Together We Caught Fire

by Eva V. Gibson

  But so what if the medium was foreign—it didn’t mean we couldn’t try. We could sand the edges off all our mismatched bits, rearrange them into brighter patterns; our own kind of mosaic glass, useless until it broke. Maybe we could still make it into something nice.

  I knew I looked like death—like fog and shade, threaded through with watery light. His eyes dropped anyway, took me in from lips to legs, then up again, the way they had a million years ago in a moonlit kitchen, and uncountable moments since. The flutter he sent through my heart was weak, but familiar. Routine.

  I’d caught him wanting me, so many times.

  “You’re so beautiful. You’re so—”

  And then he didn’t say anything at all. His words faltered as my hand rose, crept beneath my shirt to cover his; positioned his palm, pressed it to my skin just so—this would be what I wanted, if I had to orchestrate it from start to stop. His voice stumbled over syllables, ended in nonsense as I echoed his gasp, moved our hands together, up and over, and together we caught fire.

  It was a collision. Rock and ocean, embers and wind, crashing together; falling in a tangle of limbs and longing and fear, and this. This, finally, was what I’d craved. Him, undone and dangerous—gentle—rough with need. My hands, guiding his, then falling away, tugging his shirt up and off. The thump of his heart, reaching through his flesh to knot with mine.

  “This is okay, right?” His words were soft and low, warm against my parted lips, and if he would only stop asking me that, everything would be perfect.

  “Yes,” I breathed. “I’ll tell you if—ow. That’s my hair.”

  “Oh, sorry. Are you—”

  “Still my hair, Greyson.” He cringed, burying his face in my neck.

  “Sorry. Man, I suck.”

  “It’s fine. Could you maybe stop—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. This was a bad idea.”

  “No, I mean stop apologizing. If I didn’t want this, I’d say so.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” His mumble, muffled against my skin, turned to another softer kiss. He propped himself on his elbows and hovered over me, drew back far enough to see my face.

  “God. This is weird. It’s weird, isn’t it? Us?”

  “It’s getting there,” I muttered, eyes straying to the half-open door. “If we do this—”

  He shifted his weight to the side, lay facing me again, but closer. His thumb traced my lower lip, sent an odd chill over my scalp as his fingers slipped through my hair and down my neck. Lost themselves once more beneath my shirt, looping that chill around my rib cage. I blinked at him, then past him, refocusing on the drag of his palms, unscarred and unfamiliar. Softer than I needed.

  “No, it’s definitely weird. You were supposed to be my sister. But I moved in, and this whole house—you’re everywhere. You’re all I think about—this, right now. It’s all I want.”

  He pulled me close again, and there it was: his heart. That was what I knew of him—that sturdy thump, reliable and safe. Separated from mine by bone and veins, and too many years since that first moment I’d leaned against it. Too many moments since then, spent chasing that bliss. And there he was, as if I’d finally hit on the right combination of wishes, only to find they were being answered all along.

  It rode the edge of every hope and daydream. It was smothering heat and sour flesh, the weird catch of teeth along my jaw—hands that rushed instead of wandered, fumbling over my thighs. It was nowhere near enough.

  Still, my body sought his naturally; my arms moved without me, clung to him, pulled him into another kiss as he hitched my knee over his hip, fingers grazing over the prickles of my unshaven thigh.

  What. The fuck.

  My eyes damn near bugged out of my head. Desire fell away from me like ice calving from a glacier, dropping forever into the frigid sea. He mistook my horrified gasp for passion, though; he swallowed it, returned it, breathed deeply against my suddenly slack mouth. I almost always kept my legs smooth, but the whole mental break thing had back-burnered the hell out of that priority. Besides, I had yet to meet the guy who’d slam on the brakes over some stubble when we were otherwise ready to go, so what the fuck, indeed—what the fuck was wrong with me, that I was letting it derail the moment, and if this wasn’t the biggest failed experiment since the goddamn frog dissection itself. Goddamn it.

  I seethed over those thoughts, then worried them, then gave up worrying, all at once too tired and defeated to care. My mind drifted past his lips and out the window, dissipated as it hit the air. Left me compliant and empty, the usual reflexive severing of heart from limbs, and for a single hideous moment I thought this was the best we’d ever be—this predictable, one-sided parody, so taboo it was a joke before it happened. Awkward as two mismatched hands, accidentally tied together.

  But what did it matter? It wouldn’t be a line crossed so much as a step taken—another shaded square in the pattern. Yet another dropped stitch. He’d be his own brand of distraction, and it made zero difference in the grand scheme of me—here I was, still alone. Still staring at the unchanged, empty road ahead.

  And was this really how love looked from the other side? Grey McIntyre, saving me in his own way, over and over. The return to the start—to the heartbeat and voice that soothed my fear; to the safe circle of his arms, inadvertently restraining mine. Life lived in a dreamy bubble of anticipation, every moment without his hands spent waiting for them to find and somehow wake me—as if the press of my skin wasn’t the antithesis to our reality. I was supposed to be his sister. It was weird.

  And it was wrong. It was completely, utterly wrong.

  He was only a boy. Not whatever passed for destiny, not the start of something more. Not a copper band, curved to the exact measure of my wrist, and certainly not the hands that shaped it.

  Not the boy who’d finally coaxed a glow from somewhere deeper than my heart.

  Something caught on the edge of that thought, tugged sharply as Grey breathed my name; tugged me not toward him, but away. Sloughed me off from his Elaine—that devoted, lovesick, irrational girl, forever prodding him into shapes that interlocked with hers and had nothing to do with who he really was.

  The girl I used to be. And that was fine.

  But it was no longer real.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He started and blinked, drew back slowly.

  “What? Are you okay?”

  “No. I’m not.” I curled my hands over his, moving them gently off my face, and sat up, leaving him behind. “And my name is Lane.”

  We stared at each other, apprehensive and awkward, his befuddlement turning to realization, then to abject horror.

  “Oh my God. Elai—Lane, I’m sorry.” He rolled to sitting and leaned away, like I was catching. “I thought you wanted—I read this all wrong, didn’t I?”

  “No, you read it right. I loved you. For a long, long time.” I steeled my courage and sought his eyes. Let myself feel the last flutter of that long-cherished ache. “But that’s over now.”

  He picked over my words, cracked them open and checked for rot. Nodded at the truth he found. Unsurprised. Not even hurt.

  “So that’s it, then. Wow.”

  “Believe me, if you’d wanted me before all this happened, I’d have been yours. I’d have done anything in the world for that.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “Grey, you were with Sadie. We barely knew each other. And whatever you’re feeling now, for me? I don’t think it’s real.”

  “I do love you, though.”

  God. A part of him meant those quiet words, I could tell. And I wanted to hear them, in every way—tossed casually across a room, or tacked to the end of a laugh; wanted them frustrated, and penitent, and whispered against my skin. I always had.

  I just didn’t want them from him. Not anymore.

  “Not like that, you don’t.”

  He dropped his eyes, then his head. Dragged his fingers through his hair, clasped them at the back of his neck.
>
  “No,” he said. “You’re right. Not like that.”

  It was the answer I’d hoped for—sure and clear, utterly final. Devastating.

  He wasn’t the be-all and end-all I’d imagined. He wasn’t my savior, or my salvation. The sun would rise, and this night would be wiped away. However much he wanted me, it was nothing that could last.

  And that was okay. Even though it hurt, it really was okay.

  “It’s for the best,” I said, nudging his knee with mine. “I mean, it’s either this or a fully screwed family dynamic.”

  “You think?” He looked up, mouth pursed, trying so hard to repress a grin. But our eyes met, and neither one of us could take it—we collapsed into laughter that became breathless, hysterical mirth tears.

  “Rob would hate me,” he gasped. “I’d be forever shunned for corrupting his little girl.”

  “You wish. Pretty sure I’d be the corrupter in our case.”

  “Shut up. At least we’d have the whole ‘meet the parents’ thing out of the way. No need to worry about in-laws getting along when they share a bedroom.”

  I laughed harder, wiped my face, and when he pulled me into a long hug, it wasn’t weird or awkward or heartbreaking at all—it was gentle and soothing, a splash of water on the embers of what we’d almost been. A promise of everything we’d grow to be.

  “Whatever happens,” I said as we drew apart, “I want us to be family. All of us. Always.”

  “Same to you, Elaine. Lane. I meant Lane. Sorry.” He sat back, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. “You’re still Elaine to me.”

  “You can call me that, if you want. As long as I get to call you Greyson.”

  “You and my mother,” he sighed, resigned. “No one else.”

  “Deal. And maybe we can never speak of this again?”

  “Never ever. Could you do me a favor, though? Try to sleep, just a little bit more?” He held up a hand at my protest. “I’ll be right here, the whole time. I promise.”

  “Greyson. I don’t know.”

  “Trust me. I’ll keep you safe.”

  And somehow, I knew he would. So, I lay back down and let him slip a hand in mine. Let him settle on the floor next to my bed and stand guard as I gave myself over to the weight of exhaustion.

  Somehow, after everything, I trusted him enough to finally close my eyes.

  31

  WE SAT IN GREY’S CAR in the packed lot, staring through the windshield at the warehouse. I wasn’t exactly craving an audience of artistes for this particular talk, but life was nothing if not a conveyor belt depository of things I could do without.

  I’d finally managed to get some real rest. Not that it had been a peaceful, uninterrupted rest by any means—Grey woke me half a dozen times, pulling me from different versions of the dream. Each time patiently waiting out my tears and gasps, coaxing me back to the pillow. Staying right beside me, until morning shone through the curtains and dragged us both to bleary consciousness.

  After a Starbucks run and a busy yet uneventful day at school, most of which we spent actively avoiding Sadie, Grey and I had holed up in the library to study for our upcoming pre-holiday exams. Or, more accurately, he’d studied while I’d stared at reams of pages and notes, wondering how I’d managed to create them without retaining a single scrap of their contents. We hit Starbucks again, and then he’d bypassed our usual route, took a rogue turn, and headed for the riverfront. I didn’t bother to protest—he might as well have read my mind. I’d woken that morning in a buzz of adrenaline, the weight of Grey McIntyre lifted from my heart. Yearning and determination filling the fissure it left behind. It was sooner than my nerves preferred, but it was, truly, what I needed.

  I had to see Connor.

  It was my fault, how we’d disintegrated. Sadie, for all her hyperbole, was right—I’d known he was falling for me, and instead of facing it or calling things off, I’d shut my eyes and opened my arms, tangled my thoughts up with all the wrong sounds. Doomed us both, long before the run-in at Trader Joe’s—which, yes, had been a special train wreck all on its own. Turns out, it’s pretty easy to fuck up an important conversation on day five of zero sleep. Who knew?

  In the end, it had taken someone else’s hands to make me realize his were all I wanted. Now I had to make it right. I had to try.

  “Well, I guess I should get this over with.” I unbuckled my seat belt and steeled myself, took a few deep, cleansing breaths that didn’t do shit. “Come on.”

  “Nope. Whole lotta nope. Reservation for Nope, party of one.” He pulled his Kindle and a can of organic ginger ale out of his bag, then raised an eyebrow at my huff. “What?”

  “Wow. Thanks for your support, Greyson.”

  “Look, he and I were on bad terms before I broke his sister’s heart. I’m not about to stroll on in to his lair of knives and fire.” He chuckled at my resigned sigh, popped the tab on his soda as I climbed from the car into the misty, chilly night. “Good luck.”

  The party hit me in the face. It was barely seven, but the main room was packed with people—some familiar, mostly strangers, all trapped in a dirty bomb of pot smoke, sweat, and overly loud Nick Cave. I scanned the room for Connor, expecting to find him holding up a wall with his shoulder, maybe languishing in a fit of ennui with two or three painters and a tragic sculptor.

  I was not prepared in the least to have him see me first.

  He was bone and blood, in a sea of crumpled paper. He was close, only five or so feet away. On the far side of the universe.

  “Hi.” His jaw clenched, bitter, at the sound of my voice. I approached him anyway, holding his eyes. I hadn’t spent all my spare time with Connor Hall these past months without learning how to field a death glare. “Can we talk?”

  “Sure, we can talk. You first.”

  “Can we talk somewhere we can actually hear each other? The roof? Your room?”

  “Paul has guests in our room.” He wavered, and for one horrible beat I thought he was on his way out—that he’d saunter away and leave me to fend for myself against the surge of partygoers. But his head dropped, and he sighed, and he did walk away, but he also motioned for me to follow. “Come on.”

  We snaked through the crowd and out the front door, dropped into a void of sudden frigid silence as it closed behind us. He’d left without grabbing a jacket; I watched that fact flicker across his face as his arms crossed over his T-shirt.

  “So.” The word was a dead thing, cold as the air. “Here you are. And I’m right in the middle of a gathering.”

  “I can see that,” I sighed. “I wanted to apologize, for before. I was a mess, and wasn’t sleeping, and I took out a lot of my shit on you. You don’t deserve that.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  I waited for him to continue, perhaps even add a thought or two of his own to the conversation. He was pure Connor, though, stubborn as fuck, whittled down by rage. I should have known him making this easy on me wasn’t going to be a thing. I’d have to work for every word.

  And I knew I would—I’d do anything it took to wipe that look from his eyes. I wanted to cry on him and hug him, wrap him up and let him love me. Talk to him until my words turned to kisses, then turned back to predawn whispers. I wanted nothing so much as to simply hold his hand.

  There was no grand epiphany, no pivotal moment, pieced together with frogs and nightmares. He was my friend, and then he was more, and then he’d crept beneath my skin and turned it inside out. I’d ruined everything, of course, but it wasn’t too late; it couldn’t be. I’d live a lifetime of waking hell if it meant another chance.

  If he knew nothing else, I wanted him to know that.

  “Okay. I came here to say sorry, and now I have. So.” The twist of his mouth was the only sign I was talking to anything but a wall. “Do you have anything you’d like to add? Or do I not inspire more than random monosyllables?”

  “I don’t really know,” he flatlined. “I mean, what’s the best way to say goodbye to the gi
rl you love? You tell me, right?”

  “It doesn’t have to be goodbye,” I whispered, miserable and lost and wildly hopeful. “I never wanted that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. My whole life, it’s the same old story: everything would be fine, if only I was someone else—literally, in your case.” He shook his head, cutting me off as I drew breath to answer. “No. If you don’t love me, it’s better to cut me loose.”

  “I never said I didn’t.”

  It was the last thing I’d meant to say. Not that anything was coming out the way I wanted, but there it was—the shards of something true. Pieces finding their places slowly, so close to being whole. His eyes fell shut as I slid my arms beneath his, felt his thin frame beneath his thinner shirt. Felt his ribs and angles impale me, bleeding out the other side. He stood still for a moment, unresponsive, then crushed me to him all at once, my name sandpaper in his throat.

  “Lane. Don’t.”

  “But I do. I—” The words slid to the tip of my tongue, skidding to a stop before they hit the air. I gritted my teeth and barreled ahead, trapped beneath a two-faced truth I barely understood. “This is real, okay? It is, and I don’t know how to do this, Connor, but you have to trust me. Please believe me. Please.”

  For a moment I thought I’d reached him. I thought it would be enough to keep his arms around me, keep his lips pressed to my hair and his hands clenched in my coat. Then he spoke, and undid the last knot of hope in my heart.

  “Believe you? You can’t even say it. Look, I know you never wanted—any of this, but I can’t go halfway with you. Not anymore.” He took my wrists and broke my grasp, put my arms gently away from him. “I can’t have you sleep in my bed if you wake up wishing it were his.”

  “It’s not like that. Grey and I—he knows everything now. We talked it out, and he kissed me, and it was a complete dis—”

  His laugh, thin and sharp as any scalpel, gutted my protest. He raised his eyes over my shoulder, fixated on the car. On Grey, conspicuously absorbed in his Kindle.

  “Christ. If you really do love me, spare me the details of your little dream date. I’m past my suicidal phase, but don’t think it won’t fuck me up but good in its own special way.”