Together We Caught Fire

by Eva V. Gibson

  * * *

  “I just need to know what’s happening. Please.”

  “I understand, miss.” The cop barely glanced up from her screen, clearly unmoved by my distress. The station lobby was empty, aside from us, which was probably for the best—she’d acknowledged me through the front desk’s glass barrier only long enough to confirm Connor was, in fact, somewhere inside the station. Since then, crickets. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

  “Look.” I leaned against the counter, put my mouth right up to the intercom, earning half a bored glance. “My—friend is back there. His sister has been waiting forever—we all have—and … Can you at least tell me if he’s okay? Can you tell me ANYTHING AT ALL?”

  “Ma’am. Have a seat.”

  A hand curled around my wrist, caught it right before my palm slapped the glass. My stepbrother, stilling my fingers with a gentle warning. He gestured to the row of chairs across the lobby where Sadie huddled, silent and miserable.

  “Elaine, come sit with us. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “You don’t know he’s fine, Greyson—you can’t just say that like it’s a fact, when you don’t know.” I yanked my arm from his grip, whirled to face the cop. She’d swiveled her chair during my diatribe, turned her back on us entirely. “He needs help. He needs someone.”

  The station door swung open then, and Paul strode in on a late-autumn gust, as if my words had summoned him from the very heavens. He glanced around the room, brushed a leaf from the shoulder of his trench coat. Took in my livid eyes and frantic, flailing hands; Grey’s frustration; Sadie’s damp, blotchy cheeks.

  “All right, then. Where is he?”

  “I DON’T KNOW, PAUL. NO ONE DOES. APPARENTLY, HE ONLY EXISTS AT ALL IN SOME WEIRD, ALTERNATE TIMELINE, BECAUSE NO ONE HERE WILL TELL ME ANYTH—”

  “ELAINE.”

  The word blew through the room. Grey tossed his head, addressed Paul directly as I blinked at his haughty profile. “We don’t know exactly what’s happening. The details of his situation have not been made available to us at this juncture.”

  “Right. I’m on it. Sadie, honey, come with me. We’ll get it all straightened out, okay?” She all but flew from her chair, disappeared into his massive hug. He nodded at me over her head, gesturing to the door with his chin. “I got this, Laney. Y’all go wait outside.”

  So, Grey and I waited. Planets spun off their axes and fell into the sun. Stars imploded and winked out of existence. Empires rose and fell, spawned new civilizations; babies were born and grew and bred and died for generations, and still we waited. I paced the tiny parking lot, sat on the curb, paced and circled and paced again, worrying the remains of my napkin. Endlessly worrying, in every way.

  “Here they come.”

  I was halfway across the lot before Grey finished speaking. I saw Paul at the counter, still speaking through the intercom as the door closed behind the Hall siblings. Connor’s lean shadow led the way, head down, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. It collided with my feet and stopped him cold.

  “What—Lane? You’re here.”

  “Of course I’m here.”

  There was nothing else to say. Everything lay between us, real and whole, as if time had stopped that day at the warehouse—that hazy, lovely afternoon, right before death rushed in and snuffed my heart. If I’d only told him then—how many, many things it would have changed. How bright and warm the world would be, if I’d tipped my face toward the sun.

  Brighter, at least, than the scowl that shadowed his face as his eyes slid from mine and landed on Grey. Leaped from there to his sister’s guilty sideways glance.

  “Goddamn it, Sadie. You really had to, didn’t you.”

  “Daddy took my keys, Connor. I didn’t know who else to call.” She faced him in a flare of defiance, met his glare head-on. “What was I going to do, not be here for you? I told you, that’ll never happen again.”

  “You shouldn’t have bothered them.”

  “Yes she should’ve. I’ll always help her if she needs me.” Grey’s voice drew her gaze to his, held her eyes even as they spilled over. “Always, Sadie.”

  His name spun from her mouth like silk. His shoulder muffled the rest of her words as they wrapped around each other, her hands disappearing into fistfuls of his jacket. They still loved each other so completely, so shamelessly. They always had, and some jealous, ugly part of me had wished that dead—had wanted nothing more for years than to see them split. And now they had.

  It wasn’t what I wanted at all. Not for them, or for myself.

  I felt Connor’s eyes on me, caught them before he could look away. They were hollow wastelands, bloodshot and blank.

  “Sorry about this,” he muttered. “She shouldn’t have made it your problem.”

  “It’s not a problem at all. As long as you’re okay.”

  “That remains to be seen.” His shoulders quivered; he forced them straight, lifted his chin. Dared me to pity him. “I’m not talking to you guys through bars, so that’s something.”

  “Should I even ask? Were you actually arrested, or … ?”

  “Picked up for questioning, technically speaking. For verbal assault. ‘Communicating threats’ is what they called it.”

  “What? When did you do that?”

  “Fucking Bukowski. Paul found out he’s the one who’s been setting up those parties, hijacking the space with all his tweaker friends. Dealing out of the goddamn bead room. So I banned him last week, and today I get home and there’s a fucking squad car waiting for me. They bring me in, and him and his friends were lined up in there, waiting to give formal statements. Said I threatened all of them, that time I kicked Aiden out.”

  “Oh Lord, no. Do the police think you killed Aiden?” Sadie turned away from Grey, mascara-streaked eyes lit by a sweep of headlights as a car pulled into the lot. “Connor, what’s going to happen?”

  “Nothing, as things stand now. They know he OD’d. They tried to make me talk, but I wouldn’t, and then Bukowski changed his story, and the other guys are in there high off their asses—they’re not looking real reliable. But they fucked up bad this time. We won’t forget.”

  “Who, you and Paul?”

  “All of us. The street kids, the artists—we handle our own problems. We mind our own business, and we don’t talk to the cops. Ever.” He blinked hard, stared past me to the lights of downtown. “I should be in the clear. No one gives a shit about a dead junkie, and there’s no proof I said anything either way. But—”

  “Sadie Lynn Hall, you step away from that boy.”

  His voice was as loud and skin-crawly as it sounded on the television, his smirk twice as nauseating in person. Connor’s entire body snapped around as his father strode across the parking lot toward us.

  “What the fuck is he doing here, Sadie?”

  “I don’t know. I certainly didn’t invite him.” She was livid, her face red and blotchy and streaked with tear tracks. “Daddy, how did you—”

  “Didn’t take much detective work to figure out where you’d gone,” the reverend drawled. “I hope you enjoyed your outing—those car keys are mine until further notice, and the door to your bedroom has been removed from its hinges until I decide you’ve earned it back. Are we understood?”

  “That’s not fair! I didn’t do anything wrong. I was trying to help, and I—”

  Connor laughed, a single short bark that bordered on madness.

  “You took her door, huh? Sounds familiar. Make sure you cut off the breakers in there too, and take her blankets and pillow. She might start thinking she has a right to basic human comfort, and then where would we be?”

  “Don’t you speak to me, son. I came here to collect your sister, not subject myself to your innumerable charms.”

  “Don’t you ever call me ‘son.’ As far as you’re concerned, Sadie is an only child.”

  “Connor?”

  The Mrs. Reverend Hall stood by the car, face a malformed origami of shock and sorrow. H
er lips wobbled as she took in his set mouth and proud, furious spine, his hair and his piercings and the shadows of his cheeks. The jut of his collarbone. The wide-open wounds of his eyes.

  “Mom.” The word came out strangled and small.

  “Oh, honey. Oh, look at you. You’re so thin. You’re so—Sadie, why didn’t you tell me he was so thin? What happened to him?”

  “You know exactly what happened to me. I hope you’re enjoying your—what did they convert it to, Sadie? A sewing room?”

  “Quilting room,” Sadie whispered, cowed and miserable, tears cutting a steady stream down her cheeks.

  “A quilting room. Very quaint. I assume your husband put the door back on? It gets drafty, otherwise. Wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”

  The reverend stepped between them, faced off with Connor, and there it was: the haughty chin. The dark, disdainful eyes. The contemptuous smirk, wringing any semblance of joy from those same full lips.

  “That’s enough, Connor. You will not take that tone with your mother, not while I have a God-given breath left in my body. Sadie, get in the car.”

  “No, Daddy.”

  “Young lady, do not make me repeat myself.”

  Sadie. The sweet, perky, strong-willed Sadie I knew—that girl turned to mist in that parking lot. She threw her arms around her brother, broke into violent, silent sobs as he returned her hug.

  “Be strong,” I heard him whisper. “Hang on just a few more months, and I’ll find a way to get you out. I swear.”

  She could only nod as he gently unlatched her arms and turned her around, giving her a little nudge away from him. Her feet carried her forward dutifully, automatically, but she looked up as she passed us, sought and found my eyes. Drew back from my outstretched hand.

  “Help him,” she whispered.

  “Babe.” Grey was in ruins beside me, a mess of tremors and ragged breaths. She wouldn’t look at him. “Sadie, please.”

  “Sadie, come home with us,” I said, low.

  “I can’t. Don’t worry about me—I’ll be fine. Just look out for him, Lane. Please.”

  “Of course I will.”

  My words followed her to the car, lingered at her back as she climbed in past the wreck of her mother. Reverend Hall stalked after her, herding them both like cattle.

  “Rebecca, time to go.”

  “He’s my son.”

  “He made his bed. Get in the car.”

  “He’s my son, Grady. He’s our son. Look at him.”

  “He said it himself—he’s no son of mine.” He leaned into her face until she shrank away, buckled beneath his words and his gaze and his inky-dark shadow. “Get. In. The. Car.”

  I didn’t bother watching them leave. I ran straight to Connor and caught him up, fit myself to his angles and edges. Released my breath only when I felt his arms enfold me, hesitant, then hard. Felt him collapse from the inside out.

  Grey stared at the space where the car had been, then kicked the curb as hard as he could.

  “Fuck. That fucking bastard,” he spat. “We need to get her out of there.”

  “We can’t.” Connor’s voice was little more than a whisper. “She’s a minor. If she leaves home, they can call her in as a runaway, say she’s delinquent. Get her in all kinds of trouble, and us, too, if we help her leave. He won’t give a shit about her, or anything that happens, until he loses control.”

  “Control?” The word fell hard from Grey’s mouth, a dire question with too many possible answers. “What the fuck is going on in that house? How could I have not known about this, Connor?”

  “Because we Halls are good at hiding our shit. Don’t blame yourself, man—there’s nothing you could have done. I’m just glad you were there for her as long as you were.” He lowered his head to rest against mine, pressed his lips to my temple. I held him tighter. “She knows she has to stick it out and finish school. Get out under her own steam, so she doesn’t end up like me. She’ll make it. She’s tough.”

  “She shouldn’t have to be tough. Goddamn it. There has to be something we can—”

  A clamor behind us scared me out of my skin: Bukowski and his friends, making their way toward us, heads down, steps hurried. Paul appeared at the door, gave us a thumbs-up, then motioned for us to go. Connor’s arms tightened around me, stealing some of my breath.

  “Come on.” Grey headed for the car, and I followed, one arm solid around Connor’s waist. I thought he’d protest, try to stay and stare down Bukowski. Possibly start some bullshit fight, get arrested for real, or at least get hurt.

  But he didn’t look back. His head stayed down. His arm stayed locked around my shoulder. His feet followed mine without complaint as we walked away.

  34

  THE RIDE TO THE RIVERFRONT was a stage show of repressed rage, quiet gloom, and unsaid words. Grey coasted through stop signs and barely acknowledged traffic lights. Connor sat beside me in the back seat, kept his hand locked around mine. Stared out the window, so I couldn’t see his face.

  It didn’t take long to reach the warehouse, but we still sat in the lot for a solid minute before he let go of my hand and touched the door handle, hesitating. Grey turned in his seat, nudged Connor’s arm with a tentative knuckle.

  “You sure you’re okay here, man? You can crash at our place, if you want.”

  “I’ll be fine. Thanks for the ride. And for bringing Sadie out.”

  “No problem. Hey …” He paused, then reached into the center console cup holder, coming up with something small and silver. He held it out to Connor with a grim smile. “It doesn’t matter what happened with any of us, good or bad, okay? We’re your friends. We’re here for you.”

  Connor’s shoulders sagged at those words. His hand closed around the offering; the other clenched and relaxed on the door handle, almost imperceptibly.

  “Yeah.”

  I met Grey’s eyes, communicating without words. He held my gaze for a moment, then nodded once and turned back to face the steering wheel. I pressed my hand to Connor’s back, felt it tense and quiver through his thin jacket, sending my heart into my throat. My voice slipped out small, but strong. Determined.

  “I’ll stay with you.”

  When he didn’t do more than sigh in response, I followed him out of the car, slid an arm around his waist, and guided him across the lot.

  We weren’t even to the door when my phone buzzed. By the time I fumbled it out and read Grey’s message, he was halfway down the road.

  I’ll pick you up in the morning for work. Let me know if you need a ride before then. Good luck.

  The front room was empty, the main lights dim. Paul must have cleared the place out before heading to the station, likely guessing Connor would be in no shape to monitor anyone, regardless of how things went with the cops. I waited while he locked the door behind us, then followed him through the shadows to his room.

  We stood side by side, staring at his futon. I moved my hand into his, eyes falling shut as he gripped it tight.

  “Do you need anything? Should I order dinner, or make you some tea?” Tea, for fuck’s sake. I’d lived with Skye too long.

  “Not really hungry. Thanks anyway.”

  “Okay. If you need to get some work done, I can stay out of your way. Or we can talk. Whatever you want.”

  He sighed, running a hand through the wreck of his hair. I swallowed my nerves before they burst from my mouth in a rush of words I couldn’t unsay.

  “I need to sleep,” he said. “Sorry. I know it’s early, but—well, if you want to stay up, it’s fine. I get why.”

  “I’ll try to sleep too. It hasn’t been as bad lately.”

  “Okay.” His silence wailed through the room—then he moved abruptly, dropping my hand. Grabbed his bathroom caddy and headed for the door, head down, almost rushing. “I’ll go get cleaned up.”

  Alone, I fidgeted and shifted, removed my boots, curled up cross-legged on the futon. Pulled my sleeves down to cover my hands, then pushed the
m back up again to my wrists. Unwound my hair elastic and unwound my braid, finger-combed the waves from the bottom up, wishing I’d thought to grab my messenger bag on the way out the door.

  I hemorrhaged confidence by the liter waiting for him, every second that passed another second spent wondering why I was there. Why I’d thought he wanted me to stay in the first place, and whether I’d be doing him a favor if I disappeared before he returned, instead of hanging around casting shadows. My indecision stalled my action, though. When I looked up, it was too late.

  He stood in the doorway in sweats and socks and glasses, face scrubbed, eyes sad. They moved along my shoulder and neck, down the curve of my arm and the length of my hair. Trailed back up my body to search my face. I wanted so badly to gather his splinters in the cup of my palm, to put them all back in the right order until he was whole and unbroken and everything worked again.

  “Is this still okay, that I’m here? I don’t have anything to change into.”

  “You can wear my stuff. The pants might be too long, but—”

  “Just a shirt is fine.”

  I looked away as he pulled a clean shirt from one of his clothing totes and handed it to me. I turned it over in my hands, forbidding myself from actually bringing it to my nose.

  “My caddy’s on the sink. I kept your toothbrush. I mean—I hadn’t—wow, that sounds psychotic.” He rubbed a hand over his face, slipping his fingers beneath his glasses to press against his eye. “I should have thrown it out, but I … didn’t. So, it’s still there.”

  “Okay. I’ll go get ready.”

  He still had my toothbrush. It was where I’d left it, mixed in with his cologne and shaving cream, his contact lens solution and four kinds of soap. I focused on that single fact, that piece of me he hadn’t been able to throw away. It steeled me against the memory of slack-dead jaws and unblinking eyes, chased the shadows into the hallway: I was back in the warehouse, and it was just a bathroom. Aiden had died right there in the space next to my feet, and it was just a bathroom. Connor wanted me to stay, and he’d kept my toothbrush, and it was just a bathroom.