Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

  “In his fucking house?” Ryke shakes his head. “He’s not that stupid.”

  He’s making a deal, I conclude. Our doorbell chimes throughout the house, splitting my thoughts. I didn’t see anyone traipse up our driveway. Every noise, every new change pricks my neck, setting my mood to cautious and severely alarmed.

  [ 20 ]

  ROSE COBALT

  I dart away from the window first, rushing to answer the door.

  I’m not the only one.

  It’s a stampede to downstairs with Lo lifting Lily in a piggyback, pushing ahead of me. I walk quickly, close to his heels. Ryke still carries Daisy on his shoulders behind us, moving at a lackadaisical pace.

  “Did someone call Mom?” Daisy asks, her fingers combing through Ryke’s thick hair.

  “No,” we all say. That would be a horrible surprise—to open the door in a quick rush, finding our mother on the other side. I love her, but she already spent Christmas Eve criticizing my gift choices for Jane.

  After storming down the steps, Lo stumbles over a decorative three-foot Santa Claus, causing Lily to drop off his back and try to beat me there. I’ve already passed her, speeding through the foyer.

  I clasp the knob, partially out of breath. Just as I open the door, the person presses the buzzer one more time.

  The young guy solidifies when he meets my hot gaze, and he stuffs his fists into his black hoodie, a blue Dalton Academy beanie shrouding his brown hair. I know exactly who this seventeen-year-old is.

  “Uh…” His eyes flicker to Lily. She tries to squeeze through to greet him with open arms. I crack the door so my body wedges into the space, not allowing her exit.

  “Rose,” she complains.

  “I got here first,” I tell her but keep an intimidating glare on him.

  Garrison clears his throat, nervous. “We haven’t met.” He outstretches his gloved hand.

  “Yes, we have.” I don’t shake his hand, the ten-degree chill numbing my fingers on the door’s edge. “You and your friends sprayed red punch on my infant daughter and me with a water gun.” Before Halloween, we had a long-standing feud with the teenage neighbors. It ended with all of them being charged for burglary, all but Garrison who chose not to break into our house like his friends.

  His character, in my mind, is tarnished until I see otherwise, but he works as a cashier at Superheroes & Scones, thanks to Lily’s kindness and Lo’s empathy for broken, spiteful teenagers.

  “It was stupid…I’m sorry…” He chews his chapped lip for a second. “Hey is Willow here? I know she’s a distant cousin, or whatever…”

  He means Loren’s half-sister, but Willow has to lie about her connections to her brother the same way that Ryke once did. No one can know that Willow’s mom is actually Lo’s birth mom. I learned that she was underage, only sixteen, when she was pregnant with Loren.

  Jonathan Hale would have gone to jail for statutory rape, and he’s had his two sons and this woman cover for him for decades. Willow could live free of this humongous lie, only by returning to her hometown of Maine and staying with her mother. By choosing to be in Philadelphia and be a part of her half-brother’s life, she has to tell everyone that she’s a distant cousin to the Hales.

  No one is more upset over this than Ryke—since he had to lie about his familial relationships as a teenager too.

  “She’s coming around at two!” Lily answers in the background.

  “Lily,” I snap, opening the door just a tad. I remember Lily saying that Willow wanted to stop by later, to not interrupt. I’d like to think we’re inclusive when it comes to blood, but she only knows us from the media. It’s why she’s chosen to live in an apartment and not in our house. I would probably insist she live here, but Lily and Lo aren’t as pushy as me.

  Lily gives me a stern look that is especially comical from my loving sister. “Willow and Garrison are co-workers.”

  Lo puts a hand on the door, prying it out of my grip. It hits the wall and now he can see all of Garrison. Thankfully he shoots the guy a dark glare. “A co-worker doesn’t show up on Christmas morning looking for another co-worker.”

  Garrison scrapes the icy stoop with his boot. “Does this mat say welcome under here? I can’t read it with all the snow.”

  “He’s funny,” I say icily.

  “You’re scary, no offense.” He coughs into his glove and checks over his shoulder. “You’re going to make me invite myself in, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes ping from each of us, his breath smoking the air. “I just…I wanted to tell her that I’m…” He lets out a weak laugh, his eyes reddening. I notice an unlit cigarette between his left-hand fingers. “Never mind, it’s fucking stupid…” He turns to leave.

  I snatch his hoodie, drawing him back.

  “What the fuck?” He spins around and gives me a familiar look that says, I don’t even understand you. You’re kind of insane. What the fuck.

  “Are you asking her to prom?” I question. “Because this is the most pathetic proposal I’ve ever seen. You need flowers, first of all.”

  “I’m not asking her to prom.” His voice shakes some, his nose red from the cold. “I came to tell her that I’m leaving, and I guess to tell you too.” He nods to Lily and then briefly glances at Loren, not holding his gaze for long.

  “What do you mean?” Lily asks.

  That’s when I see Connor in the distance, trekking back to our house. I snatch my coat off the hook and slip on a pair of nearby boots: Daisy’s, nearly the same size as me, thankfully.

  “My parents handed me my only Christmas present this morning: a white envelope,” he says bitterly. “I…they are withdrawing me from Dalton and sending me to this boarding school for ‘proper guidance’ to finish my senior year.”

  I pass Garrison on the landing, my hand freezing as I grip the railing, careful not to slip on the icy steps.

  “Where is it?” Lily asks.

  I head down the driveway, Garrison’s voice drifting in the background. “Upstate New York,” he says, “Faust Boarding School for Young Boys.”

  A chill nips my spine. I approach Connor at a hurried speed, meeting him at the mailbox, where he has his hands in his coat pockets, unsurprised by my sudden appearance. He stands tall, unconcerned and unafraid of everything, despite just speaking to that detestable rodent.

  “You went into the lion’s den,” I say, my throat raw from more than just the cold.

  Connor shakes his head. “We’re the lions, Rose. Our den is right behind you.”

  My nose flares. He’s saying that we’re stronger and better than Scott, but I can’t move past this. “What deal did you just make?” This—we did not agree upon. We did not discuss. We did not—

  “None.”

  He pops my thoughts. “You gave him road kill.”

  His lips rise in a humored grin. “I’m not Lo.”

  I should know what he did. He’s my husband, but I can’t see the answer that’s literally standing right in front of me. Snow begins to fall again, dusting our hair with flakes and wetting my nose and cheeks. I have to ask outright.

  “What’d you do?”

  “I gave him a bottle of expensive wine.”

  My brows tighten. “You drugged him?”

  His grin widens. “Rose, darling, come back to Earth.”

  I perch my hands on my hips, eyes narrowed. “You just gave him a bottle of wine? What are you friends now…” My face falls. “No, Connor.” This is what he does. He fakes friendships and then slices them at the knees when he has no more use for them. “He’ll never believe you’re his friend.”

  He holds my cold hand. “Scott isn’t smart. He’s self-righteous and irritating. He can be manipulated. I never had the chance to do this before, not in the constraints of the reality show, but I do now.”

  “And you can just bear to make nice to him?” Hot tears try to well, impassioned and disgusted by the mere idea.

  Connor’s hand rises to my fac
e, his blue eyes assured but calm, so calm to my fervor. I want him to crack, to unleash his fury and appease my insides that begin to roil, but he can’t…or else we lose.

  “My skin is crawling,” I shake. He probably shared fake laughter with Scott and even complimented him.

  “Then you know how mine feels.” He seems so put-together, but it’s all inside—the things I can’t see, deep down, his disgust at having to befriend him.

  “Can you stomach this?” I ask.

  He nods once. “It’s our best chance.” And then he recites, “‘The worst is not. So long as we can say, this is the worst.’”

  “King Lear.” Shakespeare. I try to push him off. “You just quoted a tragedy, Richard.”

  He refuses to let me go, holding me closer. “I need you,” he suddenly says.

  I freeze. “What?”

  His gaze bores down on me. “I need you to keep looking at me like you’re going to burn a hole through my heart, and I need you to tell me that you love the real me. Every day, I need you, Rose. That’s how I’m going to stomach this.”

  Without hesitation, I say, “Bien sûr.” Of course.

  I can’t remember another moment where we’ve both been so unsure about the future. It’s as though we’re standing, hand-in-hand, at the edge of an obscured forest, riddled with iron traps and predators and prey. I only cling to one certainty.

  We’re entering this tragedy together.

  [ 21 ]

  CONNOR COBALT

  I lie in bed past 11 a.m., light streaming through the windows. January 3rd of all days, I try to sleep past the morning to cut out a chunk of time. I did this last year, and the day seemed somewhat shorter.

  I roll onto my side, Rose already gone. My fingers graze the blankets, absent of a second warm body. My eyes lift a fraction, and I flinch.

  Lily is perched on the vanity stool beside the door, wearing a white, furry Star Wars Wampa hat, jeans, and a Superheroes & Scones T-shirt in blue block letters. This may be one of the only days she’s dressed before me. She raises a hand and gives me a sheepish smile. “Hi.”

  I sit and fix my tousled hair. She’s up to something. “What are you doing, Lily?” I grip the comforter, about to climb out of bed.

  “Waitwaitwait!” she slurs, panicked. “Rose said you had underwear on, but I just need to confirm before you get up.” So Rose is a part of this. Lily rambles, “It’s not so much about my sex addiction, but just respecting my sister’s husband on his birthday.” She nods resolutely—and then flushes. “Not that I wouldn’t respect you on any other day.”

  “I understand, Lily.” I smile, half-forced from the mention of my twenty-seventh birthday, the word instantly deteriorating my mood. “Thank you, and don’t worry, I’m clothed.” In navy flannel pants.

  She lets out a breath while I stand, and then she springs to her feet, blocking the door.

  My brows rise. “Are you holding me hostage?”

  “You can take a shower,” she says, not denying the fact that she’s keeping an eye on me. “In fact, you should probably wear something nice today.” She keeps nodding. Then she adds, “Just…no one wants a repeat of last year.”

  Last January 3rd, they all decided to throw me a surprise party. I surprised them by flying to Ontario for the day and returning home the next morning. No one was pleased but me, and I thought they learned their lesson.

  I have no problem celebrating someone else’s birthday. If it holds meaning to them, that’s fine, but my birthday holds no meaning to me. My age has always been a restraint. It bars me from advancing as fast as I’m capable. I could’ve driven at twelve. I could’ve been an informed voter at thirteen. I could’ve outwitted professors at fifteen. I don’t like celebrating my age—this irritating, unbending nuisance that parallels with time.

  Lily claps her hands. “So take a shower—not with me of course. You know, by yourself. Just you. I’ll be right here. In this bedroom, not anywhere near your nakedness.” She’s fire-engine red.

  It’s hard to not laugh. I head to the bathroom, already concocting an escape route. I’ll just leave out the backdoor and through the garage. “Where’s Jane?” I ask.

  “With Rose.”

  Maybe she’s planning to drop her off at her mother’s house. “Where are we going tonight?” I try asking straight out.

  Lily opens her mouth and then shuts it. I watch as she squints at me, attempting to narrow her eyes. “You’re asking too many questions.”

  I swing open the bathroom door. “What happens if I leave this house?”

  “Wait, are you planning on leaving already?” She shifts nervously on her feet like she has to pee. “You can’t leave yet, and if you do, I’ll have no choice but to use physical force.” It’s comical coming from the girl wearing a fuzzy hat that has a face and horns. “And I may also have to call for backup.”

  Backup?

  The minute she emphasizes the word, the door blows open and Ryke and Loren saunter into my bedroom, both dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts. The handcuffs are unmistakable in Ryke’s clutch.

  I still stand halfway between the bathroom and my bedroom, bottling my aggravation. “If you want me to cuff you to my bed, all you have to do is ask.”

  “Hilarious,” Ryke says, “but these aren’t for me.”

  Lo is half distracted by his wife, tugging the flaps of her Wampa cap and kissing her cheek. She whispers rapidly to him, accidentally gesturing to me, more obvious than stealthy.

  “You’re early, darling,” I quip, pulling Lo’s attention to me. “I never cuff you before noon.”

  He smiles. “Today is different, love.”

  I shake my head. “No, today is the same as any other day unless the three of you try to make it something more.”

  “Here’s the deal,” Lo says. “You’re going to take a shower, get dressed, and no Jedi mind-tricking anyone.” He looks to Lily at that last request and she nods in approval.

  “You’re not going to tell me what Rose has planned, are you?”

  “Not a chance.” If he was closer, I’m sure he would’ve patted my shoulder. His phone rings, after checking the caller ID. “It’s my marketing assistant.” Theo. “Ryke, will you—”

  “I have him,” Ryke says. “Take the call.” Lo leaves with Lily, and I fixate on Ryke’s silver handcuffs again.

  “Are you planning on handcuffing me to the shower?”

  Ryke stares unflinchingly at me. “If I fucking have to.”

  Wonderful.

  I restrain the urge to roll my eyes—which is something I almost never do. I slip into the bathroom and start shedding my clothes, leaving the door wide open. I could stay in here for a while, but Ryke purposefully foils my plan, entering the bathroom with me.

  He hops onto the counter, opening and closing the latches on the handcuffs with a key. “Don’t take longer than thirty fucking minutes. I don’t want to be in here anymore than you want me in here.”

  Ryke is the muscle: the only one who can physically keep me in Philadelphia, which is why he has now replaced Lily as my unofficial guard.

  I’m on house arrest.

  On a day where I usually flee the country alone.

  I step out of my boxer-briefs and near the glass shower. “I wasn’t aware that dogs can tell time.”

  “Fuck you,” he says, his words harsher than usual. It can’t be for the small joke.

  “Normal people don’t curse out their friends on their birthday,” I mention before slipping into the shower, warm water beating down on my tense body.

  He speaks loud enough that I hear him. “And normal people don’t manipulate their friends on Christmas!”

  This. “I’m not normal!” I shout through the gushing water, running my hands along my wet hair.

  Through the fogged glass, I can make out Ryke’s silhouette, head shaking. “You made me think that you had the same relationship with your mom that I had with mine, just so I would fucking tell you about my childhood.”

/>   He asked me: Wasn’t Christmas just your mom and you?

  I replied: I’m assuming it was for you. I never said yes. I never said no. I never answered his question until he answered mine. “All you had to do was read deeper into my words,” I explain, raising my voice without shouting now. “And you would’ve realized that I never agreed with you.” I scrub shampoo in my hair.

  “Sometimes I feel like you purposefully make it hard for me to trust you.”

  It’s not my intention, though I know it’s a consequence of prodding in someone’s life. We’re both quiet while I finish taking a shower. After shutting off the water, I wrap a towel around my waist and step out. I head to my sink where Ryke still sits.

  “I’m not telling you how many pages I can read,” he says, briefly looking up from the handcuffs to meet my eyes. He’s talking about his Christmas present. In his blank journal that he’d given me last year, I wrote passages to him in several different languages.

  I squirt a line of toothpaste on my toothbrush. “I didn’t think you would.” I wrote truthful, honest messages about him, things that I admire, but he won’t be able to read the ones that he can’t understand, not without an online translator at least.

  I brush my teeth.

  “You confuse the fuck out of me,” he says under his breath. He thinks I had an ulterior motive with the journal. I had none.

  I rinse my mouth and spit out water. “Says the guy who makes everyone think he’s stupid when he’s smart.” He speaks different languages. He votes in every election. I bet he can quote authors. I bet he understands references that Rose and I use. He shrouds these parts of himself, as if they’re reminders of how he was raised. As the “yes kid” who did what his mother asked of him.

  Study hard for me. Yes, Mom.

  Be athletic for me. Yes, Mom.

  Run track for me. Yes, Mom.

  Learn French for me. Yes, Mom.

  Stay quiet for me. Yes, Mom.

  Lie for me. Yes, Mom.

  Tell no one about me. Yes, Mom.

  The yes kid has no opinions of his own. The yes kid has no voice.

  I’m not sure when Ryke finally spoke freely, but it’s clear he hates returning to that place. I can still see remnants of it in him when he struggles to open up. He’s used to being silent about specific parts of his life.