“Baby, our rings! Our wedding rings!”
Something strange flitted across Grey’s face, a momentary glitch eclipsed almost immediately by a smile that seared the edge of my heart.
“Really? Awesome. I’ll drop Elaine off at home and meet you at the warehouse.”
“Oh, Lane’s invited too. Something about yarn.”
“Sounds great,” I said, shark-toothed smiling. Happy as could be about tagging along to watch them select their fucking wedding rings. What better way to spend a day?
I hid behind my hair as she bounced away to her own car, focused on my seat belt as Grey slid behind the wheel. Focused on repressing the tremble in my fingers. The Forester smelled like warm, worn cotton, sage smoke, and our shared bar of shower soap. The sharp, sweet hint of Sadie’s cherry lip gloss.
Grey’s mood only brightened as he pulled away from the Starbucks drive-through, passing me one of the drinks. The pumpkin spice waft hit me before I even got it to my mouth. He was already recoiling from a mouthful of my Americano.
“Yeah, that’s mine, Greyson.”
“I noticed. Sorry.”
He switched cups carefully, balancing the latte on his knee as he drove. I pressed my lips against the rim where his had been, tasted the ghost of his tongue. The closest I’d get to a kiss. Quite the fitting nightcap to that imaginary date we’d almost had.
Sadie’s car was parked askew in the nearly empty warehouse lot. We found her in the front room, sweeping the floor as Connor arranged easels and stools against the far wall. She shrieked when she saw us and flung the broom aside, launched herself at Grey—an incoming missile of flying hair and loud, smacking kisses.
“Holy fuck, Sadie.” Connor set the broom in a corner and joined us, brushing his hands on his jeans. “It’s been how long since you saw him? An entire twenty minutes?”
“Excuse me for wanting to properly greet my future husband, Mr. Snarlybutt. Can we see the sketches now? Can we?”
“Only if you lower the volume. People are trying to—oh, you’ve got to be joking. Oh, hell no.” Connor was suddenly gone, striding toward the door and the four guys who’d walked through it—none much older than us, all rangy, all in various stages of unkempt. He stopped in front of the scraggliest one: a dangerously thin blond, wild-eyed and twitchy, his cheek a constellation of open sores. “The fuck you think the word ‘banned’ means, dude? Was I somehow unclear?”
“What, I can’t even hang out? You were serious about that?”
“Damn right I was. Out.”
The shortest guy, who I vaguely recognized as one of the painters, stepped between them.
“Come on, man, Aiden’s cool. I’ll vouch, okay?”
“Oh really, Bukowski? Last time you vouched for that junkie piece of shit, he got about a grand’s worth of my tools halfway across the parking lot. He’s done here. Bring him around again, and you’re done too.”
“Whatever,” Aiden drawled. “Fuck you, Hall.”
“Fuck me, huh?” Connor shouldered past Bukowski and grabbed Aiden’s collar, hauled him through the doorway until he stumbled off the step. “Get your ass out, and don’t come back. If I see you anywhere near this place again, I’ll slit your fucking throat.”
He slammed the door shut, turned his back on the rest of the group, and strolled toward us, flipping his hair out of his face. “WHO WANTS TO MAKE SOME YARN?”
“Dude.” Grey’s stunned face looked like mine felt. “What the hell was that?”
“That,” Connor said, “is what happens when a grown man fails to both comprehend and follow simple instructions.” His eyes swept over us, landed square on mine. “How about that spinning wheel, Lane? You ready to see how it’s done?”
“Rings first,” Sadie butted in. “Once you guys get on that wheel, me and Grey’ll be sitting around for hours waiting on you. Show us your ideas, and we can at least take our time picking out favorites.”
“Come on, then.”
He led us down the hallway to the metalworking room, Sadie falling into step beside him while Grey followed a few paces behind. I trailed after, jacked up on a blend of my own adrenaline and the mellowed rage that continued to waft off Connor as we watched him dart back and forth between the shelves and his worktable. He was a wilder, brighter version of himself, only intensifying as he shifted into creative mode, and his smile wouldn’t have been so unsettling if he’d just gone ahead and blinked at some point.
“You.” He spun on his heel and aimed his finger at Grey. “I need your ring size.”
“Oh. I don’t know. I don’t wear rings.”
“That’s cool, I have a sizer.” He regarded Grey, head to one side. Took in the gun-shy stare, the involuntary curl of his fingers. “You’re okay with me doing these, right? You seem a little off.”
“I’m fine. A little unsettled, maybe.”
“Don’t worry about that guy,” Connor said, clearly missing that it wasn’t Aiden who’d bothered Grey. “You’re on board with this, then?”
“Of course he is,” Sadie answered. “Hold out your hand, baby.”
Connor sized Grey’s ring finger, jotted down numbers in his sketchbook, and flipped through several pages, explaining his various ideas. Sadie and Grey huddled together, her head on his shoulder, his hand tucked in the back pocket of her jeans.
“Can you believe we’re doing this?” Sadie’s voice was a shadow of her normal twang—low and hushed, almost reverent. “Our wedding rings.”
“Wild, isn’t it?” He looked up from the sketches, fixed his eyes on her glow. “You’re sure you don’t want something traditional? You know I can’t afford a diamond right now, but in a few years …”
“Oh, I don’t need anything like that. I don’t even care what it looks like, as long as you’re the one who gives it to me.”
“I love you, Sadie.”
“Oh, Grey.”
Their words skewered me one by one. I turned my back on them, swiped at my phone with frenzied fingers. Accidentally tweeted the letter H by itself on our business account, then deleted it before the whole of the internet realized what a fucking mess I was. Couldn’t have that.
“On that note.” Connor left his sketchbook on the worktable and sailed past, pointing to his eyes and then to mine, winking at my automatic grimace. “You. Me. Yarn.”
I tucked my phone away, casting one last glance over my shoulder. Grey’s hand cupped the back of Sadie’s neck. Hers were caught in his hair. Their kiss was deep and intimate, as if they were already alone. As if they were already married.
Something hot and horrible rose in my throat, bitter as bile. Bitter as the taste of his mouth on my coffee cup.
12
CONNOR’S BACK WAS A FAST-MOVING smear through my stinging eyes. I followed him through the warehouse to the fiber room, breathed my way back to calm as he pulled a bag of wool and two sets of hand cards out of the supply cabinet. We settled in next to the spinning wheel, where he walked me through the steps of carding, and soon we were working in sync, the rhythm soothing the snarl in my gut. Before long, my resulting rolags looked just as good, if not better than, his.
“Hey. You okay?” he asked out of nowhere, about half an hour into a surprisingly comfortable silence.
“I’m fine,” I chirped, tossing another finished rolag into the basket. “Clearly kicking all kinds of ass on this carding thing, so not sure why you’d ask.”
“Just checking in. When I invited you along, I didn’t think of how that might be awkward, considering—well. Their whole teen-wedding, eternal-partnership thing, versus things you asked me not to mention. Kind of surprised you showed up at all.”
So this conversation—this verbal acknowledgment of my pathetic heartspace—this was a thing happening in real time. This was me, doubling down on the busywork, barbed-wire smile fixed in place, and I’d die on the spot before letting it slip even an inch.
“That’s their business, Connor. I’m just here to hang out and make some art.”
“Got it. So, since that’s a nonissue, I want to clear something else up.” He ducked his head, reloading his card. I paused, attention caught by the downturn of his voice. “I feel bad you had to see me flip my shit on that guy, but this is far from his first offense. Trust me when I say he doesn’t really respond to polite requests.”
“I get it. It sounded like you had your reasons.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, he’s a thief. He fucked with one of the doors, tried to break in. Tried to swipe some equipment. Like he could just sell beads or metal shears or what have you on the street, or trade it—who knows what he was thinking. That shit ruins your head. I never messed with anything hard like that, but a lot of kids I knew did. A lot.”
“Messed with what, exactly?”
His glance was bewildered rather than derisive. As if he got that I was clueless, but couldn’t believe it was to such a staggering degree.
“Meth, Lane. Could you really not tell?”
“I wasn’t sure. I don’t know any meth heads.”
“No, you wouldn’t. And you should keep it that way.” He sighed. “Look, I’m not judging him for that—you reach a certain point, you’ll do anything to make it all stop. I did fourteen months on the street, and—”
“Fourteen months?” I slacked on the carding, and he shot me a small frown, motioned with his chin to pick up the pace. “Connor. You were just a kid.”
“Barely sixteen. So I get why it’s a thing, but I can’t have it in here.”
I didn’t have many memories of Connor from before. He was Sadie Hall’s Big Brother—a vague blend of pressed khakis and clean-cut hair, polo collars buttoned to the top beneath that wide, white-toothed smile. Head bowed low in prayer around the school flagpole, until the day that same circle formed smaller, other hands linking through the space where he’d stood.
I let my eyes move over him, took in the cords of his forearms, the line of his shoulders and neck and jaw. Rearranged the shards of that scrubbed, mundane memory until they formed the riddle before me: the lean, unhinged boy whose hands knew the precise moment a blade went from sharp to blunt. A boy who’d bled to make me stronger. How could I know if what remained was real, or how much of it was due to the months he’d spent malnourished and sick, sleeping on filth when he’d felt safe enough to sleep at all? How had a boy who’d been clothed and fed and pampered since birth survived that corner of the world?
I didn’t realize I’d voiced my last thought until he answered.
“Total honesty? I almost didn’t. I was damn near the end of my rope when I met Paul. He let me crash here because the shelter was full and there was a fucking snowstorm approaching. I’m alive because he helped me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep this place safe.”
I know I looked ridiculous—wide-eyed and horrified, mouth stumbling over all the wrong words. He glanced up, then looked away, as if he hadn’t realized the magnitude of his story until he saw it reflected in my face.
“Hey. This is only context now, okay? I’m off the street, and I’m safe and fed, and I’m an artiste. So it’s not all bad.” He nodded at my nervous, tapping fingers; his smirk was a deflection, a change of subject disguised as a challenge. “Slowing down, Jamison? Should we get this wheel spinning, or do you need a break?”
“I’m fine, Hall. Do you need a break?”
“No way. You feed me the wool, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
We let the wheel talk for us after that, settled into the synchronicity of his feet and my hands. Connor leaned over his work, brow furrowed, lips pursed. Picked a snag of wool loose from the spindle, pushed the hair out of his eyes and behind his ears. It swung back down immediately. He growled at that, then shot a sneer in the direction of my giggle.
“Don’t look at me like that, Lane.”
“Like I can see your face behind that mess,” I huffed. My mistake regarding Connor Hall was assuming he’d eventually let the whole eye-contact thing drop. “Once we’re done here, I’ll knit you up a nice headband. Pink, so Sadie can borrow it.”
“Hey, if you made it, I’d take it.” He leaned closer, squinting at the crocheted necklace sparkling at my throat. “Is that one of yours?”
“One of my best sellers.”
“May I?” At my nod, he lifted one of the delicate strands, ran it between his fingers, admired the faceted stones and tiny, even stitches. “Gorgeous.”
“It’s simple, once you know the basics.”
“I can do simple.” He let it drop and raised his eyes to mine, hopeful, sweetly hesitant. “Teach me?”
“Of course, but—weird much? You can spin, but you can’t crochet?”
“Paul taught me to use all the tools in the space, in case anyone needs help. Spinning’s easy—doesn’t mean I know what to do with the end result.”
We abandoned the wheel in favor of one of the many works-in-progress stashed in my bag. I sat beside his stool, demonstrated a few fast stitches, showed him how to maneuver the hook with his right hand and feed the fiber with his left. He tried. He did try, I’ll give him that.
“How am I ruining this, Lane? You made it look easy.”
“It is easy. Hold it like—no, like this. Here.” I shifted to my knees and leaned across him, repositioned his grip, and placed my hands over his, winding the thread over both our fingers. As I guided him through a stitch, then another, I felt his fingers draw up more thread, then adjust to match the rhythm of mine. “Keep the tension in your left hand, hook with your right. Like this. See?”
“All I see is miles of your hair,” he said. I leaned sideways as he tried to peer over my shoulder, and my head collided with his face. “Ow. Wait, I think I’m stuck. And—yep. So are you.”
“Our hands are literally tied together?” The stitch slackened, threatening to slide off the hook as my grip faltered. Connor tugged it tighter. “Unwind the thread off your pinkie.”
“I can’t. It’s knotted up on itself. No, don’t drop the stitch, Lane. Focus.” He redoubled his efforts, wincing as the loop cut deeper into his skin. “Ah, shit. I can still smith with nine fingers, right?”
I couldn’t help it. My laughter rang out, dragging his words into a loud echo that rattled us both as I managed to finish and secure the stitch.
“Okay, it’s solid,” I finally said. “Now hold still, or we’ll have to live like this forever.”
“I can do that.”
His voice snagged my laugh from the air and wrung it out. I froze for an instant, then ducked my head, and I focused, all right. Focused on picking the knot loose, and on the way his fingers lined up with mine as I unwound the thread, bit by careful bit. Every tendon and scar, every scratch and vein; the slender outlines of his bones; the press of his leather cuff against my wrist. The press of his chin, lowering to rest on my shoulder, an instant before the last knot gave. Connor took my left hand in his, turned it over for inspection. Massaged the angry grooves on my knuckle.
“I think you’ll recover,” he joked, and it was the perfect opening to let the moment pass with an answering chuckle, had said chuckle not regretfully been lodged in my throat. His fingers paused on mine. “Lane? Everything okay?”
The half-done necklace fell from my grip, slid down my lap to the floor. My hand flexed beneath his, then turned so we were palm to palm, pressed together. Waiting.
I felt him lean against me, tentative, my back to his chest. Felt his cheek graze mine, then again, and then our hands were clasping, fingers linking, our breath drawing in unison from the same small space, as my face turned toward his.
“Sadie, we talked about this.” The sudden snap of Grey’s voice was a blade across my throat. “I feel like you never listen to me.”
“I am, baby—but you’re not listening to me. Communication isn’t a one-way street.”
“You say you’re listening, but you’re not hearing me. When I said—”
“Aaaand, there they go.” Connor dropped my hand, stood and stretched, shook out
his hands, cracked his knuckles. Kept his back to me. I stayed on my knees, fighting silently for air. Trying so hard to claw past what had almost happened. “I told Sadie to stop bringing him by here if they can’t keep it down. People are trying to work.”
“Oh. That reminds me.” I rummaged through my bag, took way too long to unearth my wallet. “I don’t have it all on me, but I can give you the rest on Friday. Thanks for letting me do my thing.”
“What’s this?”
“Sadie told me you charge for using the space. I’ve been hogging the room all afternoon and will probably be back tomorrow. So.”
“Sadie!” When the argument didn’t even pause, he took a breath and made himself heard. “SADIE.”
Silence, then footsteps, then her head poked through the door.
“WHAT?”
“Did you tell Lane I was charging her for wheel time?”
“I most certainly did not, and you most certainly shall not. She’s not one of your tenants, Connor.”
“I wasn’t going to. What I was wondering, is why she’s in here waving money at me, saying you told her she’d need it.”
“I told her you charge people, not that you’d charge her. Lane.” They aimed identical stubborn glares my way. “You’re my future sister-in-law. You’re not paying my brother to use a wheel that’s just sitting there anyway. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of a discussion.”
“Yeah, keep that shit down, while you’re at it,” Connor said. “You sound exactly like Mom.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, unruffled, and flounced away, leaving me with only one Hall side-eye scorching its way through my head.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I said, tucking the cash into my pocket. “I’m trying to respect your setup.”
“My ‘setup’? I thought you came here to ‘hang out and make some art.’ ”
“That’s what we’re doing, right? I’m using this wheel same as anyone would—I can at least pay my share. And don’t tell me you don’t need the money, Connor.”
“Not enough to bum it off my friends.” He shook his head. “If a rental space is all this is to you, I might as well go on back to the metal room.”
Together We Caught Fire Page 8