Together We Caught Fire

by Eva V. Gibson

“If she’s coming back with us, he says.” Paul set his basket down smack in the middle of the aisle and swept me up in a bear hug, groceries and all. He smelled like candy canes and sawdust. “ ‘If’ is not even a negotiable thing, Laney.”

  “Fifteen minutes, then?” I laughed as he set me back on my feet.

  “Fifteen. You and your future stepbrother-in-law can finish up the food shopping, while I go drink myself some more of those little coffee samples. They got that pumpkin-flavored shit out today.”

  He sauntered off, abandoning the basket. Connor retrieved it and continued along the aisle. I trailed behind him, texted Grey my change of plans, turned Paul’s words over in my mind. Returned again and again to a single phrase.

  “Is that really what we’ll be to each other?” I asked, standing idle as Connor picked through the bin of apples. “Stepsiblings-in-law. How does all that work?”

  “Not really sure. I’ll be brother-in-law to your stepbrother, but I don’t know if that makes you and me family, legally or otherwise. Could just be semantics.” He shrugged, added three pears to his basket, and headed for the checkout lane. “Anyway, that’s assuming they go through with their ‘wedding’ in the first place. Otherwise, it’s a moot question.”

  His casual words were a fist to the throat. I made myself breathe as we paid for our groceries, waited until we were outside on the curb and he’d texted Paul before I spoke.

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Say what?”

  “About Sadie and Grey. ‘Assuming’ they go through with the wedding. Are they having problems?”

  “Not that I’m aware, but come on—they’re in high school. Sadie’s not even legal. I’m sure they think ‘true love’ will triumph, but I doubt they’ve considered the reality.”

  “Wow.” My smile crept out, in spite of itself. “Glass-half-full much?”

  “More like near-empty. But come on—can you picture settling down forever, the day after graduation?”

  “God, no. I don’t do relationships at all, if I can help it.”

  “Oh, really? What do you do?”

  “Distractions.” I watched my meaning settle over his face. Winced as it lit his eyes and tugged a laugh from his throat. “Wow. That sounded far less horrible in my head.”

  “Trust me, those stones are not mine to throw.” His phone buzzed. He dug it out and checked it, rolling his eyes as he showed me the screen.

  New snack display. Get comfortable.

  “Aaaand speaking of stones, a potential conquest has officially been spotted. So we might be here awhile.”

  I blinked at him, caught off guard. “And you’re okay with this?”

  “Does it matter if I am or not? Paul will be Paul. He enjoys the single life, regardless of our timetable.”

  “Oh.” Apparently, Connor and Paul were no longer the happy couple they’d been when they moved in together. “So your place is basically a bachelor pad?”

  “You could say that. We share a room, but we respect each other’s space. The boundaries go both ways.”

  “I guess. But it doesn’t bother you?”

  “No. Why should it?” He dismissed my frown with a wave of his hand. “I’m a little more open-minded than my sister, obviously. Not that she can say a goddamn word to me, when her own alleged fiancé hasn’t been past second base.”

  “Connor.” My eyes nearly left their sockets. “Oh my God. Speculate much?”

  “Speculate whatever. Sadie’s True Love Waits thing is hardly a secret.”

  I gazed past him at nothing, distracted. Fighting down the sultry thrill building in my belly. They’d been together for years, but apparently, never once been together—how was that even possible? And how much had his restraint factored into our interactions? For all I knew, my moonlit body was the most he’d ever seen.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I finally said, once I trusted myself to speak. “We don’t exactly discuss Grey’s celibacy goals around the dinner table.”

  “I doubt it was his idea. My sister, now—she’s all about God’s plan. No shacking up, no college, no job. Just get married and start ejecting babies, as a righteous woman should. Defer to the man of the house, at all costs.”

  “Gross. You’re about to get smacked.”

  “I don’t agree with that bullshit—it’s how we were raised to be. I was groomed for head-of-household, believe it or not.”

  “Yeah, not so much.”

  “Right? I mean, if it’s what she really wants, I’ll support it. I’m even making their wedding rings. But she could do so much more—go away to college. Volunteer. Do missionary work. Join the Peace Corps. Stuff I’d have been happy to do myself, instead of starving.”

  “What? Instead of—oh.”

  I’d never heard him talk about that time in his life. Most rumors painted him as a renegade—the out-and-proud boy who’d cast off his oppressive upbringing to live on his own terms. The image of him scrounging for nonexistent food didn’t match up with the legend of Connor Hall.

  His words fit, though. They fit the knobs of his wrists, the honed edge of his jaw. Lurked in the smudges of his angry eyes, and in the hollows beneath his too-sharp cheekbones as he buttoned his jacket against the post-sunset chill.

  We fell silent after that. He texted Paul again, sat on the curb, rummaged in his grocery bag for a granola bar. I watched him from the corner of my eye, wondering what else he’d planned to say to me, before I’d turned to stone.

  9

  THE WAREHOUSE WAS DIFFERENT AT night, the exterior washed in sudden floodlights that sparked to life at the approach of Paul’s car. He’d banished Connor to the back seat, insisted I ride shotgun, and the two of them had immediately started giving each other endless amounts of shit. By the time we pulled into the warehouse lot, I was laughing too hard to breathe.

  The change in their demeanor was instantaneous as we walked inside—both spines straightened, both sets of shoulders squared. Both smiles flipped as they flanked me and bulldozed down the hallway, scanning each room for any sign of disarray or shady behavior. The place was calm, though, the artists quiet and hard at work.

  Their living space was enormous, a shadowy expanse of concrete and brick and scattered wood shavings. A half-carved sculpture dominated what was clearly Paul’s side; a low, padded stool stood beside it, next to a wheeled cart loaded with tools and bins. His bed was large and cozy-looking, covered in pillows and a zebra-print spread. A set of metal shelves bracketed the bed, each stacked to capacity with carvings and statues, trinkets and blown-glass sculptures. A mini fridge and a small safe squatted beneath a glass-topped table, on which rested a laptop and speaker system, a Keurig brewer, and a high-end work lamp. Two rolling garment racks, hung to capacity with clothes grouped by color, stretched along the wall. Everything was spread out and comfortable and casually pretty.

  The other side of the room, Connor’s side, smacked of austerity—the involuntary kind that sprouts from need rather than want. A plain drafting table and metal stool. A dilapidated, folded-out futon, messy with blankets and mismatched throw pillows. A wooden crate, overflowing with paperbacks. A small wheeled cart that held his bathroom caddy and a coffeepot, an electric hot pot and an oversize mug. The stacks of plastic bins that held his clothing, half-covered by a tired canvas tarp. A smaller plastic bin filled with ramen packets, granola bars, and loose pouches of instant oatmeal. All of it scrunched and stacked and starkly visible from where I stood, reluctant to encroach upon the side of the room he’d once shared. Something wrenched in me at the sight—a surge of pity for a boy whose whole life fit into a warehouse corner. A boy who considered a corner an improvement over what he’d had.

  They divided and stored their groceries as I edged into the room, unsure where to put my feet. Nervous for no reason, clumsy out of nowhere—I nearly fell over my own grocery tote bags, which Connor had set just inside the doorway.

  “Is there a bathroom I could use?” My voice was a small echo that drew both th
eir gazes.

  “Nah,” Paul drawled, stretching languidly across his bed. “You can pee out back by the river’s edge, like everyone else. Unless you think you’re too good for the way we live.”

  “The bathroom is the next door down to your right.” Connor sat cross-legged on his futon, grinned at my hesitant blink. “It’s minuscule, but it’s indoors. Grain of salt, right, Paul?”

  “Y’all know you love me.” Paul threw me a wink. “Go on, girl. Don’t leave the seat down.”

  The word “minuscule” was a generous descriptor—my bedroom closet boasted more floor space. There was no tub or shower, just a toilet and a pedestal sink, and enough room to stand in front of each. A toilet brush and plunger skulked in the corner behind a tiny wastebasket. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling abstract mural of black, blue, and purple paint, a weird contrast to the olive green of the floor tiles and graffiti-laden industrial gray of the other walls. There was a mirror above the sink and a wall-mounted soap dispenser, but no medicine cabinet or shelving or other storage space. A roll of paper towels sat on the lid of the toilet tank next to a spray bottle. The seat was up, of course, but the toilet itself was surprisingly clean, and I saw why as soon as I sat down. A metal picture frame that screamed Connor’s handwork hung on the door, a handwritten list secured behind the glass:

  ALL USING THIS BATHROOM MUST ADHERE TO THE FOLLOWING:

  CLOSE THE DOOR. NO ONE NEEDS TO SEE YOUR BUSINESS.

  FLUSH THE TOILET. I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR WATER CONSERVATIONIST ENVIRONMENTAL BULLSHIT. FLUSH. THE. TOILET.

  WASH YOUR NASTY HANDS WITH THE SOAP PROVIDED.

  SPRAY AND WIPE THE TOILET AND SINK WITH THE CLEANING SUPPLIES PROVIDED. CLEAN UP YOUR MESS, AND THROW YOUR TRASH IN THE DAMN CAN, NOT THE TOILET.

  LEAVE THE TOILET SEAT UP. BECAUSE I SAID SO, THAT’S WHY.

  TURN OFF THE LIGHT. IF MY ELECTRIC BILL GOES UP, I’LL TAKE THE BULB OUT OF THE SOCKET MYSELF, SO HELP ME.

  IF YOU NEED TOILET PAPER FOR YOUR HOUSE AND CAN’T BE BOTHERED TO BUY IT FROM THE MOTHERFUCKING STORE, YOU CAN BUY IT FROM PAUL FOR $100 A ROLL. CONVENIENCE HAS A PRICE, AND THAT PRICE IN HERE IS $100. IF YOU STEAL MY TOILET PAPER, I WILL END YOU.

  FEEL FREE TO ADD TO THE GRAFFITI WALLS IN HERE, BUT DON’T DEFACE THE MURAL, AND DO NOT DRAW, WRITE, OR OTHERWISE MARK ON THE WALLS OUTSIDE THIS BATHROOM. THAT SHIT WILL RESULT IN AN AUTOMATIC LIFETIME BAN.

  ANYONE CAUGHT NOT ADHERING TO THE ABOVE WILL BE ASKED TO LEAVE AND USE THE BATHROOM IN YOUR OWN GODDAMN HOUSE.

  I was still giggling when I returned to their room. Both of them were absorbed in their respective sketchbooks, their faces identically focused and intense. Paul’s tongue poked out the corner of his mouth; Connor’s lower lip was anchored between his teeth.

  “There you are,” Connor said, looking up from his sketchbook as I closed the door. “Sorry about the lack of seating options—we’re not too fancy around here.”

  “This is fine. This is great, actually. I’d kill for a setup like this.”

  He smirked at that, bumping my shoulder with his as I settled next to him on the futon. “You just want a turn on that spinning wheel. Don’t lie.”

  “You spin?” Paul poked his head up, interest sparked. “She spins?”

  “Not yet. I plan on teaching her once I dig out that wool, but we didn’t get the chance last time, because my hand got the shit cut out of it by this one girl.”

  “Shut up,” I moaned, returning his playful shove. “You’re the worst, Connor.”

  “So I’m told. But yeah, Lane’s a fiber artist.”

  “I knit and crochet. Scarves and hats, mostly.” I ducked behind my hair to dodge Paul’s approving grin. “My stuff sells, but I don’t think anyone sees me as an artist. Not the way you guys are artists.”

  “Whatever with all that,” Paul scoffed. “Art is art. Envision, attempt, create. And then, hopefully fucking profit. If you make money off your work, you’re ahead of most of the folks who hang out here.”

  “And some of the folks who live here,” Connor sighed. “This month, at least. So, speaking of living here …”

  “Please. When I tire of your indentured servitude, I’ll let you know. Find you a nice girl. Toss her some bribe money to take you off my hands.”

  “Girl?”

  The word leaped out of my mouth, my brain loping along half a mile behind it. I blinked back and forth between their quizzical glances.

  “Assuming there exists one who can deal with his bullshit,” Paul said, “so odds are I’m stuck with him for life.”

  “But—” I turned to Connor. “A girl?”

  “Yeah? Why is that—” Connor went silent all at once, then red, and then a gasp and a high-pitched cackle burst out of Paul and shrieked their way across the room. Connor’s hands hit his face, and his back hit the mattress, sending a jolt through the futon. “Jesus. No. Oh my God, Lane, I’m not gay.”

  “You’re—what? You’re not? But I thought you two—” My head swiveled between him and Paul, who had tipped over and was hanging halfway off his own bed, literally screaming with laughter. “You and Paul—”

  “ ‘Him and Paul’ not a goddamn thing,” Paul bellowed. “Hard pass on the ‘him and Paul,’ if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Yeah, definitely not so much.” Connor sat up and rubbed his eyes, fixed them solidly on the floor between his feet. “Lane, I think we need to back up a few steps. Where, exactly, did you hear this?”

  “From everyone. I mean, they said—” I blew out a frustrated breath, refocused my thoughts into coherent words. “Your youth group friends went around to the whole school with it. Years ago, back when you got exiled. They said that’s the reason you left home.”

  “Wow. That makes sense, I guess, in a fucked-up way—explains why every last one of those so-called friends forgot my name overnight.”

  “Wait—are you saying they made it up? Why? That actually doesn’t make sense.”

  “Punishment, Lane. The prize sheep ghosted the flock—can’t have that, or the other kids might start thinking for themselves. I’m just surprised this shit didn’t make it back to me sooner.”

  “What the fuck.” I stared at his barely perturbed face, shook my head at his casual shrug. “Seriously, that’s the worst they could do—say you like guys? Like that’s even a bad thing?”

  “That congregation is wall-to-wall bigots stacked on assholes, and yes—to them it is the worst, if their endgame was to shut me out for good. Looks like it worked.”

  Paul’s laughter trailed into silence. A self-conscious heat swarmed up my neck, danced its way over my cheeks. Stupid. So, so stupid.

  “I am so sorry, Connor. I am.” When he didn’t answer, I plowed on, raking my hands through my hair, working it into a mess of tangles. “I’m sorry that happened to you, and I’m sorry I never knew, or thought to question it. I know how much shit goes around that school, and—”

  “Whoa, careful.” His hand stilled mine, and he leaned closer, all business, unwinding a snarl of hair from my fingers. “It’s fine, Lane. ‘Gay’ isn’t an insult in my world.”

  “Of course it’s not,” I muttered, looking everywhere but at him. My gaze leaped over Paul, then returned. He watched us silently, head to one side. “Sorry, Paul.”

  “Sorry? I’m not bothered by those bitches. Anyway, the look on his face when you broke the news? That was the funniest shit I’ve seen in ages.” He glanced at his phone, then rolled off the bed, grabbed his car keys off the glass tabletop. “I need to go shower. You guys coming?”

  “To the shower? With you?” I peered at him, but he seemed perfectly serious. “Um.”

  “To the gym,” Connor said. He tucked the now-smooth length of hair behind my ear and sat back, satisfied. “No shower here, as you might have noticed. You go on, Paul. I’ll head over in the morning.”

  “Damn right you will. Go early, do some squats. Keep that ass looking how you know I like it.” Paul cracked up at himself, waving off Connor’s
raised middle finger. “You need a ride, Laney?”

  “Oh. No, Grey is expecting my text. But if I’m in your way, Connor …”

  “Well, I was planning to finally make my move on Paul, but the moment appears to have passed.”

  “Like I even would with you,” Paul sniffed. “You take him, Laney—get this boy set up at your place and out of my hair, and you can have that spinning wheel.”

  “Oh, okay,” I scoffed. “I’m sure my dad won’t mind that at all.”

  “Yeah, because your dad’s the problem.” Connor slid toward me and leaned in, sending a whisper into my ear. “Elaine.”

  “Shut up.” I jerked backward, everything burning in my cheeks. His face was bright and flushed, mouth pulled into an impish smirk. “It is not like that. It’s—fuck. Fuck. Connor, I swear—”

  “Sure it’s not. Like he wouldn’t if he thought he could.” He shook his head at my glare, settling back on the futon. “What? He’s a good kid, but come on—he’s no saint. And neither are you.”

  We stared at each other. His words reached through my skin, flicked at the raw hollow behind my heart where I’d buried so many things I’d tried to ignore regarding Grey—things Connor casually dropped between us like innards on a butcher’s block, gross and disposable. Unavoidable.

  I lowered my eyes, focused on the white-knuckle clench of my fingers. Bit down on my tongue to still the tremble of my chin.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. And you shouldn’t either.”

  “That’s fine.” He leaned backward and reached behind me, snagged his sketchbook from a fold in the blankets. “It’s above my pay grade, anyway.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Lane, you’re pining for my sister’s boyfriend. Even if he weren’t your brother, that’s some high school drama that’ll do its thing without my input.”

  “He’s not my brother,” I hissed. “And I am not pining.”

  “Oh, look at this mess.” Paul leaned against the doorframe, grinning at me with all his teeth. Enjoying himself way too much to leave. “The lady doth protest, right?”