Dad’s forehead creased at the catch in my voice. I pressed my toes together beneath the table, kept my face still as possible beneath his unblinking stare. If so much as a trickle of my thoughts leaked into his reality, our new family would implode.

  “Elaine,” he said, “Skye and I—this must have—look. I know it was sudden. I know that. And it can’t be easy, having a boy you hardly know living here out of—”

  “It’s fine,” I managed. As if he had a clue in hell how uneasy this was. “Whatever makes you happy.”

  “It’s your happiness that matters.” He coughed into his sleeve, finally blinked down at the half-tied twine, still wound around his fingers. “It matters to me. It mattered to your mother. She’d have wanted—”

  “She got what she wanted.”

  It flew out on its own dark wings, beat its way past my teeth. Sunk its talons deep.

  I didn’t spend much time dwelling on spirituality in general, much less the concept of an afterlife. Dad himself waffled on the specifics of his beliefs—sometimes he pondered reincarnation, or transmigration; sometimes he went on about astral planes, and the post-conscious bliss and punishments of our own creation. He’d declared more than once that death was the end—that the cycle of human life ended in oblivion and a natural return to the earth. But now I watched his jaw clench and his grip falter; watched the knot fly apart as he met my eyes, and my mother was surely in the room, real as she’d ever been in life. Perched like an owl between us, impossible to ever really bury.

  “I promise you. She didn’t.”

  “Then that makes two of us.” I finished wrapping the last bar of soap, secured it with the sticker, creaseless and dead center. Perfect every time. I slid out of my chair and headed for the stairs, head down. “Done.”

  “I love you.”

  I stopped in the doorway, straightened my spine. Unclenched my teeth, until my grimace became a smile. Let it soften my cheeks and light my eyes before I turned to face him. His own smile trembled at the corners, pleading for forgiveness. Wanting so badly to mirror mine.

  “It’s okay, Dad. Really.”

  “I love you,” he said again. “Above anyone or anything. Never doubt that.”

  It wasn’t fair, blaming him for any of this. We’d been two for so long, it was easy to forget we’d once been three—really, very nearly four. Far too easy to forget the way he’d broken and fallen beside me.

  But he’d pulled himself up. He’d rearranged the world for me; he’d tried and failed, over and over, but never ever failed to try. He’d lost everything else, but he’d never stopped.

  And now we were four again, and he was my dad. There was nothing to forgive.

  “I know you do.”

  I left him there, still smiling, surrounded by everything we’d made.

  5

  “OKAY, SO WHICH WAY IS up, again?”

  Grey’s words drifted out on an easy laugh as he knelt in the grass beside me. His hands were full of flower bulbs and all but lost in Dad’s spare gardening gloves, arms dirty to the elbows, face covered in sweat and sunshine. So adorable it hurt to look at him.

  I had to laugh in return at his unabashed cluelessness. He fumbled the bulbs like a juggling clown, deliberately clumsy. My reply was a casual, neutral thing, as if I wasn’t living the dream in my own backyard: planting flowers with Grey McIntyre on a beautiful autumn afternoon, the day after my eighteenth birthday. The sweetest, most unexpected gift I could imagine.

  “It doesn’t matter which way is up, because this space is for tulips,” I said. “Those are daffodils—upside-down daffodils. Looks like I’ll have to keep an eye on you out here.”

  “Someone has to.”

  He grinned, tossing his head in a fruitless effort to flip the hair out of his face. I wanted to push it back for him, drag my fingers against his scalp until he couldn’t help but moan. I wanted that so badly. Instead, I tucked a straggling lock of my own hair behind my ear, pretended I hadn’t noticed the way his eyes had strayed to my lips as I answered. Pretended even harder that the flush in my cheeks and sweat pooling at my throat were the fault of the sun.

  One month and two days. It had been one month and two days exactly since he’d moved in, and I’d spent most of those days on guard, every thought edged with his presence. The little things were what stood out, the ways we fell into our new life. Things you’d never think about until faced with them every day: his toothbrush resting on the bathroom vanity; his bottle of aftershave smack in the middle of the medicine cabinet, a sentry standing guard over my tweezers and face lotion; his smudge-stick smoke drifting under my bedroom door. His socks tangled with mine in a load of laundry. His scent tangled with mine in the lining of my bedspread.

  It was so perfect in its own way, finally having him all to myself. Our parents had left for the market early that morning, leaving us to sleep off the previous night’s festivities; when I’d finally stumbled into the kitchen, Grey had the table decked out with Skye’s Tree of Life tea set, folded cloth napkins, and a platter of sliced fruit arranged in the shape of a smiley face, birthday candle stuck right in the orange-segment nose. It was just the kind of thing Sadie would love—as if he’d laid the table for her pleasure, assuming the catch-all sentiment would work across the feminine spectrum. It was a sweet, simple gesture, matching up with everything I knew about him; it was a single-minded assumption that hit me like a boot in the softest part of my belly.

  Still, he’d done this thing for me. He’d tried to please me, in his own way, and if it was a shade too cute for my preferences, I wasn’t about to complain. So, when he’d offered during that breakfast to help with the gardening, I’d damn well taken him up on it without hesitation.

  Weird as it was to have him suddenly in my house, Grey was as at home in the outdoors as if he’d sprouted from the earth on his own. He unearthed and rearranged the rocks in the decorative border, tackled the weeding and tilling without complaint, pausing to bless the soil in the flowerbeds, e
nsuring strength and abundance. It was an afternoon of sunshine and soft, safe words. It was an afternoon spent in wanting, in ways that went far beyond the flesh.

  “There you are, baby. You forgot all about me, didn’t you?”

  Her voice reached us before she did—lovely Sadie, in a pink silk blouse. Cotton candy threaded through with glitter, and Grey was smiling before he even looked up.

  “How could I ever forget you, babe? Give me two seconds to clean up, and we can go.”

  I kept my eyes on the dirt as he scrambled to his feet, only heard the kiss he gave her on his way to the house. She had her lip gloss in hand when I looked up, was already squinting into her compact as she repaired the damage. Her eyes slid over to mine, glimmering above an impish smile that belonged on her brother’s face.

  “How are you feeling? Hopefully not too hungover?”

  It returned in flashes: my birthday celebration. The official lifting of my already lax curfew—a long-promised acknowledgment of my legal adulthood—immediately followed by Dad’s meek request that I continue to text him my post-midnight locations, purely for his peace of mind. Me and Grey and Sadie and Connor, eating too much cake and piling into Grey’s car, taking the curves of the Blue Ridge Parkway far too fast, until we reached that same overlook. Shotgunning cans of PBR and laughing until I choked, then dancing with Sadie on the roof of the Forester while poor, sober designated driver Grey yelled at us to get down before we dented it. The three of them singing “Happy Birthday,” crowding around me in a staggering group hug that ended with me lying on the pavement with my head in Grey’s lap, legs hooked over Connor’s prone form. Getting stoned with Connor while Grey and Sadie argued and made up and made out against the hatchback. Leaning far over the guardrail, eyes wide and full of night, the wind rushing cold across my cheeks, dizzy with laughter and starlight and the open, endless sky.

  “Tired, but not too bad,” I answered her. “Grey wouldn’t let me sleep last night until I had water and tea and Advil. You?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Connor’s in rough shape, though. He said to tell you happy birthday weekend, but not to expect a text or anything until his soul returns to his body. And he’s pretty sure you have his stash … though I’m perfectly happy to tell him you have no idea what he’s talking about.”

  “I don’t think I have it, but I’ll double-check my bag. Give me one second. I’m almost done here.”

  She checked her lip gloss once more, flicking away a minuscule smear, as I poked one last bulb into the flowerbed and cleaned the spade and garden claw.

  “You have the prettiest skin,” she said after a moment. “I can’t tan to save my life.”

  “It’s a delicate balance. A minute too long in the sun, and my mom’s Greek glow becomes a mess of Dad’s freckles.” I stood and stretched, arching my back. “My DNA needs to pick a team.”

  “Silly. You’re lucky, Connor and I burn red if we so much as step outside. We—oh.”

  “Everything okay?” I lowered my arms and pulled off my gloves, shook the tingles out of my hands as her brow furrowed.

  “Fine, honey. I—has Grey been out here with you all day?”

  “Since about two. I needed to get these bulbs in the ground before the weather changes, and he offered to help.”

  “That’s nice,” she said, distracted. “And I take it this is your usual bulb-planting outfit?”

  “This?” I gave myself a cursory glance. My cami top was plain, pilled cotton, a solid dark blue stained darker with sweat. My low-rise khakis were a baggy disaster, worn and ripped, cinched with a canvas army belt and rolled halfway up my dirty shins. “Yeah, I know—I’m a mess. These pants are probably on their last legs.”

  “It’s not the pants,” she bit out, ignoring my dumb joke. “I don’t want to overstep, honey, but … you seem to have forgotten your bra today. Now that my future husband lives in this house, shouldn’t you try to keep yourself decent?”

  I had to fight to hide the devastation those words brought down on my head; I had to fight hard, and I almost lost. Only anger steadied my expression between defiance and annoyance, kept it from sliding into misery. Only pride allowed me to square my shoulders and lock my eyes with hers.

  “Wow. Mind your own business much?”

  “Bless your heart, I’m not insulting you. You’re so pretty and thin, and it’d be one thing if he was your actual blood family, but come on—you know how boys are.”

  She gave me a sly, sideways look, as if our respective encounters with boys were comparable in any sense. As if the cami’s built-in shelf panel wasn’t more than enough to contain what little I had. Unlike the strained buttonholes of her own thin blouse.

  “ ‘How boys are’ is not my problem, Sadie. I’ll wear whatever the fuck I want—and maybe you can stop checking out my rack.”

  “What?? I am NOT checking out your—you’re taking all this the wrong way, Lane. I never said—”

  “I heard you just fine. And not for nothing, but I’ve certainly never had any complaints on it before.”

  Something darker than the Sadie I knew crept across her face, casting a dangerous shadow.

  “Oh, believe me—I’m well aware how few complaints you get. Everyone is well aware of that.”

  Her meaning crawled over my skin on a thousand sharpened feet, as my brain reached for every mean thing I’d ever heard said regarding Sadie Hall—and it was quite a long list. I was so close to unleashing. So close to ripping her apart from the heels up, until she looked how I felt.

  “Speaking of minding your own business.” I turned my back and knelt in the dirt, stuffed the gloves and tools and the rest of the bulbs into my canvas bag. By the time I faced her again, my eyes were dry, dark as blacktop and twice as hard. “Looks like I’m done here. If you want to wait inside for Grey, follow me.”

  Even her footsteps on the flagstone path were wary, though they drowned out my angry stride without trying. It was ridiculously hard to stomp away in Crocs. I kicked those off on the doormat and led her through the kitchen to the living room, waving her to the couch. She caught my wrist, though, clasped my hand in both of hers.

  “Lane. Lane, I’m so sorry. I am. I don’t care about any of that, you know? You’re the best friend I have, and I just love you to death, no matter what anyone says.”

  “Well, thanks, Sadie. How noble of you.”

  “Honey, don’t. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear. I know you’re not trying to—well, I know you wouldn’t do those things with Grey.”

  Her words ate at my insides. I believed her, when she said she hadn’t meant to hurt me. Sadie’s lack of filter was a well-known thing—which was why I also believed I was, in fact, her best friend. The list of contenders for that role wasn’t the longest.

  She was wrong, though. I would do those things. I would do every one of those things, to him and with him and for him, and it would be everything I’d wanted since I began doing those things at all. It wasn’t personal—it wasn’t even an attack. Sadie herself was incidental. Whatever claim she had on Grey, he’d lived in my heart before she’d even bothered to learn his name. Whatever happened, I’d loved him first.

  Still, he wasn’t mine. That was that.

  I wasn’t about to steal away someone’s boyfriend just because my living situation had fucked itself sideways. I was pathetic, but not to that degree. Besides, however much I wanted him, I’d never actually done anything about it—it was way too late in the game to start humming that sad tune. Sadie was my friend, and she loved Grey, and if she thought I was bad based on rumors, none of which even skimmed the surface of my secret thirst—well. She just had no idea.

  So, I let her hug me, heedless of my defeated spine and sweaty, dirt-streaked skin. I let her lose herself in absolution, so I wouldn’t have to answer. Even a nod of agreement would have been a lie.

  “Let’s forget it, okay?” She released me with a gloss-sticky peck on the cheek. “Go take a bubble bath, have some cake. Treat yourself.
We’ll talk more later.”

  And I might have done just that, had I not needed a clean towel from the load waiting in the dryer. I might have made it all the way into said bubble bath without further incident, remained blissfully unaware forever of the fiasco occurring in the laundry room.

  I couldn’t help dragging my eyes over the line of his neck and the dip of his spine, the curve that led into the waistband of his jeans. Couldn’t help but stare, even as my cheeks burst into flame.

  My stepbrother, wet-haired and shirtless, shower mist still beading his bare shoulders. Frozen in mid-motion, the most delicate contents of my delicate laundry cycle spilling from his hands, and why. Why was my life such a ridiculous fucking punch line.

  “Greyson—what are you doing?”

  His head snapped around, then volleyed back and forth between the bra and me, as if his brain had stalled and had yet to sputter back to life. Why was he still holding it? What was he thinking, letting his fingers tangle in the things I wore closest to my skin—he should have dropped it the second he made contact, not held it up to the fucking light, as if he had to ascertain exactly what it was before deciding to put it back.

  “Sorry. Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. “I came in here to get my shirt, and I figured I’d switch the clothes to the dryer, and—”

  “It doesn’t go in the dryer. The dryer will ruin it.” I practically tore it from his grip. It was my good stuff too—one of the lacy ones I wore on dates, because why would it be anything else? “What is wrong with you?”

  “I didn’t know. I was trying to help.” He steeled himself and faced me, furiously quiet, hyperaware of Sadie’s proximity. His wild, wide eyes swept over me, kindling on open flame. “I promise you, I didn’t mean to touch your—your—look, I’m sorry. I am. It won’t happen again.”