Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

  I thought there were two left, at most.

  This is a big win, and I recognize what it took Connor to reach it. I open my mouth to thank him, but he puts a finger to my lips, to hush me. “We did it together.”

  He said I was in his head again, keeping him grounded. I try not to smile at this proclamation, but surely he can feel my lips rise beneath his finger.

  He grins and then nearly laughs as I plaster on a decent glare. His fingers drift to my chin.

  I rest a hand on my hip. “You’re distracting me from our liberation.”

  “We’ve already been liberated. Your fire is just ceremonial.”

  “Our fire,” I amend.

  His grin widens into a full-blown one. “Our fire,” he agrees.

  I pop open the plastic case, Sharpie scrawled over the DVD: Rose’s room. 4/23/13 – tied to a chair, 43 minutes. My stomach overturns. I immediately chuck it into the pit, a growl escaping as I do so.

  I pause.

  I listen for a moment to the satisfying crackle and the melting plastic, my spirit igniting with each burst of sparks, orange embers glittering like celebratory fireworks.

  Finally. I’m destroying the things that Scott used to hurt us.

  Connor’s arm slides around my waist as the flames consume and eat these tapes.

  “Now you.” I hand him a DVD case, not wanting to look inside.

  Without hesitation, he throws the case in, and in less than five minutes, we’ve added each device onto the sizzling pile, along with the cardboard for good measure.

  I spread a fleece blanket on the grass, and we both sit on the soft fabric, watching the darkest portion of our lives burn to ash.

  I understand that the ones online will never disappear, but we’ve reclaimed fifteen intimate moments and they’ll forever be ours. I breathe cathartic breaths, expelling ugly grit that has clung to me for so long.

  I exhale and exhale. Connor’s strong arm fits across my shoulders like extra security and warmth. I find myself leaning into him, my legs knocking into his, and it’s not long before we peel our gazes off the fire and onto each other.

  Connor has always had these deep blue, austere eyes that flit between serenity and hard-pressed truths. It’s as though he contains the world’s knowledge and history, the dark ages and the light ones. Behind his own entitlement lies all of these grim and wonderful facts about millenniums of people: the first voyagers, the first philosophers, the very first scientists.

  When I look into his eyes now, the millenniums shrink to a pool of two. Two people. Just us. The facts are swept with truths, and history is right now. Beside a fire.

  He cups my jaw, his lungs expanding, his breath joining with my breath. “‘Dreams are true while they last,’” he recites in a whisper, “‘and do we not live in dreams?’”

  I hear his heart beneath those words. “Tennyson,” I answer with a strong inhale.

  A flood of emotion courses through his normally inexpressive features, reddening his eyes, drawing lines above his cinched brows. He tugs me closer, and all the sentiments that accompany love pull me to him and him to me.

  He recites, “‘I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.’”

  “Lewis Carroll,” I breathe, “Alice in Wonderland.” I cling to his shoulders, my hot gaze never leaving him.

  I do feel mad with him, so swept in love that I can’t untangle my jumbled, encumbered thoughts.

  His gaze journeys across my features, as though he’d like to extend his stay for one more minute, one more hour—anything that time will give him, he’d take. I touch his hand that holds my cheek, our lips aching to meet.

  And he murmurs, “‘My drops of tears I’ll turn to sparks of fire.’”

  Our clutch tightens to each other.

  “Shakespeare,” I reply. “Henry VIII.”

  He leans me back, guiding me to the blanket. His body hovers above mine, his forearms on either side of my head, his lips so close to my lips. My core heats the longer the silence encases us, the longer the fire crackles and our mistakes burn.

  Connor combs my hair back and leans close to whisper, “So long as I may be living, I live with you.”

  I lose it at this line, tears building and wetting my eyes. Not because it’s from a favorite play or a favorite piece of literature, but because these words belong solely to him.

  I stood in a wedding dress.

  I stood right across from him, from that rising grin, and he whispered, So long as I may be living, I live with you. The strength of his vows beats inside my veins.

  I reply what I replied nearly three years ago, “In spirit and in mind, I live with you.”

  He brushes my tears with his thumb, one kiss away from my lips, he breathes, “I live with you.”

  He threads his fingers with mine, his eyes glassing, and he kisses me so soulfully that my body rises to meet his.

  The strength of our vows beats inside my veins.

  He breaks only once, his lips trailing to my ear, and I stare up at the night sky, burning alive with this love. “Forever is not nearly long enough,” he murmurs another line that belongs to him.

  Forever is not nearly long enough.

  I wholeheartedly, undoubtedly agree.

  [ 58 ]

  CONNOR COBALT

  Every machine is occupied at the gym on a Saturday afternoon. We probably should’ve stayed at home, but Ryke and I were too cooped up in the house to workout in the basement. It didn’t help that when we left our neighborhood, three carloads of paparazzi tailed us and advertised our location to the public.

  “MARRY ME, RYKE MEADOWS!” can be heard through the glass walls. Other men around the weights shoot us disgruntled looks for the disruption.

  Ryke tries to ignore it, doing push-ups in the free-weight area. Loren performs sit-ups next to him, and I stand on the tops of his shoes to keep him stationary.

  I sip my water and spot the posters outside along with shrieking girls and guys. I count the Team Ryke ones. “Five proposals for marriage, three to breed, and one to fuck,” I say. “Someone should inform them that dogs can’t read.”

  Ryke takes his hand off the ground and gives me the middle finger for calling him an animal. Then he continues doing a one-handed push-up. I just finished a circuit workout, so I don’t join Ryke on the concrete floor to one-up him.

  I just tower above his lean frame.

  “Down, boy,” I quip.

  The corners of his lips rise in a fraction of a smile. It’s barely detectable, barely noticeable, and maybe I haven’t seen beneath all of Ryke Meadows’ layers, but I do know one thing: we’re good friends. I’d do just about anything for him, and I’m certain he’d do the same for me.

  Lo relaxes after one last sit-up, stretching his hands behind him. I step off his shoes but remain standing. I watch his smile fade to a more guilt-ridden expression, his brows pinched.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He looks up with even worse remorse. He carries more than necessary, beating himself up before I will ever even think to harm him.

  I arch a brow. “You couldn’t have possibly replaced me with a more intelligent, witty, and handsome human being—since none exist—so whatever you did won’t upset me.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’ve been talking to my dad again. Just on the phone,” he admits. “I’m so fucking conflicted because I feel like if I even think about him, I’m taking his side over yours. And it’s not like that—what he did was wrong, but he’s just messed up…”

  Ryke stops mid-push-up and shifts to a sitting position. He’s quiet, his breathing heavier but I assume it’s less from working out and more from the sudden change in topic.

  “I don’t mind,” I answer truthfully. “Jonathan won’t ever be my favorite person, but it’s hard for me to hold a grudge against a man who made an idiotic mistake out of haste and out of fear and love.” Malicious intent would give me pause, but I don’t feel any from him. “So please,” I
tell Lo, “don’t guilt yourself on my account.”

  Lo nods a couple times, processing this. He looks to his brother, who hasn’t said anything.

  “He needs to learn, Lo,” Ryke reminds him. “You said that, remember? You can’t fucking run back to him this easily. It gives him the idea that he can do more shit like this to us in the future. Do you want Moffy around that? You have a fucking kid—”

  “Okay,” Lo cuts him off. “I get it.” He lets out another deep sigh, his hands splayed flat behind him, and his gaze returns to me. “Get back on my feet, love.”

  “This isn’t quite my favorite position, but I’ll make an exception for you, darling.”

  I’m about to stand on his feet when a forty-something man at the weight rack coughs beneath his breath, “Homo.”

  If glares could kill, Loren Hale has just massacred the gym in point-two seconds. “What was that?” he snaps, not needing to shout since the man is literally ten feet from us.

  The guy picks up a forty-pound dumbbell and simmers silently.

  I have no guilt about my decision to tell the truth. That I slept with men in my past. I am proud of the choices I’ve made in life, and I won’t let other people dig beneath my skin and make me feel ashamed of who I am.

  There isn’t a single bone in my body that cowers. I will always stand six-feet-and-four-inches tall.

  “I can’t stand people,” Ryke mutters under his breath.

  “Next time we’ll go to the dog park,” I banter.

  “Fucking hil—”

  Out of nowhere, the man just drops the forty-pound dumbbell on Loren’s hand, the one splayed flat on the concrete. Lo lets out a choked, pained noise, and Ryke springs to his feet.

  I crouch down to Lo on instinct, to check the damage to his hand

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Ryke yells at the guy, who huffs with deep-seated rage.

  “I’m okay,” Lo tells me, clenching his teeth and favoring his right hand. Three of his knuckles are clearly crushed, and I suspect his other bones fair about the same.

  “No one here wants to see that!” The man gestures between Lo and me with disgust.

  I’ve stood on Lo’s feet for sit-ups in this exact gym before. We’ve joked without anyone complaining. It’s still all changed based on what I’ve admitted, and I won’t ever take it back. But I would’ve rather the man thrown the fucking weight at me than hurt my friend.

  “Speak for yourself!” This doesn’t come from Ryke. Or from me. Or Loren. It’s a random guy on a weight bench.

  “Yeah!” someone else across the room pipes in.

  “We don’t want you here, man!” The exclamation is directed at the dumbbell guy. Gym employees in red-collared shirts begin to make their way towards us.

  “Are you serious?” the guy sneers. “They were flirting!”

  “Booooo!” The noise comes from the treadmills.

  Ryke cools down at the support from over half the gym, and he squats in front of his little brother, inspecting his quickly swelling hand. Lo looks up at me like, can you believe this? He’s not talking about his injury. There is more surprise and awe in his eyes than pain.

  I think I share some of that awe—proud that intolerance can be met with reactions like these. The gym employees speak quietly to the man.

  “You’re not kicking me out. I’m leaving,” he sneers. “And I’m telling everyone I fucking know not to come to this faggot gym.”

  As soon as he heads to the door, almost everyone stops their workout and starts clapping at his departure, happy to see him go as much as we all are.

  “I’d join, but…” Lo winces as he tries to close his hand.

  “You need a fucking cast.”

  “I need a drink.”

  Ryke shoots him a glare.

  Lo’s brows rise. “Joking.” He adds, “I promise.”

  Ryke nods, believing him, and I reach out for Lo’s left hand and help him to his feet.

  Lo winces again. “I want to go home first and ice it—”

  “This isn’t a fucking sprain,” Ryke retorts.

  I frown at Lo. “Usually it’s your brother avoiding hospitals, not you.”

  “It’ll be on the news the minute we park near the ER, and I’d rather go home, ice my hand for an hour and tell Lily. That way, she’ll find out from me.”

  If I had to choose who has the highest pain tolerance of all of us, it’d be Loren Hale, without question.

  * * *

  “Please, Lil. I’m okay. It’s okay…” Lo tries to calm his wife with a hug, and she wipes her tears repeatedly, trying to be composed for him. He favors his right hand, all of us joined together in the kitchen.

  “I know—I just…I can tell it’s hurting you.” She rubs her splotchy cheeks, guilt-ridden that she’s crying in the face of his injury.

  I search the kitchen cabinets for any painkillers with Rose. And Daisy zips a plastic baggie with ice, passing it to Lily, who hands it to Lo.

  I knock shoulders with Ryke as he heads to the fridge, and we both exchange a look that says you were in my way first before returning to our natural course.

  “My hand barely hurts,” Lo tells her and he tries to close his fingers into a fist, but he struggles to move his joints.

  “Don’t do that!” Lily holds his arm still, her eyes big and wide. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Lo.”

  Lo nods once.

  I really want to drive him to the hospital now. The logical part of me—which is almost all of me—combats with his decision to linger at the house.

  Rose and I end up at the same lower cabinet, crouched and digging through plastic containers for anything that’ll help him.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt your movie for this long,” Lo exclaims. He turns to Willow who sits contemplatively on the bar stool, observing everything with respectful, shy glances. “You’re having a shit day.”

  Willow pushes up her black-rimmed glasses. “Being dumped the day of prom isn’t as bad as breaking your hand.”

  Lo’s cheekbones sharpen, gritting his teeth. “It all just depends.” For Lo, emotional hurt will always outweigh physical pain.

  Rose passes me a new basket, and I quickly thumb through seasonal allergy medicine and decongestants, finding nothing stronger than Advil. Rose growls under her breath, and she glances back over her shoulder at Lo.

  I do too.

  “I’m driving him in twenty minutes,” she says beneath her breath.

  I’d comment that I’d drive him in ten, but the way Lily has her hand on his waist, silently guiding him towards the garage door—I think it’ll be more like five minutes until he’s heading to the hospital.

  Rose and I stand up together with nothing more than an Advil bottle. I dole out a few pills and pass them to him. Daisy is quick to retrieve a glass of water.

  “Can you all seriously stop freaking out?”

  “I haven’t said a word,” I mention.

  “Exactly,” he retorts.

  Ryke is busy making a turkey sandwich, putting lettuce on top of the meat, and I can’t believe for a second this is a selfish act to feed his own hunger.

  Daisy hops up on the counter next to him, swinging her legs. “Have you all watched The Young Victoria before?” she asks Ryke, Lo, and me, an easy distraction to alleviate tension.

  “That’s what you’re watching?” Lo asks with a cringe. He looks to Willow. “You let Rose talk you into a boring period film?”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  “I don’t know…comics made me think of Declan, so Rose suggested something different. I like it so far.”

  Lo’s face sharpens, all severe lines. “Don’t let him ruin comics for you, Willow. That’s shit on his part. Okay?”

  Willow nods but stares solemnly at the counter, and I can’t ignore my phone any longer. I check the message.

  You free? Come over in 5 min. Two of my friends from L.A. are here, and we’re going to hang out – Scott


  I have to say yes.

  I look up and life is still moving at the same pace. Ryke cuts half of his sandwich with a butter knife, and he walks across the kitchen to give it to Lo.

  “Thanks, bro.” Lo accepts the food with his left hand.

  As Ryke returns, he cuts half of the sandwich once more and passes a quarter to Daisy. He climbs on the counter beside her, eating what remains. They often share food, but this gesture today reminds me how close they’ve become and how similar they are.

  “Your phone,” Rose tells me.

  It buzzes again, and she sees the next text blink on the screen.

  We’re going to start without you – Scott

  I’m not sure what “start” implies, but I know I have to be there. I may own the sex tapes, but I’m missing a certain overwhelming victory that sends Scott out of our lives, ensuring that we’ll never have to see him again.

  It’s a delicate process that I think may come to a head today of all days. If his friends from L.A. are here, he may be willing to do something illegal to entertain them, and of course I’m invited.

  I’m his best friend.

  “I have to go,” I whisper to her.

  She nods, her shoulders pulled back and eyes flaming as though to combat Scott, who sits across the street, in a house so close to ours. I have to go, I think.

  And I don’t want to detach from her. I’d rather stay here and be set ablaze, but based on facts—based on his friends’ arrival—I sense that this is it. The last time I have to stomach his presence.

  “I’ll be here for you,” she says, telling me she’ll be in this house.

  She’ll be so much closer than that. I have no doubt that she’ll be in my head, right there with me, even when it hurts. It’s what I need.

  I walk through the foyer and then open the door. On my way down the street, I spot a familiar face hurrying this way. As he approaches, I notice the formal black slacks, the white button-down and a bouquet of spring flowers.

  Garrison Abbey.

  When we returned to Philadelphia after the lake house, we dropped Garrison off at his parent’s, so he had to confront flunking out of Faust. Willow said that he’s going to enroll in Maybelwood Preparatory next year, an hour from this neighborhood and ironically the same school Ryke attended.