Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

  “I see it coming in. I can’t talk long but these all look good to me.” I hear the rustle of papers. “I’ll see you on Monday…hopefully with a job.”

  “Of course.” That cloud of guilt looms over me for even threatening his job. We hang up at the same time, but I don’t exhale a sigh of relief.

  It takes me a couple seconds to detect the source of my unease. While a dog traipses around our house, the little orange tabby cat we’ve deserted roams the apartment of Connor’s therapist. I have no idea if he even cleans her litter regularly or if he forgets to feed her.

  I can’t look at that dog without being reminded of what we did, and so I make a quick decision. I’m driving to Manhattan today.

  And I’m taking Sadie back.

  [ 29 ]

  ROSE COBALT

  I bounce Jane on my hip, and I knock on the office door, eye-level with a bronze nameplate: Dr. Frederick Cothrell. As soon as the door swings open, my glare already zeroes in on the target. With my heels on, Frederick is the same height as me. I notice his sideburns graying since the last I’ve seen him face-to-face, time clearly passing quickly. Exhaustion also pulls wrinkles by his eyes.

  “Rose.” He’s not even a little surprised. Frederick widens the door, welcoming me inside.

  “I need her,” I say without clarifying more. I follow him into the room, and I kick the door closed with my ankle, securing Jane on my waist.

  Frederick slumps down on his leather chair, motioning for me to take a seat on the patient’s couch across from him. No thank you.

  “I’m not your patient. I’m only here for my cat.”

  He smiles, seemingly genuine. At least more genuine than the ones Connor plasters on for people. “It’s Connor’s cat,” he reminds me.

  I suck in a breath. Sadie may have been his cat, but through the years, she warmed to me. I’m the one who cares enough to want her home. For this reason, she’s just as much mine as she is his.

  “It’s time for her to come home.” I hug Jane a bit tighter, resting a hand on my daughter’s head. Jane babbles and then audibly enough says “hi” to Frederick. She even waves. I’d set her down, but we won’t be here long.

  Frederick waves back at Jane. “She can walk now?” The way he questions, I feel as though he already knows the answer is yes. I wonder if Connor described the event to Frederick, how Jane kept trying to push herself to her feet, only to fall. We were all in the living room for a Saturday night movie, Harriet the Spy (Daisy’s pick) paused on the television.

  Moffy kept trying to stand too, both babies attempting to walk towards each other. They weren’t racing but just eager to join their cousin on the other side of the rug. Daisy grabbed the video camera as Moffy proudly stood first and walked. An hour later, Jane mimicked his steps.

  I can’t picture Connor reiterating this scene to Frederick, not the pure emotion that I saw behind his eyes that night. Maybe he just gave Frederick the facts, and his therapist deduced my husband’s feelings all on his own. That seems more likely.

  “I need the cat,” I bypass his question. Where is she? I scan the Manhattan high-rise, my head swiveling right and left. Jane reaches for my dangling diamond earring and tugs hard. “Ow. Fuck,” I curse.

  Jane’s bottom lip quivers, a cry rising.

  “Not you,” I say quickly, attempting to soften my tight voice. “Well yes, you. Don’t pull on Mommy’s jewelry.” I stroke her brown hair, removing her black headband. “Alright, little gremlin.” I despise when babies cry, but when my own daughter starts, it’s like a razor blade through every one of my internal organs.

  Her eyes well with tears, but her lips close, her wail vanishing. She sniffs, and I even wipe beneath her nose. What I do for this one. I kiss her smooth cheek and whisper, “Tu es forte, ma farouche petite fille.” You are strong, my little fierce girl.

  Even with the tears, she’s still strong. Strength comes in all different sizes and packages and molds. Lily is proof enough.

  “And you were afraid you wouldn’t be maternal,” Frederick says like he knows me. His tone is friendly, which makes it hard to be upset.

  “Have you met my mother?” I ask him, my voice shaking at the thought. Of course I was scared. I didn’t know how to raise a human being. I didn’t know if I could do a better job than what she’d done with us and that terrified me.

  And so I thought thirty-five would be an appropriate age. By then, I’d have accomplished all that I needed to. A child wouldn’t keep me from any goals or any trips or anything. Maybe at thirty-five, I’d find that warmth that children need. It was a plan.

  A ruined plan. Destroyed by fate.

  Jane was an accident of epic proportions. I was on birth control, and yet, I was still very much pregnant. I love Connor, and I’d begun imagining a family with him in the faraway future. For that future to be so soon—I was terrified.

  People are constantly evolving and learning, and through those nine months and Jane’s emergence into the world, I discovered more about myself. I was afraid to raise a boy. Some days I was afraid to raise a daughter. Mostly, I was afraid to raise anything at all. When I held her for the very first time, when my fingers touched hers and hers closed around mine, as though recognizing who I was—every anxiety I harbored began to fade.

  I created this beautiful person with a brilliant, one-of-kind man. There was no conceivable way I could fear holding her or loving her or giving her everything in my absolute power. So I may not be the picture-perfect representation of a mother. I may not be warm and my hugs may hurt more than comfort, but I love this girl so terribly, just as I love myself.

  Anyone who tells me I’m doing a piss poor job or that she deserves better than me—fuck you.

  “I’ve met Samantha Calloway before,” Frederick says. “She wanted to see her daughter’s therapist.”

  I would give my mother brownie points if not for the fact that she favors all of her daughters over Lily, still never meeting Lily’s therapist and it’s been years. Maybe she’s afraid though.

  Our mother is partially the source of Lily’s problems. She’s not really the source of Daisy’s.

  “And?” I question.

  “Samantha is not like you,” Frederick tells me, leaning back in his chair.

  I want to call him out for pacifying me, but I can’t see why he would comfort me in this moment. I’m here to take a cat that’s been living with him. If anything, he should want to shoo me away, not console me.

  “It’s the truth,” he says, off my expression.

  I shift uncomfortably, not liking how well he can read me, how well he knows me from Connor’s sessions. “Just bring Sadie here tomorrow by noon. I’ll pick her up.”

  He shakes his head. “Connor told me not to return her, even if you drove here asking.”

  “I’m not asking,” I say. “I’m threatening.”

  “He also said that you’d threaten bodily harm to me, and that I should be aware you’re fond of hyperboles and exaggerations.”

  I’m going to kill my husband.

  I tighten my eyes closed. Yes, that is a fucking exaggeration. When I open them, I hope to see Frederick waving a white flag. He’s still calm, waiting to escort me to the door when I’m ready to leave.

  He adds, “Sadie may not get along with the babies or with the husky.”

  “She deserves a chance.”

  He presses his finger to his jaw in contemplation. “Why do you want her back, Rose?” This is the second question that I’m positive he already knows the answer to.

  I abandoned Sadie.

  I gave up on her, and I never do that.

  “She’s a lot like me, you know,” I say. Sadie and I—we share the same qualities. We’re both aggressive and standoffish; we strike without thinking and we struggle to let people see our soft sides.

  “Connor let her go because she was expendable to him,” Frederick explains. “You’re not.”

  Translation: He won’t abandon you. The sentiment is nic
e, but Connor and I are different. He can throw away things when they have no more use to him. I can’t.

  “What if she’s not expendable in my life?” I ask. “Can I have her back then?”

  He shakes his head, silent.

  My nose flares, and then Jane reaches up for my earring again. I pull my head away, and she lets out a bigger wail, one far more horrifying than simply being told no. I touch her bottom, sensing a wet diaper. “I’ll be back for Sadie.” On my way out, I point at him. “Also, your loyalty to my husband, while admirable, is completely infuriating.”

  He smiles as I leave through the door.

  [ 30 ]

  ROSE COBALT

  I finish off my second lime-green appletini. Drunk Rose is coming out to play tonight, and I’ve kept her firmly at bay for—well, I can’t even recall the last time I drank past my limits.

  Tonight is different.

  In a New York City Irish pub, a band plays a loud rock song, the noise bleeding into the brick walls and vibrating my brain. As soon as we arrived, the small establishment congested with green-clothed bodies, and now we struggle to move about.

  Connor has his hand on my lower back, and I just realize he’s directing me through the throngs of rowdy people who wear plastic beaded necklaces, four-leaf clover face paint, and glittery green headbands.

  His palm descends to my ass, and I heat. It’s the liquor. He tucks me closer to his side, to avoid an incoming drunken male. His assured, protective gaze hits me once, and I clench. It’s his fucking dominance. It’s him.

  His lips brush my ear. “You’re blushing.”

  “I am not,” I snap.

  He just grins and keeps guiding me through the masses. PDA with my husband is on the itinerary for St. Patrick’s Day. Liquid courage will help, so public intoxication is also mandatory for me.

  I’m sure the tabloids will love Drunk Rose. I love her in moderation, and I suppose she’s due to come out.

  It’s also the first time Jane will be staying overnight with my mother. The anxiety from that alone makes me want to drink. I put the glass to my lips. It’s empty. Right…

  With the crammed bar in sight, it clicks that he’s leading me there. As we pass a train of guys in sparkly green top hats, each one pinches Connor’s arm or shoulder. He hardly flinches or even acknowledges that he’s being touched.

  “Connor Cobalt, why aren’t you wearing green?!” someone shouts, recognizing us. It sounds more like a fan than any journalist.

  Connor is in charcoal pants, a navy, long-sleeve shirt over a white button-down and gray tie. He straddles casual and formal, oozing confidence even without green—and his wavy brown hair has never seen a better day than today. Shut up, Drunk Rose.

  I swear, if I start complimenting him out loud, tonight is ending without any public fondling. I will march to the hotel and stop before I betray myself. No ego stroking. That is an order.

  I tug at the hem of my dark green cocktail dress, the beaded embroidery and color making me feel like poison ivy.

  I approve.

  Someone else pinches Connor’s arm. I shoot them a withering glare, and he shrinks a little. Yeah, that’s right. Shoo. I lean into Connor…almost teetering in my high heels. “What are you paying your bodyguard for?”

  His large hand seems to envelop my hip. “To protect my life,” he replies, his lips near my ear. I imagine him nipping it, just a little, and then pulling me harder, closer. I heat all over again. “And I hardly think pinches are endangering it.”

  “That’s because you haven’t been pinched by me yet,” I refute icily, topping off the statement with a sip of…nothing. Seriously, can I not remember that my drink is empty? Pull yourself together until drink four.

  He laughs once at my threat, his lips rising in more amusement. “Darling, I think I can outlive your attacks.” Casually, so imperceptibly, his teeth graze my ear, and he bites my lobe before whispering, “I’m indestructible.” He squeezes my ass, just one time.

  Cameras flash everywhere, some from phones, others from outside the glass windows, night upon us at 1 a.m.—and the paparazzi have never been hungrier. Daisy, Ryke, Lily, Loren, Sam and Poppy are scattered throughout the small pub too, so I can see why they’d form a rabid bite tonight.

  We reach the wooden bar, but we have to wait for the bartender to serve us. I spin on Connor, his gaze traveling across my body in a long, sensual wave. His desire mixed with confidence mixed with dominance is more intoxicating than my appletini.

  I pinch his ribs as hard as I’m able.

  He grins.

  I glare, wanting only to extinguish that grin that says I can never lose. “I want a divorce,” I tell him pointedly. His lips continue to rise. Well, that didn’t go as planned.

  “A WHAT?!” Lily shouts over the music, pushing closer to us with wide eyes. Loren swings his arm over his wife’s shoulders.

  “A divorce,” I repeat, setting my empty martini glass on the bar.

  Connor faces me and hijacks my gaze, compelling me to not look away.

  “Is this another one of your weird nerd battles?” Loren asks.

  Connor never wavers from me. “Under what grounds, darling?”

  “Annoyance. You’re annoying me.”

  His conceited smile only grows. This is not how normal people work. I insult them, they glare. I insult them, they put up a fight. Instead, Connor wears that aroused expression that says I’m going to spin you around and fuck you hard against the bar.

  “Like that,” I say, blood rushing between my legs. “That annoys me.” And turns me on. I can’t make up my mind, but I think one may trump the other soon.

  His grin dims, only because the bartender leans across to ask for our order. While he gets me another cocktail, I clasp Lily’s wrist and say to her, “I’m glad you’re here!” Her presence will surely drop the temperature of Connor’s movements and public groping.

  I’m honestly not sure how much I can handle. My mind may implode with stop signs and dead ends if large groups of people start watching, and I’m afraid it might trigger my OCD later.

  I really wish I wasn’t so anxious since his mere hair has my body pulsing. Sexual appetite? Check. Mental blockers? Check.

  Lily stands on her tiptoes to be closer. “Me too!” she shouts. “Do you mind holding onto my purse while I dance with Lo?”

  I’d plead with her to stay with me, but she’s already set desirous eyes on her husband who’s talking to my husband. I was the one who encouraged her to bring a purse anyway, and my reasons for wanting her close are slightly selfish in nature.

  “Fine.” I accept her purple clutch and hold it with my gold one.

  “Thankyouthankyou!” she slurs together and bounces over to Loren. He pats Connor’s shoulder in goodbye and then lifts Lily into a piggyback, heading towards the band.

  Connor rotates to me again, and as the alcohol kicks in, I realize it’s becoming harder to meet his self-possessed gaze head-on. It’s like I’m no longer immune to his charm. Fuck that. I pull back my shoulders, refusing to be hypnotized by his poise.

  I’m poised too, goddammit.

  I teeter in my heels.

  He nears me, his clutch firm on my hips, pulling me into his body.

  I hold onto his forearm for support. “That was unnecessary, Richard. I wasn’t going to fall.” I cringe at that word. Fall. I don’t fall.

  His lips brush my ear again. “You do remember what tonight is about, Rose?”

  Yes. His hands need to be all over me. I confirm with one nod, and his gaze soaks into mine, carefully ensuring that I’m okay with this.

  I am.

  This is our plan.

  I like plans.

  “Why aren’t you wearing green?!” the bartender asks Connor, sliding over my appletini and slicing into our conversation. I gratefully take the drink.

  Connor has a shadow of irritation in his eyes, only perceptible by me, most likely. He answers the bartender very casually. “I make my own luck, so
really St. Patrick’s Day should be celebrating me.” He pauses. “And I prefer blue.”

  I press my lips tightly together, trying not to smile even though one wants to rise so badly. The bartender lets out a humored laugh. I don’t pay attention to the rest of their exchange, a cell vibrating my palm.

  It’s coming from Lily’s purse. I procure her phone, too curious not to, and maybe if I wasn’t tipsy, I’d be more respectful. At least, I think I would.

  A text illuminates the screen.

  Look how adorable – Mom

  I unlock Lily’s phone with her password (Moffy’s birthday), and then I see the photo my mother attached to her message. Moffy is cuddled in a blue blanket, sleeping on my mother’s lap.

  What? I check my phone—no updates about Jane. I’m happy that my mother and Lily have rekindled parts of their relationship, but I would’ve liked something about Jane.

  “What’s wrong?” Connor asks, rubbing the small of my back. He looks between the two phones in my possession.

  “It’s just hard leaving her there overnight,” I admit. I do have a little guilt about not being with her for this long, but my mother urged us to go out. She wanted “grandma” time. I never thought she’d be this enthusiastic about grandmotherly roles. She wasn’t when Poppy’s daughter was born, but maybe the empty nest is still eating at her since Daisy moved out.

  “Jane will be okay,” Connor assures me. “If you want to go back to Phili—”

  “No,” I cut him off. If I return home and mess up our plans, I fail. I need to let go sometimes. “I’m perfect.” I make a point of sipping my appletini, and he watches with the most impassive, stoic expression—blank and unreadable and therefore slightly frightening.

  Connor cups my face, his eyes dancing around my features, and when his thumb skims my bottom lip—I turn my head, spotting any onlookers. I catch the bartender peeking over, along with hoards of people, camera phones still angled towards us…though most are directed at Lily and Loren dancing.

  Connor pinches my chin, turning my head back towards him. “Concentre-toi sur moi.” Concentrate on me. His tone is partially comforting, partially as strong as his grasp. He’d never push me into the deep-end if he thought I’d drown.