Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

  She nods. “We have fucking cupcakes too. I hear they can cure all maladies.”

  “Is that a theory, Calloway?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope, it’s just true.”

  Before I text Scott back, I have to check on my wife. “Where’s Rose?” I ask Daisy, her arms wrapped around his waist and his arms wrapped around her shoulders.

  “The half-bath.” She points to the bathroom door beside the pantry.

  I pocket my phone and hurry to find Rose.

  When I enter the tiny half-bath, I catch Rose vigorously scrubbing her hands, the faucet running. Jane sits near the toilet, shaking a bracelet.

  “Rose…” I shut the door and slide behind my wife, more concerned than I try to let on.

  “I changed Jane’s diaper,” she tells me, her voice tight. Usually she can change Jane, wash her hands once, and be done with the process and not obsess. The stress from today has thrown everything out of sync.

  “And how long have you been washing your hands?”

  “They still smell like baby wipes.” She sniffs her palm and cringes before adding more soap.

  I extend my arms on either side of her body and grip both of her wrists.

  “Richard,” she warns.

  “Look at your hands, Rose.”

  Her eyes are bloodshot, and when I peek at myself in the mirror, I notice that mine are too. She finally absorbs her raw palms and reddened skin, one of her nails bleeding at the cuticle. She inhales and recoils backwards at the sight, knocking against my chest.

  I grab a small towel and spin her around, so she faces me. Then I gather her hands and encase them in the towel to dry, her yellow-green eyes locked on my blue.

  “I didn’t realize,” she whispers.

  “It’s been a long day,” I say. I’m ready for it to be over, but it’s not yet.

  She can tell there’s more. I watch her collarbones protrude. “I’ll handle the social media,” she says. “It’ll take some stress off you, and you can just think about what you want to say or not say at the press conference.”

  “That’s not equal division of labor, hun. The social media should be split.” I rub my thumb over her bottom lip, the truth wedged in my throat. I have to see Scott. A longer moment passes—and she waits patiently even if her eyes begin to burn holes into mine. “I have to see Scott.”

  “What?” Her face falls, and she frees her hands from the towel.

  “Today.”

  She slaps my thumb away. “He can wait.”

  “No, he can’t, Rose.”

  She glances once at Jane, who’s more interested rattling the bracelet than us right now. “You don’t have to do this anymore, Connor.”

  “Yes, I do,” I say. “I want him completely out of our lives as much as you, and this is the only way.” I pause, already hearing her rebuttal in my head. You can’t handle it. “The argument that you want to use isn’t good enough, so don’t even say it.”

  She clutches onto my shirt, fire returning to her gaze. I’m happy to see more of it, even for a moment. “You have no idea what I’m going to say.”

  “You’re going to tell me that I can’t stomach Scott and this media shit storm at the same time.”

  She raises her chin. “Or maybe that’s just your conscience.”

  Or maybe Frederick is in my head. I’ve been ignoring his calls all day. He’ll want to hash out my “feelings” that are stronger than usual.

  “Emotions are just obstacles,” I tell her. “They’re not restraints unless I let them be.” I can control them a little longer.

  She looks frightened by my declaration, her knuckles whitening, still fisting my shirt.

  “Rose,” I murmur, “n’ayez pas peur.” Don’t be afraid. I draw her even closer, our bodies curving together. She’s fearful I’ll forget who I am—the man who can love and empathize—but I know she’ll remind me. I’m counting on it.

  She surprises me by kissing my neck.

  I smile at her tentativeness, and I lift her head and kiss her more aggressively on the lips. The force pins her back against the sink. My mind almost drowns out the dozen other frequencies and white noise, leaving only her mouth and her heat.

  Then the door swings open.

  Ryke bolts for the toilet. Thankfully Jane sits out of the way, Ryke’s abrupt presence distracting her from the bracelet.

  He kneels. And he pukes.

  Daisy is quick to appear by his side, rubbing his back.

  “Already on your knees for me,” I say, hoping the lighthearted quip will lessen the tension. My skin crawls at a grating realization. “I suppose that’s the last joke I can make with you.” It’s not like he responds with anything more than a middle finger and a fuck off, but I’ll miss those all the same.

  He clutches onto the toilet bowl, breathing heavier, angrier. Before he responds, Lo slips into the half-bath with Lily, Moffy on the crook of her hip. He shuts the door behind them, and I scan him from head-to-toe for signs that he’s stable.

  Ryke does the same from the ground, but he’s more obvious about it than I am.

  In my opinion—which should be trusted above everyone else’s—they both seem equally distressed: skin pallid, eyes puffy, and muscles flexed. They’ve put too many emotions into their father to take this news well.

  “I’m okay,” Lo tells his older brother. “You’re the one who looks like shit.”

  Ryke flips him off and shifts to a sitting position, elbow on the toilet seat. He whispers something inaudible to Daisy, who nods and whispers back. It’s easy to discern what goes on between Lily and Loren, but the other couple is too private to infer a faint conversation.

  “I know it’s hard to talk about…” Lily is the first to really speak to everyone. She sets down Moffy and the little boy walks over to Jane, plopping down beside her. “But while we’re all together now, we should talk. It may help.” She nods at this, probably remembering her own experience with the media bashing.

  Lo hugs her to his side. “That’s a good idea, love.”

  Rose solidifies, my arm around her stiff waist while she leans against the sink. “Connor and I are taking care of it,” she says tightly. “The four of you don’t have to worry about anything.” She doesn’t want to saddle her sisters with a heavy burden anymore than I want to saddle Ryke and Lo.

  Ryke breathes through his nose and shakes his head a couple times. But he stays silent.

  “What’s taking care of it exactly?” Lo asks, his voice edged.

  I tilt my head. “I didn’t call my publicist so she could entertain me for an hour with useless advice.”

  Daisy rests her chin on Ryke’s shoulder. “I thought the whole point of being on social media was to be ourselves?”

  “And clarify when the tabloids spread lies about us,” Lo adds.

  “And support each other,” Lily chimes in, the biggest advocate for Ryke and Daisy’s relationship online.

  Daisy smiles. “And to always have fun.”

  Rose crosses her arms. “Then we’ll have fun implementing Naomi’s to-do list.”

  Lo glares. “Then I better see you smiling when you tweet things like ‘my little angel sleeps so peacefully when I sing her a lullaby. Hashtag, I’m a lying liar.’”

  Rose is too exhausted to retort anything of equal intensity. She supports most of her body weight against me and just shoots him a look like stop talking.

  “I know it’s hard for all of you to accept,” I tell them, “but if we don’t make at least a small effort, this won’t blow over. We can’t simply be who we are online if people keep twisting our relationship into something…” cold, loveless and empty. The words hit me but I don’t want to say them aloud.

  “Why isn’t this harder for you?” Lo asks me, his face contorting with more emotion. He gestures to both of us. “You’re just standing there like it’s a goddamn pothole that you can drive over.” This is a crater with no alternate routes. I’m aware. “They’re degrading your marriage…and
everything you two are.” Maybe he thinks we should be immobilized on the floor.

  I recall Rose crying earlier in the closet, screaming into her coat so no one could hear. I could feel her pain grow, and I could feel mine burst. I let it out then, but it’s not gone. It’s sunken low so I can keep standing, so I don’t become crippled and small.

  “I don’t know how to wallow,” I tell him honestly. “Maybe that action isn’t in me, but I assure you, grief is.” I’m never going to be entirely expressive with my emotions, but the fact that I feel anything at all is what matters.

  His brows furrow, as though trying to detect it, and then he notices Rose rubbing her hands together, her skin dry and peeling. I clasp her palm in mine, and she stops.

  Lo nods a couple times to himself. “We know that you two love each other, so now we just have to make the whole world realize that your love is equal to the rest of ours.”

  It’s not possible. “You can’t make people see love. It’s intangible. They can see affection, the actions between two people who are in love, but ours is less physical and more mental.” Naomi’s plan is the best, regardless of how much it shames the way that we love each other.

  “I saw your love,” Lily tells us.

  Rose frowns. “What?”

  Lily’s eyes smile before her lips do. “The first time I ever saw you together at my apartment with Lo. It looked like you two were fighting, but I always believed it was flirting.”

  I can feel my grin. Flirting—I told Rose so during St. Patrick’s Day.

  “And I also sensed a lot of…sexual tension.” She reddens. “I can’t be the only one who thought so. Right?” She turns to Lo. He was there that day, a long time ago.

  “I thought they were weird,” he admits. “But in hindsight, I guess, yeah, it was flirting.” No one is convinced by him, least of all Rose.

  She lets out a jailed breath. “We’re going to do what Naomi says.”

  The room tenses, and Ryke finally speaks. “I fucking hate this.”

  “Not as much as people hate my tweets,” Rose grumbles.

  Ryke gives her a look. “They’re fucking funny, Rose.”

  “Apparently they’re insensitive.”

  “I’ve tweeted more insensitive shit and no one gets onto me,” he rebuts.

  Lo’s brows rise. “He did once tweet that anyone who’s praying for rain again needs to shut the fuck up.”

  Daisy smiles, the whole room brightening an extra degree. “And anyone who’s performing a rain dance needs to sit the fuck down.”

  Lo laughs, but it fades among the proliferating stress.

  Rose fills the silence. “It’s a small sacrifice.”

  “I don’t like when we have to sacrifice who we are…” Ryke trails off, his hard gaze drifting to the two babies closest to him. Jane even smiles up at Ryke and babbles a string of noises that desire to be words.

  Rose says, “I’ve never shied away from who I am, even when people asked me to be softer, quieter or warmer. I’ve proudly remained me. But I’m willing to appear as the person they want for Jane.” She turns to me, and I read the look in her eye that says just as you’d be willing to make that sacrifice.

  If I lie to the world and pick a label, she doesn’t want me to lift this burden alone.

  Her loyalty is admirable, but her speech hits me in a new way, with a new realization.

  I’d rather Rose teach Jane to never step down and cower, to never appear as something else as I’ve always done.

  To be real.

  To be herself, to love every part of her own soul, no matter if it’s what someone else desires or not.

  That’s the woman I love.

  I don’t want her to be anything less.

  I open my mouth to combat her, but she says, “Just let me try. If Jane is heckled by her peers, I want to at least know that I did something to change the outcome.”

  “You teach Jane to never be afraid to speak her mind by never being afraid to speak yours,” I whisper to Rose. “You give her the tools to defeat their words through confidence and self-respect.”

  “And you?” she asks me. “It’s not fair that you have to carry this…” She rolls her eyes as they fill with tears. I wipe beneath them.

  “I haven’t made a choice yet.” I can’t tell her that I’m leaning towards the option that’ll help Jane. The fake me. I’ll sound like a hypocrite, and maybe I am in this instance. I would much rather protect Rose’s spirit, even if it means barring her from protecting mine.

  “I’ll support you no matter what,” Lily suddenly says to us.

  Rose sniffs and then Daisy passes her a piece of toilet paper, and Rose dabs beneath her eyes.

  “Me too,” Daisy says. “Whatever you say, I’ll stand behind.” She gives me a smile, referring subtly to my choice and the press conference in May.

  “I have to ignore you,” Lo says. “Don’t I?”

  “It’s up to you,” I tell him.

  “For how long?” he wonders.

  “I don’t know.” It’s the truth.

  He shakes his head automatically. “No. I’m not doing it. I’m not going to give my dad what he wanted. Then he’ll just keep doing this shit over and over again, and goddammit, if anyone needs to learn a lesson, it’s him.”

  My lips curve upward.

  Ryke nods in agreement, his jaw hardening. “I gave him part of my liver, and this is what he does?” His distraught eyes rise to me, for understanding, for anything that’ll make it better.

  I do have more knowledge than them, but it won’t ease his pain. What no one but Rose may know and what Jonathan may not fully understand himself: he reacted today based off fear of abandonment. He can give reasons like I’m trying to stop Connor from seducing my son all he wants, but it’s more than that.

  It’s about Jonathan feeling like I’ve taken his position in Lo’s life. For guidance, for connections, for money—Lo comes to me. When I’m around, Jonathan is unneeded. There’s nothing worse than being useless when you thrive off being useful.

  He felt inferior and powerless, probably for the first time ever.

  Greg, his best friend, is kind-hearted and malleable. I’m calculated and stoic.

  When I meet men like Jonathan, I usually step back and try to appear non-threatening. I fake it because they can’t put up with how I normally am, but I’ve never had reason to do this with Lo’s father. He served no value to me. I didn’t need anything from him. I didn’t want him as a connection. If we were at odds, I thought it made no difference.

  I didn’t regard Jonathan Hale as a variable in my life. He was nothing. And the nothing I disregarded turned out to be the something that I should’ve paid more attention to.

  That’s why this happened. There is no other reason than this.

  As I look at Ryke, I realize I have the opportunity to shed light on the situation, or I can leave it how it is. They can believe that their father is a bigger bigot and asshole—or I can show them that he’s just utterly imperfect.

  I don’t like Jonathan. I hate him, in fact, but I pity him more—and maybe it’s this pity that has won me over. Or maybe it’s because I really see no point in revenge.

  Either way, I begin to share my thoughts that won’t rid the hurt he’s caused, but it’ll at least put to rest the villain in their eyes.

  [ 39 ]

  CONNOR COBALT

  I casually suck on a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Scott watches the color of the smoke that leaves my lips: filmy, translucent gray rather than a plume of white.

  He’s constantly making sure I’m not playing him. I remember his extremely opinionated comment a month ago: real men don’t hold smoke in their mouths. And I unfortunately have to abide by this.

  “You realize there are two cameramen on the eastern balcony of that apartment complex.” I tap ash into a tray and then sip my whisky to drown the cigarette taste.

  Scott takes a large swig of his bourbon, barely acknowledging the apartment complex tha
t overlooks Saturn Bridges, a Philadelphia bar that’s been flooded with people since we arrived at 1 a.m. He also chose to stand on the bar’s deck patio, potted plants partially concealing our view of the street.

  Scott wanted to meet in public, the same day that the news broke about me, further reminding me that he loves money only one degree above notoriety.

  I’m aware that this isn’t the best look for me: Connor Cobalt is seen without his wife at a local bar the same day it’s revealed that his marriage is a sham! Rose plans on picking me up, so the “without wife” comment will disappear.

  It doesn’t help that the world believes Scott is Rose’s ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure what the public will think about me meeting him. It’d make more sense if they knew the truth: he was the producer of Princesses of Philly.

  “I’m secure in my sexuality,” he reminds me for the second time. He puts his cigarette between his lips, and I rest my forearm on the iron railing, a fern brushing my hand. “So who was it that spread the lies?” he wonders.

  This is why he asked me out today. Curiosity.

  He also believes the accusations are entirely baseless. He’s weaved enough false webs for the public that he must not take anything in the tabloids at face value.

  With another sip, the liquor burns my throat. “Do you plan on giving them a handshake?” I ask with a growing smile, my voice lighthearted, even if it’s not what I feel.

  Scott shrugs with a smugger smile. Go ahead and smile, you fool. “I just never want to piss off whoever you did.” He raises his glass in cheers to that. I do the same, and we drink in unison. Then he licks his lips and nods. “So…do I know him?”

  I let the embers eat my cigarette. “No, and trust me, you don’t want to be dragged into this mess.” Trust me is a declaration that he’ll cling to, waver over, until he asks—

  “Why spend time with me?” He combs his fingers through his slick, dirty blond hair, doubt in his furrowed brows. “Why try to help me convince your friends to be a part of a season two?”

  I suck on the cigarette again and blow smoke into the air, my posture more like Loren Hale—slumped and apathetic—than like me: domineering and overconfident. “I honestly thought you were into Rose,” I begin my speech in an easy-going tone. “Like—really into her. I was jealous of what you had that I didn’t, of what you could offer her that I couldn’t. And there was a moment where I thought that she liked you way more than me, man.” It’s all a lie, obviously.