Together We Caught Fire

by Eva V. Gibson

  I had to be stronger than this.

  I brushed my teeth and shed my clothes, used his comb to smooth my hair. Washed my face and dried it on the clean towel he’d left for me, then lost myself in an oversize T-shirt that smelled like him and made my eyes burn with longing. By the time I made my way back to the room, my breathing was almost normal. Connor sat on the edge of the futon, elbows resting on his knees. He raised his head at my footsteps, watched as I stowed his caddy in its place and set my clothes on the drafting table next to my purse. His hands worried a small object, turning it over and over between his fingers.

  “What do you have there?” I hedged, witty and brilliant, and not at all an awkward human travesty.

  “Not sure. Grey gave it to me in the car.”

  My breath caught as he opened his hand. A silver trinity knot glinted in his outstretched palm.

  “That’s his triquetra. Wow.” I smiled at the uncomprehending arch of Connor’s eyebrow. “It has a few different meanings across cultures, but to Grey, it’s a symbol of protection—his way of ensuring your safety. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but for him to give that to you—”

  “I get it. This … means a lot, after everything.” It disappeared into his grip as he looked up to meet my eyes. “Are you okay? With being in that bathroom, and all?”

  He’d been through hell that day, and it showed on his face. Still, he worried over me, even as his world listed out of orbit.

  “I’m fine. Are you?”

  “Yeah. Lane, I’m sorry. The way I spoke to you, that day we broke—that day I told you to leave? That was shitty. It’s how I was raised, and it’s not who I want to be. I’m trying to do better. Constantly.”

  “It’s okay. I mean, don’t ever do it again, or whatever, but. You know.”

  “I won’t. So.” He broke off, coughed out the end of a sigh. “About tonight.”

  My eyes found the floor in the silence that followed. I felt tiny in his shirt, awkward and uncertain. Very self-conscious and very dumb, thinking I could somehow swoop in and save him, when we were a matching set of disasters.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have assumed you needed—someone here. Anyone here. Me. If you want me gone, I can text Grey. It’s no problem. I—”

  “Stop. I’m glad you stayed. But—I don’t know. I want you here, but if you’re not comfortable—”

  “Hey. We don’t have to deal with any of that tonight. I stayed to be here for you, not to drag out all our issues.” I swallowed hard and stepped toward him, slid my hands along his jaw and into his hair. Tilted his face until his eyes found mine. “I just need you to know, okay? I should have said it back.”

  My words stole the air between us, turned it to bitter dust. His face fell, even as his arms wound around my hips. Even as he leaned into me, resting his head against my belly.

  “God. Please don’t do this. I love you, but I can’t have this talk right now.”

  “But I thought you wanted …” I swallowed the lump in my throat, sending the words back down with it as I knelt to his level. “Connor, I’ve been awful and selfish, and I’m so, so sorry. I wish I’d been strong enough to tell you then.”

  “It was never about the words. If we’re going to work—really work, not just go back to how we were, semantics is the least of our worries. And after this shit tonight—the cops, my sister, my fucking parents—Lane, I’m a mess. And look at you.” His voice lost its edge, fingertips brushing my cheekbone, tracing the ever-present shadows beneath my eyes, and if I couldn’t put his needs before mine even one single goddamn time, I didn’t deserve him in any capacity. “Neither one of us has the energy.”

  “Okay. Later.”

  “Thank you.” The relief in his voice was a skittish, living thing, scratching at me with guilt-tipped claws. If he’d laughed in my face, it couldn’t have cut deeper. “Lane, I—”

  “It’s fine. Just rest.”

  He nodded, too defeated to do anything but pull away. He set his glasses and the triquetra on his worktable, flicked the switch on his lamp, and curled around himself, facing the wall. I pulled the blanket over us both, fit myself against his body, slipped my arms beneath his. Pressed my cheek to his back and whispered my love, silently, into the curve of his shoulder.

  Eventually his breathing slowed, and his fingers found mine. My eyes drifted shut, blinked open, shut again with the rise and fall of his chest, until they fell one last time, and for once I didn’t dream. And if we woke in the night, and forgot we no longer had any claim on each other—if we set aside that minor detail for some secret, unspecific stretch of time—well, that was nobody’s business but our own. It certainly didn’t carry over to the morning, when instead of waking him as I used to do by trailing my fingernails along his neck, I slipped from his bed and left him sleeping, with nothing more than a short text.

  Gone to work. Let me know if you need me.

  P.S. This is Lane.

  Or maybe it did carry over. Because even though I didn’t hear a word from him in return that day, not even his usual reassurance that he’d realized it was me without my postscript, my phone buzzed in my bag on Tuesday, with a message that left me slumped against the back wall of the market booth, forehead pressed to my knees, tears running down my face. Everything else swelling loud and desperate and scary behind my ribs.

  I do.

  35

  MY FAMILY WAITED UNTIL CHRISTMAS Eve to put up the Yule tree, just like always, our celebration lining up with the federal holiday based solely on Dad’s last-minute vendor discount at the market. I hated rushing it all at the zero hour—every year was a stressful, disorganized race against midnight, the opposite of festive, and of course I never said a word. That Dad always tried so hard, in his own way, only made me feel worse when I caught myself grinning through gritted teeth, wishing his own way was just a little more focused—a little more right. A little less utterly subpar.

  This year, though, felt different. Maybe it was Skye’s upbeat attitude, or Dad’s markedly enhanced enthusiasm. Maybe it was Grey’s childlike awe at the sight of an actual full-size tree in the house, a luxury their tiny apartment had never afforded.

  “It smells so good,” he kept saying, as if he’d never seen an evergreen before, and he fell victim over and over to the needles, fingers heedless and excited and dripping with ornaments and anticipation. He was still a bright spot on the bleak face of everything—that hadn’t changed. He was still all the things I’d wanted, before the things I wanted took on a different, darker form.

  We were a family now, all of us. It wasn’t just Dad and his earnest delusions, trying so hard to drag a smile from my eyes. It wasn’t just me wearing one of my thousand unperturbed faces, each one a small piece of a bigger lie. We were mother and father, brother and sister, and the house felt crowded in the best kind of way, as if ready to overflow.

  Once the tree was done, Grey settled in front of the A Christmas Story marathon, while Skye and Dad prepped the weird, partially vegetarian spread for our holiday dinner. I wandered through the house, restless and anxious, knowing exactly what I wanted but unsure how to go about getting it.

  I’d heard from Connor once since his last text, stumbled my way through a conversation too short and far too loaded to settle things one way or the other.

  Your blanket project is still here. Do you plan to finish it, or … ?

  I’d like to at some point. I can come get it if it’s in your way.

  It’s never been in the way, Lane. I’ll hang on to it until you’re ready to start working again.

  I’m ready when you are, Connor.

  He’d dropped off the face of the earth since then, as had Sadie. I’d been more than a little surprised when Grey told me they hadn’t reconciled; after the way they’d clung to each other in that parking lot, I figured it was only a matter of time. Whether her silence stemmed from anger or embarrassment, I didn’t know, but he’d finally given up after she’d refused to acknowle
dge any of his many texts. I’d reached out to her myself, on his behalf, and gotten a prompt reply:

  GO AWAY

  It might have stung more, had Sadie not routinely texted in all caps, regardless of her actual mood. Still, her message was loud and clear.

  So that was that.

  And now it was Christmas Eve, and I missed them both. I’d paced the hallway countless times, turning thoughts of Connor over in my mind. Turning his bracelet over on my wrist, running my fingers along the stones and edges—his feelings, strangely and fearfully wrought. Beauty, forged and shaped from thoughts of me.

  Finally, I drifted into my room, shut the door, and sat cross-legged on the bed, phone clutched tight in my determined hands.

  Hi, it’s Lane.

  I know it’s you, Lane. You’re still stored in my phone.

  Just making sure. Are you alone?

  Well, that’s a refreshingly direct inquiry. What are YOU wearing?

  My laugh drifted into a sigh. I could live my whole life waiting for an emotionally neutral interaction with Connor Hall, and be in my grave long before it occurred to him to have one.

  Shut up. I meant are you alone for Christmas. What are you up to tonight and tomorrow?

  Oh. The usual, I guess. Art and etc. tonight. Volunteering with Sadie tomorrow, once she’s done with church. Might get drunk after, haven’t decided.

  You’re welcome here, you know. If you want.

  The phone was silent for about a decade, as the little ellipsis that indicated a response in progress appeared and disappeared, then appeared again. I was formulating the right message to give him a graceful out, when the ellipsis turned to words.

  I appreciate it, but probably not a good idea. Nothing personal—just too awkward for everyone involved.

  I understand. Let me know if you change your mind. You’re not alone if you don’t want to be.

  Thank you. It means a lot that you’re even asking.

  I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it.

  Another eternal pause, then:

  I know you wouldn’t. Hope you have a good Xmas. I love you.

  I immediately pressed the call button, hoping against everything that he’d answer so I could say it back. That he wouldn’t be a total Connor and let it go to voice mail after a text like that.

  He did, though. No surprise there.

  My phone fell from my hands. I don’t know how long I sat there, shaking and gulping and struggling toward calm, but finally I dried my eyes, collected myself long enough to send back a single word.

  Same.

  * * *

  “Hey. Are you okay?”

  Grey hovered in the doorway, peering in at my tear-streaked face and briar-patch hair emerging from the cocoon of quilts and pillows.

  “I don’t know. Did you need something?”

  “They’re making tea and hot chocolate. Rob said to ask if you want any. Also, the movie is about to restart.” He hesitated, then crossed to the bed, perched gingerly on its edge. “Can I help?”

  Grey McIntyre. Once my wildest dream, so suddenly and completely dead to me in that way—yet still protecting me. Still putting himself between me and the things that hurt, whether I needed him to or not. So accustomed to seeking solutions, he’d never even realized he was the problem.

  “I doubt it. Thanks anyway.”

  “Me confronting him is still on the table.” He smiled at my sudden guarded blink. “Like it’s not obvious. Did he call you?”

  “I texted him. Here.”

  He studied the text log, a small, wistful smile creeping over his face.

  “Yeah, that’s Connor for you. I’ll take you over there now, if you’re up to it. I mean, if you want to see him, after everything.”

  “Well, you know. Gotta regain access to that art space somehow.”

  He nearly swallowed his own tongue. I watched his eyes bug as he processed my words, reached backward in time to their origin. They spread across his face and neck in a red tide splash of shame.

  “Sorry.” I retrieved the phone from his frozen hand, listlessly glancing at the unchanged screen. “That was uncalled for.”

  “No. I actually really deserved it. But you didn’t.” He stared past my head, addressed my batik wall hanging like it had a face and a fuck to give. “I wanted you, and it made me feel like shit, and I went straight to the place I knew for sure would bring you down with me. My mother would kick my ass if she knew what I said.”

  “Oooo, blackmail material,” I deadpanned. “Happy Yuletide to me.”

  “Dude, don’t even joke about that.” He peeled his eyes off the wall hanging and resettled them on mine. They were sad and beautiful, and so familiar. So weird, how my heart didn’t so much as hiccup. “I don’t have an excuse, Elaine—I’m just so fucking sorry. And I’ll make it up to you. I’m on your side now, whatever happens.”

  “I appreciate it.” I eyed the nervous fidget of his fingers, raised an eyebrow at the still-fading flush of his cheeks, wondering if we were even capable of engaging in normal, non-awkward conversation. I hadn’t heard him jerking it through the wall lately, so that was something. “I know you and Connor aren’t exactly getting along right now.”

  “Our issues are myriad, yes—but I get where he’s coming from. What Sadie pulled with me was the same stuff that drove him away from that whole family.” He shook his head, a deep, sorry sadness twisting his face. “It’s not even her fault. You saw her dad—she’s being who she was taught to be. That kind of stuff tends to stick.”

  “I think there’s hope for Sadie. She just needs to grow up. Get out of that house, figure out who she is. And if it turns out she’s still a control freak, well—”

  “Bullet dodged. I know. It still sucks.” He cleared his throat and squinted at the ceiling. I focused on my hands, gave him a moment to collect himself. “Don’t give up, okay? If he really does love you, he’ll find his way back.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then you go on. You make your own plans. You do your own thing. You become Lane.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get right on that. I’m sure she’s a real piece of work.”

  He ruffled my hair, dodged my attempts at retaliation. Blocked the incoming throw-pillow missiles with one of my slippers. Slid off the bed in a heap of laughter and offered me a hand as Skye’s teakettle whistled, inviting us to the kitchen.

  “I’m sure she’s amazing. And want to know the best part of all of this? With or without him, you get to find out.”

  36

  “SKYE, CAN WE—TALK?”

  My stepmother blinked up at me from the kitchen chair, distracted by the task of pulling a knee-high boot over her dark green leggings and thick wool socks. Her coat was buttoned to the throat, snug around the merino blend scarf I’d made her for Christmas. She’d worn it constantly in the two days since, thrilled by the way the autumnal hues picked up the darker red glints of her hair.

  “Sure, Elaine. I have to leave for work, but I have a moment or two to spare.” She straightened up and rested her elbows on the table, taking in my pale, troubled face as I slid into the chair across from hers. “What’s wrong?”

  How to begin—how to even start with that fucking list. My sleep had improved, but the nightmares were far from fading. I missed Connor with a ferocity that left me weak, every thought and memory a thorn-sharp sting. I was alone; I was lonely. It ached in unfamiliar ways, like the pinch of too-small shoes, ruining every step. It swallowed me deeper, every day.

  It was hard enough to ask for her help in the first place. Dad was wonderful but useless, too close and too Dad-like to bear any of my burdens without unraveling. As for Grey, I’d heard every last damn word he had to say on the subject—not that he could really sell himself as an expert on healthy emotions at this point.

  Skye was neutral, though. Skye was approachable. Skye was the closest thing I had to a mother.

  After so many years spent getting by on my own, I really, really wanted my mom
.

  “Lots of things.” I shrugged, staring down at my hands. At the neglected edges of my fingernails, pressing into my palms. “Emotions. Stuff like that.”

  “You haven’t spent much time at the warehouse lately, I noticed.” When I didn’t answer, she nodded, reached across the table to pat my arm. “I’m sorry. Breakups are never easy.”

  “We want different things. Or, we did. And it hurt him too much, and we fought, and—by the time I realized I—I don’t know.” So frustrating, how I still couldn’t fucking say it, even when he was miles away. “It’s all fucked up. Sorry.”

  “No problem. We’re all adults here, right?” She grinned at my reluctant nod. “So, is it something you can fix? What do you think you’ll do next?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have much of a choice, do I? The communication hasn’t been great.”

  “If you think there’s still a chance, you could always reach out. But what do you want? Not necessarily from Connor—in general. In a partner. The checklist and the deal breakers, if that makes sense.”

  “No. I understand.” If there ever was a minefield, Jesus Christ. How best to explain it all to Skye, when a scant few months ago, I’d been pining for her son? Skipping over that little detail was a given. “I guess I thought I knew, and then …”

  “What you thought no longer fit what was real,” she finished, smiling. “One of life’s favorite little tricks.”

  “What if you don’t even know what’s real?”

  It burst from my mouth, startling us both. Skye drew breath to answer, but I was in it now—I could feel the rest of the thought surging to the forefront, questions I’d never been able to articulate, all suddenly clamoring to be asked.