One Match Fire

by Lissa Linden

  My stomach knots. “Six years ago, I’d tell the guy I was seeing that he was an asshole. Or I’d tell myself, anyway.” I swing my legs over the bench and pick up my bowl. “Nice to see you, Britt.”

  I scrape the rest of my cereal into the compost. Press the spatula against the curve of the bowl. Get every bit of grain that tries to cling onto the plastic. Clear the bowl of what I no longer want in the way I wish I would cleanse myself of the past that sticks inside my curves.

  But I’m not plastic. I’m not metal, or glass. I can’t be wiped clean. The past lingers in me. Influences me. Drives me forward and holds me back.

  Warm morning air rushes into my lungs when I close the door behind me. Lean my head against the old wood. Breathe deeply. I see Paul’s face behind my eyelids. Smiling at me. Encouraging me. Laughing at me. I bite into my lip and swallow my cereal again.

  Justine apologized. Yesterday, when I rejoined camp for the full day. After a few days of showing my face in the morning—eyes bloodshot and lips cracked—and at night. Singing under my breath while the staff took over campfire duties, bringing an energy I lost under Paul’s laughter.

  I know he wasn’t laughing at me. Logically, I know that. But logic is weak against experience. And experience has taught me that alone, I’m strong. I can trust myself. Make others trust me.

  But I’m helpless in love. A version of myself so watered down that I fade into nothing.

  My fists press into my stomach. Knead the tightness in my diaphragm. The discomfort whispering that I’m here. That I exist. That even though I ripped out my heart, handed it to Paul, and sent him away with it, I didn’t disappear.

  A crash sounds from the far end of the dining hall and my head snaps toward the noise. The bottom of a garbage can is just visible. On its side. Rolling gently back and forth. I leave the entryway and take a few steps toward the commotion, but freeze when the bin moves again, shoved against the wall of the old building with inhuman force.

  I hear the grunt at the same time that the door opens. My hands shoot out on instinct, one rising in a stop motion, the other bringing a finger to my lips. The bear’s snout rounds the bin and my mouth goes dry.

  “Amy,” an urgent little voice says. “I have to get to the bathroom.”

  I don’t reply. My hands stay frozen in place as I back slowly toward the dining hall. I force the camper back inside before she can protest. The door snaps closed behind me and I lock it. “Sorry, kiddo. You’re going to have to hold it for a minute.”

  My feet carry me into the kitchen without hesitation. The cook is at the griddle, earbuds in, pancakes bubbling before him. I double-check that the kitchen door is locked and leave without saying a word. There’s no time to waste.

  Cam has taken my place next to Britt. Their heads are angled towards each other. Voices are low. They’re probably talking about me. Wouldn’t be the first time. But I don’t give them the chance to notice my approach. To abruptly cut off conversation and plaster on smiles. “Bear shakers,” I say. “Are there shakers in here?”

  Britt’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

  “An air horn,” I say. “Stereo. Something.”

  Cam shakes his head. “Don’t think so.”

  “Wildlife plan, guys. What’s the wildlife plan?”

  Britt glances at Cam. “Umm…”

  I suck a breath through my teeth. “Why the fuck does Paul have an air horn in his house and not in the fucking dining hall?” The camper I pushed inside crosses her legs and I pull down my shoulders. Stand in the aisle between the rows of tables. And yell. “This is a repeat-after-me song!”

  A confused hush falls over the dining hall. Campers and counselors dart looks across tables, and I know how I must look. The new camp director. The person who isn’t their beloved Paul, yelling campfire songs at breakfast. But their perfect Paul didn’t have a goddamned wildlife plan for the place most likely to be hit by hungry, majestic, claw-carrying forest creatures.

  “Get up,” I mutter to Cam and Britt. “Help me. There’s a bear in the garbage.”

  “Shit.” Cam wipes milk from his beard.

  “This a repeat-after-me song!” I shout.

  Cam and Britt stand. “This is a repeat-after-me song,” they parrot.

  I take a deep breath. “I said, ‘This is a repeat-after-me song.’” I cup my hand around my ear. Willing the kids to join in. To use their voices and bodies when they least expect it, for something they don’t quite understand.

  A handful of counselors stand and I force my breath out. Clear my throat and feed them the next line. We shout at the tops of our lungs. The camp follows my lead. Building in number and in volume with each line. We stomp our feet until the windows rattle. Clap and pound on tables until hands turn red. We yell and move. Our entire beings telling the bear that we’re here. That we’re not afraid, even while the size of the snout and the hurt it could cause replays in my mind.

  I raise my eyebrows to Cam as the second song enters its last lines. He rolls his eyes upward. Takes a breath. Picks up a bowl and spoon and sneaks outside while the campers are distracted, stomping and spinning in place.

  Any noise he could make by banging cutlery on dishes wouldn’t be enough. I know that. He knows that. But I get the need for protection, even if it won’t work. The need to tell himself he can keep himself safe, even if he can’t.

  I keep my eyes trained on the door. Ears perked. Each second lasts a year until he gets back in. Relaxes against the door. Gives me a nod.

  “Amy.” The camper by the door shifts on her feet. “The dancing just jiggled my pee around. I have to go!”

  Cam opens the door and she runs out.

  The pinpricks of a hundred pairs of eyes on my skin keeps me on my feet even though my knees want to give out. “So,” I say. “Who can tell me what to do if you come across a bear?”

  I make it through the impromptu survival lesson without falling. Or tripping over my words. Or telling them a fellow camper came within feet of showing us all that even with all the safeguards, the unexpected still happens. I sink onto the bench next to Britt. Drop my head into my hands. “Holy shit.”

  She rubs my back. Her touch is too light. Too fast. Too not-Paul. And it’s just a very PG circle of my shoulder blades. But still. I wish her hands were his.

  I shrug her off. Squeeze my eyes closed. Take a shaky breath.

  “You okay?” she asks. “Need us to rearrange the schedule? Cover your activities so you can have a well-deserved shot of something strong?”

  “I’m the one who needs the shot.” Cam drops onto the bench. “A bowl. I took a fucking bowl to fight a bear.”

  I laugh. Once. Then twice. Until the three of us are overcome by giggles. Foreheads on the table. Our adrenaline finding an outlet. Tears leak from my eyes. I let them fall.

  Britt gets control of herself first. Runs her palms across her own damp cheeks. “You’re on one match fires, Amy. Want me to take those kids swimming instead?”

  I shake my head. Dab my eyes on a napkin. Force my breath out to the count of ten. “No, I can do it.”

  “Might want to reconsider,” Cam says. “The bear went up the mountain behind your house, but maybe he has friends.”

  “All the more reason to teach the kids survival skills.” I fold my napkin into my palm. “We’ll bring bear shakers. And spray. And maybe whatever explosives campers tried to smuggle in, but we’re going to do it. I don’t want these campers scared of anything.”

  She shoots Cam a look. “Explosives?”

  “Paul was showing me how things work and he said that a kid was so scared of bears that he… Long story,” I say. And it is. The story of me and Paul. Of fire and fear. I bite into my cheek and count the dents on the table.

  “Well,” she says. “You do what works for you. I checked supplies yesterday and we’re getting low on matches, but there should be enough there if you actually stick to one per group.”

  I nod but say nothing. There’s nothing to say
when even one match is too many. When my body was fuel and Paul was oxygen and we burned hot. Bright. And no matter how many times I try to douse the fire we lit, the flames keep licking at me.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The only thing less comfortable than Tanya and Laurie’s couch is how fucking homey this place is, all domestic and happy with the way he squeezes her shoulder when he walks past, and she links her finger through his belt loop, and they both think their kid’s snot is cute.

  It’s sappy and tender and burns right through my chest.

  I readjust my head on the arm of the couch and click through the channels. Sports. Talk shows. Something about buying an island. Nothing grabs my attention. It can’t when the only thing I can focus on is miles away.

  I roll onto my back and Chuck scampers up from where he’s been lying next to me, my buddy in wallowing. He drops his chin onto my chest and snuffles at my chin.

  “Down, boy.” Tanya shoulders her way into the basement rec room carrying a basket of clean laundry. “Your dad’s too mopey to make out with anyone, even if they are as cute as you.”

  Chuck trots over to her for an ear ruffle and she drops the basket onto the couch. I dart upright. “Jesus, T. Those were my balls.”

  She smirks. “Were they? Sorry. I thought you’d become one with the couch and ceased to exist as a corporeal being.”

  “Hilarious.” I push the laundry to the far end of the sofa and lie down again.

  “You know I think it sucks that it didn’t work out with you and Amy, but really. It might help if you got up. Went out, even.”

  “Nowhere to go.” I reach for the remote.

  “You could wander around downtown.”

  I grunt and change the channel.

  “Take Chuck to the park, maybe?”

  My eyes flick to my dog, on his back at Tanya’s feet. Poor dude doesn’t deserve the grumpy ass I’ve been the last who-knows-how-many days, ever since the minivan pulled away and she didn’t sprint to catch me like I’d still run after her.

  “Or you could, I don’t know. Find a place to live.”

  I close my eyes and see her front yard—the fence and garden that used to be mine and could have been ours. Should have been ours if I’d just done what she’d asked. If I’d stuck to painting the rec hall porch and refused to help Justine.

  “You really can stay here until whenever, but we’re obviously annoying you. You barely leave the couch, and really, you should figure out a plan before that couch permanently fucks up your back.” She dumps the laundry onto my feet. “You could buy a place, you know. You have the money.”

  Which I do. I have all the money my parents left behind and everything I made selling off the results of their life—their condo, and collectibles, and all the stuff they’d gathered together. I sold everything of value, but not what they valued the most, because they couldn’t leave that for me. It lived within them. Between them. Because of them. The one thing they held above all others and that I wanted more than anything: the kind of love that kept them close, growing and changing and making them stronger together than they were apart.

  They didn’t leave that for me. They couldn’t. So I’m here. Broken. Weakened. Alone so the woman I love can find the strength I found with her.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The office door clicks shut behind me. The last notes of diesel engines heading back to the city fade. And I sag into the chair. Unclip the roster of first-session campers. File it. Replace the last two weeks of my life with the names of kids I’ll be meeting in approximately four hours.

  I pull my cell from the desk drawer and cue up a playlist without looking. It doesn’t matter if it’s my old workout mix or some couple’s must-have songs. I need the noise. Four hours of it. Over-energetic music spouts from the crappy speakers. It drowns out the silence, but isn’t loud enough to smother my thoughts. Nothing is.

  My nails slide under the painter’s tape and I tear the camper’s name from the plastic storage bag with a rip. It’s satisfying, at first. Productive. With each rip, I sever the connection that bound these two things, forced together in this place. Rip after rip. Destroying and starting fresh. But the cry of glue coming loose fades and my thoughts take over.

  I shouldn’t have come here when I could still hear the buses. Not here, where Paul confessed he’d chased mine. Where I’d crawled to him. Brushed my lips against his. Refused to admit I wanted more than the orgasm he teased me with on this very chair. I tear the tape off piece after piece. Form it into a ball. But it never grows large enough to fill the hollowness inside me.

  The music changes to last summer’s top choice for first-dance song. All love and forever. I toss the ball into the garbage. Silence the music. Hover over the number I’ve called so many times over the years. That I called last week in desperation. That told me to call whenever it got too quiet.

  “Leah, hi! Crap, I mean Amy. Unless, you know, you’re smashing them all together now or something? Because I could go for that, too.”

  I lean on the windowsill. “I’ve never felt like an Amelia, as much as my mom wished I had.”

  “But you’re still feeling like an Amy?”

  I tried not to. I tried to pack it all away. To collect my stuffing and secure it back in my shell. But there was too much going on in me to contain in something as one-dimensional as who I’d tried to be. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m Amy.”

  “And how is Amy feeling?” Jen asks.

  The docks bob in the distance. Canoes and lifeguard chairs. Floating on a weightlessness I’ve lost. “Sad. But good. The second week of the session was better.”

  “The staff are more on board?”

  “Definitely. Not sleeping helps. I spent most the start of the week too exhausted to micromanage. Turns out I didn’t have to. So, we’re getting along okay.”

  “You’re not sleeping?”

  “It’s not a big house.” And I have heart-crushing, nerve-tugging déjà vu in every single room.

  A door clicks shut on Jen’s side. “Can I ask you something?”

  “I think talking me down from hyperventilation a few nights back earned you that right.”

  She takes a deep breath. “Have you thought about calling him?”

  Calling him. Emailing him. Sending him a damn carrier pigeon. “It doesn’t matter if I’ve thought about it.”

  “Of course it matters.”

  “It doesn’t.” My throat grows tight. I swallow over glass and tears blur my vision. “He loves me, Jen.”

  “And you don’t love him?”

  I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes. “No, I do. And I can’t. Nothing good happens when I’m in love.”

  “That’s not true, hun. You get to be in love. You get to wear whatever you want and know he still wants you. You get to warm your feet on him in bed. You get to be happy even at your darkest because you’ll never be there alone.”

  And maybe that’s the problem. That I’m not alone. That he’s here in every breath of air. In every blade of grass. In every bird I woke crying out his name from the safety of his arms. I sniff. Clear my throat. “I need more time. I need this to be mine before I could share it with him.”

  “Just remember what you told me. Things are better with an assistant.”

  My stomach flutters with possibility I can’t consider. “Speaking of which, how did your on-the-job trial go last week?”

  “Um, well. I officially have an assistant.”

  “But?”

  She groans. “I thought he was gay. And now I’m not so sure.”

  A laugh rips from me. “What are you talking about?”

  “The guy has a certificate in flower arrangement. He actually went to school, with flowers! And he worked at The SmokeHouse. But last night…”

  “What happened last night?”

  “Um. So we were getting the honeymoon suite ready. And, uh…”

  I drop my forehead into my hand. “Please tell me you didn’t have sex on the clean
sheets.”

  “Of course not!” She sighs. “It was over the back of the couch.”

  “Jen!”

  “What? He’s really fucking hot, Amy.”

  “I’m sure he is.” I laugh until my cheeks hurt. “He also doesn’t sound too gay.”

  “Not so much.” A muffled knock filters over the line. Static and low voices hit my ear. “And the day gets more exciting,” she says. “The groom has just arrived without his lunch.”

  “Where did he leave it?”

  “On the floor of the limo.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I’m going to have to let you go. Call me when you can?”

  And I know it’s just an expression. But my friends let me go. My mom let me go. Paul let me go. All because of who I am when I’m in love. I swallow hard. “I will.”

  *

  Paperwork for the next camp firmly contained on my clipboard, I duck into Cabin 1. It’s spotless. I pull the door to Cabin 2 closed behind me. Make a note to figure out how to repair the spring that should close it automatically.

  Cabin by cabin I check that they’re ready for the next set of campers. In. Out. Sweeping when needed. Clawing away at spider webs the kids wouldn’t touch. There’s calmness in the repetition. Fulfillment in the progress. Distraction in the work.

  And it’s familiar. This feeling of losing myself in the job. Or it is, until I make my way to Cabin 7. Push through the door that had held me back so many years ago. Cross over the threshold I’d made it past before I tasted the acid of my anguish. Before I found myself empty.

  And I know I can’t do it. I can’t lose myself in this job. Not like before. Because this isn’t just a job. It’s my past. My present. My future.

  And it won’t matter how much time I have here. How long I spend here alone. He’ll always be here with me. Just like he’s always been.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The overhead lights flash on, burning into my retinas. I pull the blanket over my head. “Fuck off, Laurie.”

  My friend’s compassion knows no bounds as he rips the blanket away. “Come on, man. You’ve been here almost two weeks. Don’t you think it’s time you got your ass off this couch?”