Connor dodged the first shove, but not the second.
It sent him reeling sideways, snapped his laughter into jagged bits. The glee drained from his eyes, making way for something darker.
“Really.” He tilted his head, took in Grey’s stance and steady, heaving breaths, my shaking legs and wild-eyed stare. The shocked, silent statue of Sadie, face covered by her tear-damp hands. “Really?”
“Let’s go.”
He started forward. Connor closed the distance, a smile like spilled ink spreading across his face. They advanced on each other, slow, then faster, then ran into me as I threw myself between them.
“Back up, Greyson.”
“Get out of my way.”
“And if I don’t?” I stared him down until he blinked. “Back up. Now.”
I spun away from him, stalked over to Connor, who had already sauntered into the shadows. He leaned cross-armed against the rear bumper, the unconcerned eye of a storm. Dropped an actual wink as I approached.
“Really, Connor? Really? God. I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”
“I’m not the problem here.” He indicated over my shoulder at the air horn that was Sadie, finally unfrozen, absolutely unloading on Grey. “His territorial big brother shit? It’s only cute if you ignore its sketchy roots.”
“It doesn’t have sketchy roots.”
“Lane, it has a whole sketchy ecosystem—and the really sad part is, he thinks none of us can see it. Look, I didn’t start this, but if he wants a fight, I can damn sure guarantee I’ll finish it. I’ll raze his world to the fucking ground.”
I left him chuckling against the car, his words burning hot in my cheeks. My anger and feet and heart carried me to Grey. Sadie’s eyes found mine, darted immediately away as he turned to me, desperate with earnest, frantic regret.
“Time to go, Greyson.”
“Elaine, I am so sorry. Can we just forget it? The overlook’s up ahead, and—”
“Sure, because what we need is you and Connor getting wrecked and losing your inhibitions. Honestly, I could do without looking at either one of you right now. But this”—I swung my arm wide, gestured to Connor and the car, and our vast, star-specked surroundings—“is too much. This won’t—it can’t happen again.”
I watched the words pummel him, like raindrops on a long-ago porch swing. Watched them yank a different near miss from the murk of his memory. His mouth drooped; his eyes were broken things, murky with defeat and regret, and some elusive, deep-lurking sorrow I couldn’t quite place.
His voice, when he found it, was small and defeated. Meek as Sadie on the public-access feed.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been off-balance all day, and then he laughed at me, and I just snapped—I don’t know what I was doing, but this isn’t me. And when I think how this could have ended—”
“You should think about that,” I snarled, “because it could have ended with Connor dead in the road. All because you ‘just snapped.’ ”
“I know. I know, and it makes me sick.” The breath clattered out of him in fragmented gasps; he actually clutched at his head, a near parody of tragic lament. It would have been ridiculous, if he hadn’t been so clearly on the verge of breaking. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t let myself get so mad that I—Elaine, how can I fix this? Tell me what you want from me.” Oh, where to start with that one.
“I want off this mountain. Think you can make that happen without running us all into a fucking tree?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat as I turned away. Connor was already in the car, leaning casually against the door. I avoided his eyes and his grin, his peace offering of an outstretched hand as I slid in beside him.
Sadie yelled at Grey all the way back to the warehouse. No surprise there.
Connor turned to me as the car slowed to a stop, gave me the up-and-down sweep beneath an artfully raised eyebrow.
“So, total honesty—are we doing the telepathy thing now? Or did I already fuck this up beyond repair?” He sighed at my stony profile, climbed out of the back seat, then leaned over and offered me a hand. “At least walk me to the door?”
I don’t know why I went. Maybe to escape World Wars Three through Seventeen, still unspooling in the front seat. Maybe to untangle myself from the foreign, too-sticky web forming around us all. But I seethed my way into open air, let Connor steer me into the shadows just to the side of the warehouse door, where his smirk faced off against my gritted teeth.
“You’re mad.” The smirk opened into a laugh at my answering huff. “You’re so pissed at me right now. Don’t even act like you’re not.”
“Don’t you look at me like that, Connor. None of this is funny.”
“You’re right, it’s not. But if I don’t laugh …” He trailed off, smile re-spun from starlight into shade. “You know, you’re cute when you’re all riled up.”
“Shut up.”
“You are. You’re gorgeous.” He leaned in slowly, brushed his lips over the edge of my scowl. Followed my gasp and swallowed it whole, kissed it into a sigh. Pulled back and let our eyes collide. His hands were in my jacket, running slowly over my waist, and nothing I knew or didn’t know about him mattered when he looked at me like that. “Still furious?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me to fuck off, then. I’ll go inside right now. You can let good old Greyson take you home, and you can text me later, if you feel like it. Or not. Or, you could stay.”
I let him walk me backward until my skin met bricks. Let his chest and belly and hips mold to mine, lean and solid, everything hard all the way down, and my anger wasn’t fading, but morphing, turning—burning hot and vicious, giving way to a burst of desire. That gaze, both a question and its own inevitable answer. That mouth, meeting mine once more, then drawing back just far enough to form the shape of the word, silent and slow.
Stay.
Grey’s voice followed his footsteps, rough and short and sharp with gravel. A good distraction would be just the thing to drown him out.
“Elaine? Look, no offense, but I’m done. If you’re coming home tonight—”
“It’s okay, Greyson,” I said, holding Connor’s eyes, and who knew pure flame could burn dark as any midnight sky? “I’m not.”
19
THINGS BETWEEN SADIE AND ME had tiptoed steadily along the edge of weird since the car surfing incident. She’d stormed into the warehouse without knocking the morning after, launched into a preplanned lecture about recklessness and road safety, and Connor’s responsibilities as a conscientious and respectful passenger. Her startled squawk and subsequent dash for the door, when she realized what she’d interrupted, was almost worth the awkwardness that followed. We’d spent the two weeks since then decidedly not discussing our involvement with each other’s respective brothers. My mistake was answering her Friday night GIRLS’ DAY TOMORROW??? text with a noncommittal Sure, sounds good, and assuming she’d follow up with a concrete suggestion.
So, when she’d popped up in head-to-toe lululemon at eight a.m. Saturday, battering-ram smile crashing through the kitchen door, I was unprepared to join her in the morning yoga class she insisted was my idea. Not that I put up more than a feeble protest. Once Sadie hooked her teeth into a plan of action, it was easier just to go along.
I had to hand it to her, though—she went all the way in. She drove us downtown, all but skipped to the studio, and rolled her mat out right next to mine, keeping pace with me through all the basic poses. She’d tapped out on the inversions, and teetered and stumbled through tree pose, but hung in there until the end of class. Afterward, we burst into the crisp autumn morning, winded and sweaty, her cheeks as pink as her leggings.
“Lord, honey,” she drawled as we ambled up Biltmore Avenue. “If that wasn’t ten pounds of ouch in a five-pound bag. My legs feel like they could fall off any minute.”
“You did fine. No one expects perfection in there.”
“I spent half the class worrying I’d tip right
over and get stuck on my back, like a turtle in a shell. It was a good workout, though.” She stretched her arms above her head, swung her mat strap to the other shoulder. “And now I’m starving.”
The bustle of Pack Square loomed ahead, promising coffee and comfort, and the breakfast I’d skipped in favor of sun salutations. I turned to ask Sadie where she wanted to eat, and spoke, instead, to empty air. She was gone.
I scanned the square, crowded as always with tourists and locals, hipsters and hippies, street performers and clusters of weary, homeless teens. The bright flash of Sadie’s hair caught my eye as she sprinted across the street against the light, leaving me to wait for the signal. By the time I caught up to her, she was surrounded by people and beaming at one of the street musicians—a young, rangy guy with more piercings than teeth, whose tattooed hand she clasped in both her own.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” I heard her say as I slowed to a stop. “My friend and I were about to get our caffeine fix. Can I get you a cup?”
“Sounds great. Hold on, I got some change.”
He reached into his guitar case, but she shook her head.
“Put that away, honey. It’s no trouble at all. We’ll get all y’all something warm.”
I nodded, mostly to myself, clenched the handle of my bag until my fingers ached. Sadie took a quick head count, waving off another half dozen offers of money. Shame flared in my chest, spread outward to my fidgety limbs as I watched her dig a packet of tissues from the depths of her glittery duffel bag and press them into the hand of a raw-nosed girl with runny, red-rimmed eyes—a girl I’d have carefully walked past, if I’d been on my own. It was so natural for Sadie, that simple gesture. That glimmer of goodness, brighter than any shade in her collection of palettes.
Why her, I’d shrilled at Grey, as if I hadn’t watched her shine countless times. As if it wasn’t perfectly clear why anyone would be drawn to the glow of her heart.
I looked around the group, zeroed in on a guy who huddled against the wall behind me, elbows resting on his drawn-up knees. He was a mangled wisp, dirty and tattered and high as shit. Vaguely familiar. The hood of his jacket listed off his blond head; he’d pulled the sleeves down over hands that worked nonstop, like trapped rodents, beneath the threadbare fabric. A finger crept out of his sleeve, absently scratched at an abscess on his chin. It must have been a nice chin, once, on a face that had probably been handsome, before his skin had gone to rot. He squinted up at me as I squatted in front of him, fixing my face into what at least felt like a grin.
“Hey, you want anything? Coffee?”
“Sure.” He coughed into his sleeve, blinked around a flicker of lucidity as our eyes met. “You around here much?”
“Oh. Not really. I mean, I have school and stuff, so—well.” So spoke Lane Jamison, orator for the ages. God. “Have we met?”
“Nah. Just feels like I’ve seen you, I guess. Or, maybe not.” His mouth trembled at the edges, stilled for an instant in a smile that bit the edges of my heart. “But coffee’s always good.”
“Sit tight, then.” As if he’d been on the verge of sprinting off.
I walked away from him on numb legs, eyes stinging, stomach a hollow, quaking pit. Not that I was great with strangers even under stellar circumstances, but this was worse—this was Lane caught off guard, staring down a wormhole into Connor’s former life. I felt like melting into a wall, slipping down into a sidewalk crack—anything to ensure I no longer had to look that life in the face, hear the rattle of its inhale, or smell its sour, broken flesh.
Sadie waited at the crosswalk, beckoning for me to hurry before we missed the light. I followed her down the block and into a bright, crowded café, breathed my heartbeat back to normal as Sadie ordered a dozen cups of dark roast and a shitload of muffins. It wasn’t until the barista turned away to run her debit card that I finally found my voice.
“So, are those kids Connor’s friends? From before?”
“They’re my friends. Our church did homeless outreach, when I was little.” A turquoise curl escaped from her bun as she bent over the counter, signed the enormous tab without flinching. “Daddy cut that program after—well. A few years back. Anyway, I picked it back up on my own last year, once I got my car.”
“By yourself? Isn’t that—” I didn’t actually say the word “dangerous,” but she heard me anyway.
“I’m not naive, Lane. I volunteer at the shelter, and if I see the people I meet there on the street—like just now—I try to help where I can. It’s not much, and I know I can’t save everyone, but every little bit matters. It’s the least anyone can do.”
We shuffled across the café, hands loaded with trays and bags. I pushed open the door with my butt, got stuck holding it for four other people before impatience overrode manners. Sadie smiled as I finally joined her on the sidewalk, flinching at a sudden chilly breeze. The receipt flew off her tray and danced ahead of us, as if eager to lead the way.
“Do we need to go after that? For taxes?” I frowned at her quizzical blink. “Your parents don’t write it off?”
“My parents? Oh Lord, they don’t know about this. If they ask about the bill, I’ll tell them I treated you and Grey, but I doubt they’ll even notice.”
We slowed at the crosswalk, waited for the light to change. A car blew by, lifting the ends of my hair. I eyed her profile over the steaming cups, wondered at her dedication to this secret, thankless task. It wasn’t about spreading the gospel or earning points with Jesus; it wasn’t about filial duty, or guilt, or even her brother. It was nothing more than simple kindness. It was Sadie.
“Sadie, are you—” I swallowed the end of that thought, rearranged it, tried again. “You’re okay, right?”
“I’m fine—better off than these poor kids, anyway.” She indicated her friends with a tilt of her head. The traffic drew to a stop, and we stepped off the curb together, moving toward their eager smiles. “You know me, Lane. I have everything I need.”
* * *
We huddled together that night beneath the silent moon, passing a fifth of Fireball carefully back and forth with mittened hands. We’d swathed ourselves in scarves and hats, burrowed under our own coats, and Connor’s coat, and one of Paul’s blankets. Our breath blew out in short wisps, turned every word to a curl of mist.
I’d spent most of the evening beneath the crook of Connor’s arm, Sadie slipping along beside us through the oil slick of white-boy dreads and vegan sweat, patchouli and weed, and that sharp, earthy, oddly specific scent of beer spilled on batik cloth. Connor overdid it on the Fireball, then succumbed to it all at once, hadn’t even argued when we bundled him onto the futon and left him to sleep it off. Grey had skipped the party, assumedly to cleave himself unto his calculus textbook.
“You’re sure he’ll be okay?” I asked for the third time, staring at my silent phone. She giggled and nudged me with her shoulder, nipped at the Fireball like it was candy. Typical Sadie—she wouldn’t even say the f-word, but good luck getting a turn with a bottle once she got her hands on it.
“You really like him, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“I know, but I feel like there’s more between you two than you’re telling me. Women’s intuition.” She leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper, as if we weren’t alone on the roof of a soundproofed warehouse in the dead of night. Her breath was sharp, warm cinnamon against my ear. “Plus, I wanted to look at the rings again, so I peeked in the sketchbook. I mean, it’s gross ’cause he’s my brother, but wow.”
“Meaning?” I watched her mischievous grin falter, then ebb, then give way entirely as she cringed, hiding her face against her knees.
Realization dropped over me like a net. I pried her arm away from her head, seeking confirmation in the guilty pinch of her face. Yep. There it was.
“Oh my God. Tell me you’re joking, Sadie. Please.”
“I figured you—ohhhhh crap. Connor might actually
kill me for real, this time.”
“What am I wearing?” She shook her head, and I let her go, pressing my hands against my eyes. Spreading my fingers wide, to hide as much of my face as possible.
“Oh, don’t be mad, Lane. The worst one only has, like, a sideboob. Half a sideboob. That’s all.”
“No. Stop. You did not just say ‘sideboob’ to me in this context.”
“Really, it’s not indecent. You should see how you look to him. He’s going to fall in love with you someday, I can feel it.”
I was just sober enough to bite back my answer—just lucid enough to refrain from detailing all the ways in which my nights with Connor didn’t count as love. How her brother’s hands scorched their way across my skin over and over; how the lines of his hips canceled out her boyfriend’s eyes, smeared them down to a sullen, seawater muddle. Kept them at bay for another day, or hour even—another blissful, blank moment, during which I could pretend I wasn’t an utter mess.
“Yeah, I can really tell,” I said. “It was especially clear that one time he had me slice his thumb all the way down to the bone. Very romantic.”
“Wow. You don’t understand him at all, do you?” She squinted at a glint of whiskey on the back of her hand, then licked it off. “Helping you be strong is how he shows you he cares. That’s his thing. Me and my parents. Your fear of knives. Sabine and her anxiety, and her codependency, and—”
“Who’s Sabine—one of the painters? Or one of the fucking meth heads?” The answer, horrible and obvious, reared suddenly in my gut. “Oh, dear God. You are not serious.”
“This really isn’t a good night for me,” she sighed, resignedly passing me the Fireball. “Kinda figured you’d have heard all about her by now.”
“I have decidedly not heard about her, actually. At all.”
“Well. I guess there’s not that much to tell. She used to live here too, and then they broke up, and she kept on living here for, like, months. Just as roommates, he said. So.”
I chewed on that one for a moment, oddly perturbed. The specifics of our friends-with-benefits thing had barely been broached since that first encounter, much less renegotiated. Though I’d visited daily and stayed overnight more than once since that first night, most of our time together had been benefit-free—hours spent on the spinning wheel, then in the metal room, him soldering and snipping and shaping while my knitting needles flew through the new skeins. Doing homework or chatting with Paul, while Connor hunched over his sketchbook, focused and furrowed. Falling asleep on the futon, waking hours later to a dark room and the second-skin weight of his sleeping arms.
Together We Caught Fire Page 13