One Night Flame

by Beverly Evans

  “You want to shower? A shower always feels good.” I push her hair out of her face, which only makes her cry harder. “Come on.”

  I take her to the bathroom and turn on the water. Her pajamas smell like smoke, but I think they’re salvageable. I shut the door and let her clean up in peace. I don’t have much that’ll fit her besides a t-shirt. Maybe some boxers, too. I toss her pajamas in the washer.

  I lay them just outside the door and let her know they’re there. She comes out forty-five minutes later, looking exhausted and defeated. My t-shirt is hilariously long on her, and she probably had to roll up the boxers to make them fit. I wish I were seeing her like this in different circumstances because she’s adorable right now.

  “Hey.” I offer her another glass of water.

  “Thank you,” she says, sniffling. “You don’t have to do this. You didn’t have to save me.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Just wait around and wait until you discovered the fire?” I ask with a snort. “Come on, sit down.”

  I guide us to the couch, my hand on her back.

  “No, I mean, you didn’t have to come into there and actually rescue me.” She wipes her face again. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” I want to hug her again, but I hold back. She seems tense, and I don’t want to push her.

  She starts to cry again, and Mabel takes that moment to jump onto the couch and into her lap, tail wagging. That makes her cry even harder, but at least she’s smiling a little bit.

  “She’s such a good dog,” she says, her voice thick.

  “She is.” I give Mabel a scratch in her favorite spot above her tail, and she melts deeper into Nadine’s lap.

  “Why is everything such a shit show in my life?” Nadine asks, mostly to the room and not me. “Just when I thought things were getting steady, this happens. I just want things to be okay.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I pet Mabel. I want things to be okay for her too and feel guilty that they aren’t. Not because of anything I did, but because I can’t protect her from bullshit like this. I know she’s tough enough to handle herself, but that won’t stop me from wanting to help her.

  “Do you think all my clothes are damaged?” she asks. “And what about my kitchen? Shit, all of my kitchen stuff—”

  “We’ll investigate and look at the extent of the damage. I trust every single one of those guys with my life,” I assure her, putting my hand on her back since she looks like she’s about to throw up. Even if that’s a little bit of a lie. “Shit, I’ll look to see if anything can be salvaged myself if you want me to.”

  “That would mean a lot to me.” She doesn’t shy away from my touch.

  “You can stay here as long as you need to, also,” I say. “I just want you to feel safe.”

  Her eyes widen, and I realize that her staying might mean that we continue hooking up. I’m sure that after the disaster that is her history with dudes, she doesn’t need the complication of whatever the hell we are thrown in there.

  “I can take the couch, and you can take the bed,” I add quickly. “If you don’t mind sharing with Mabel. She refuses to sleep in her dog bed in the bedroom even though she has one.”

  “I’d love to cuddle with her.” She smooths her hand over Mabel’s head.

  “Good.”

  Something deep inside me wants to hold her and comfort her all night, but I know that would be a bad move. So instead, I get up and go to straighten my bed out for her. Hopefully I can make sure she gets some sleep. Whatever we have going on needs to sit on the back burner until she gets back on her feet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nadine

  As it turns out, getting the smoke smell out of clothes isn’t super hard if you don’t have a shitty washer and dryer. Noah has the fanciest ones I’ve ever seen, and they’re super quiet. Going from New York City, where the idea of having laundry in your unit is seen as super luxurious, to my little old house, which had an okay set, to this… it’s been a lot.

  All of Noah’s house is like that — so new and fancy. He really did this place up when he renovated it.

  I wish I knew what caused the fire at my old place. Maybe it was old faulty wiring. Noah is keeping me posted on everything. He got in a little trouble with his boss for rushing in without being suited up, but he assured me everything is fine.

  Nothing about it is good, besides the fact that I could save my clothes. Literally everything else is damaged, so now I just have a bunch of clothing, my laptop, some random things that were in drawers, and my bedding. After I stopped crying, I started laughing in a hysterical, manic kind of way. I feel like I’m doing the cha-cha with luck — one step forward, two steps backward.

  I’m not sure what step I’m on living here with Noah. It’s been a month, and we’ve only just now gotten into a friendly roommate rhythm. At first, he treated me like a nervous foal, but when I proved to be a little more stable, he started treating me normally. Now we hang out like friends most nights. Just friends. Well, it’s a friendship where he’s wildly protective of me, while also trying to not treat me like a child. I would be annoyed if I didn’t see how hard he tries to not baby me too hard.

  I pick up one of my pajama tops — my favorite set, with stripes — and sniff it. It smells mostly like laundry and not smoke. I want to put it on since I’m just getting home from work, but I pause. Noah isn’t home yet, but he might get home at any second now. I hate wearing a bra around the house, especially under the soft pajamas, but going braless around Noah makes me too self -conscious.

  When I first got here I went braless, my thought was, “My boobs aren’t that big, so there isn’t a huge difference between me wearing one and not wearing one. Why not?”

  But then I went without one and nearly caused an explosion. He noticed almost immediately, and things got awkward. He hardly looked at me for the rest of that evening. So now my boobs are in prison until I crawl into his incredibly comfortable bed that he’s graciously loaned me for the past month.

  We haven’t shared this bed (or the couch or any surface) this whole time.

  I’m grateful that he knows I’m a fragile mess and is respecting that by not making a move. The whole fire thing aside, I still don’t know if I can fully trust him with my feelings or if he’s even interested in an actual relationship. But jeez. Sometimes the tension between us is so thick that I can hardly breathe. Sometimes I just want to jump his bones, but I know myself well enough that that would be a massive mistake. I’m already tempting fate with my iffy luck. I shouldn’t walk into the danger zone and blow up my opportunity for a place to live that isn’t my mom’s house. Not that living with Mom is bad, but I know she would be in my business after something like this. Any time I’m in a crisis, she’s in a crisis too. Unlike Noah, she tries to baby me.

  And I don’t want to ruin what’s becoming a pleasant friendship with Noah, against all odds. Just because I could do something about my crush doesn’t mean I should.

  My dildo survived the fire, so that’s how it has to be. Dead silent orgasms, in the middle of the night. I don’t even dare to use my vibrator in case he hears it. Lusting after him silently and trying to not fall under his spell like I did those nights at the cabin.

  I sigh and find a t-shirt and leggings to wear, switching over to a slightly less constrictive bralette underneath. I hear Mabel bark and run around, which means Noah is home. My belly flutters a little bit against my will, and I press my hand to myself.

  Don’t do something stupid or dorky, I think to myself. I stay put in the bedroom until I hear him settle a little bit. He always tosses his keys in the dish near the door, kicks off his shoes, and greets Mabel. Sometimes he sings a goofy little song to her that I don’t think he knows I’ve heard, but mostly he just talks with her, telling her she’s a good girl and that he missed her. Then he always goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Then he usually just stares blankly, like food will appear until he realizes it won’t.
r />   When he gets to the kitchen, I hear him put down some grocery bags and his backpack. I slide out of the bedroom, trying to act casually like I haven’t been listening to him for a few minutes. He dresses casually for work in a button-down, untucked, and dark jeans. Both pieces fit him super well. What is it about the rolled-up sleeves that get to me? His arms are so nice. And so is his hair when he actually styles it for work, then messes it up. And so is the rest of his body.

  “Hey,” he says when he notices I’m there.

  “Hey. You got the stuff?” I look inside the bags, which are filled with food.

  “Yep. And it didn’t take me a thousand years to get it all too,” he smiles proudly. It’s cute.

  “Wow, you’ve gotten good.”

  All of the ingredients look right. I’ve been cooking for us and teaching Noah some cooking techniques since he refuses to take any money from me as rent. It’s the least I can do, and he’s learning how to cook a proper meal with like, actual nutritional value.

  “How long does it take to cook? I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving. It’ll take about forty-five minutes to an hour, I think.”

  I’m making — we’re making — roasted vegetables with chicken breast and tahini sauce. Chopping the vegetables will take the longest, but after that, it’s smooth sailing. Most of my kitchen stuff got melted, and Noah just ‘randomly decided’ to stock up his kitchen with gorgeous knives and appliances not long after I moved in. He never said it was for me, but I still thank him every day.

  “Going to need a snack, then.” He digs an apple out of one bag and goes to rinse it off. After he does, he bites a chunk off of it, takes it out of his mouth, and tosses it to Mabel to eat. Ew. “What? I’m not going to dirty a knife just for her.”

  “Whatever. Come on, let’s get prepped.”

  I take out the ingredients we need to chop up — broccoli, cauliflower, brussels sprouts, and potatoes — and turn the oven on to pre-heat. He gets out the cutting boards, bowls, and two knives. The knives are totally lost on him, but for me, they’re a dream. They’re sharp and not too heavy to handle. It’s been so long since I’ve cooked with proper tools in an actual space. I forgot how much I love doing this.

  I show him how to cut the brussels sprouts and the broccoli, and eye him as he does a few. He’s awkward with the knife, which is strangely endearing. He’s not awkward with many things.

  “Music?” He asks after we chop in silence for a little bit.

  “Sure.”

  “Coin flip to see who chooses.” He digs into his pocket to get change.

  “Hey, you chose yesterday, so it’s my turn, isn’t it?” I ask, putting my knife down.

  He gives me a mischievous grin. “New rules.”

  “You can’t just change the rules when it suits you!” I grab my phone and start to pull up my music app. “That’s it. You’re getting a full blast of pop.”

  “First person to get their phone into the speaker wins,” he says, grabbing his phone from his pocket.

  “What? No!” I laugh and hip-check him aside to reach the phone speakers he has set up on the windowsill. I block him with my legs to prevent him from reaching over me, even with his long arms. I put my phone in place and then pick a playlist. Some girly, sugary pop that I know annoys him a little bit on purpose.

  “Come on, that’s not f—”

  “You can’t say it’s not fair if you’re the one who set the rules.”

  I shrug with my hands on my hips, grinning like an idiot. It’s a childish game, but it’s funny to see his own plans backfire against him. We played similar games to this when we were kids, but I always took them way too seriously. That’s probably what made him tempted to pick on me more. Now that he’s less of a dick and more playful, I kind of like the games.

  “Fine, whatever.” He rolls his eyes and washes his hands again. I do the same since he’s enlightened me as to how filthy phones really are. Most of the time, he’s on call for work, he’s actually going to medical emergencies and not fires, so he knows all the things I kind of wish I didn’t know now. So many things in your house can kill you if you do stupid things with them.

  We go back to chopping the vegetables, and I bounce to the music. He focuses hard on the sprouts, making sure they’re all cut perfectly. He pays a surprising amount of attention to detail. Once the veggies are all chopped, I toss them in olive oil, season them, and dump them on two sheet pans.

  “Can’t we shove them all onto one pan?” he asks, a hint of a whine in his tone that I wouldn’t have caught if I didn’t know him as well. He’s the one who has to do the dishes — which only involves putting them in the dishwasher, the big baby — so he complains whenever I have to use more than one large dish.

  “No, because they’ll steam and won’t roast.” I slide them into the oven. It’s also gorgeous and high tech. I can’t help but drool over it all the time. The oven in my now-damaged house didn’t even have a timer on it.

  “Chicken time?” he asks. He likes cooking meat.

  “Yep.” I open the package.

  Mabel’s head perks up when I do, and she steps from the wood floor in the living room area to the tile in the kitchen.

  “Hey! Stay out, Mabel.” Noah points a finger at her, and she backs up, slowly. “All the way.”

  She finally settles with her body on the wood and her head and front paws on the tile. Good enough. We finish up cooking the chicken right as the vegetables finish. I throw together the sauce quickly, since he can’t get the seasoning quite right yet, and plate the food.

  Unlike my old house, his house has a dining table, but we sit at the kitchen island, perpendicular to each other, to keep it casual. I pour us each a glass of wine, and we dig in. It’s delicious, and Noah doesn’t come up for air for a while. Now I understand why Mom loves cooking for all of us so much. It’s satisfying to make someone happy with something as straightforward as food.

  I flush and stab a piece of broccoli. Mom always says that food is love, but connecting food with Noah, and therefore love with Noah, is a dangerous path I don’t need to go on.

  But this vibe in the kitchen feels so domestic that I can’t help but go there. I cooked for my roommates in college sometimes, one of whom was a guy, but it felt different. This feels intimate, like something a boyfriend and girlfriend would do after a day at work. I glance up at him, and he’s guzzling his wine, seemingly unfazed by all of this. I cut into another vegetable and focus on chewing.

  Noah finishes before me, as he always does, and puts his dish in the dishwasher.

  “Any cookies or treats from the bakery?” he asks, opening up the fridge yet again.

  “You know that things don’t magically appear in the fridge if you open and close the door a bunch of times, right?” I ask, laughing.

  “A man can hope,” he sighs and leans against the counter. “I’m going to watch a fight or two while I do a little work if you’re interested.”

  The TV is visible from the kitchen, so I don’t have much of a choice. But to my surprise, I don’t mind it — the TV’s location or martial arts. If I’m in the living room watching something I like, like an old anime or a silly reality TV cooking show, he can’t help but hear it. To my surprise, he sometimes comes over to watch it with me even though he hated this stuff when we were kids.

  “Nah, I’m okay. I might sit over there with my laptop when I’m done.”

  He nods and leaves, presumably to change out of his work clothes. I finish dinner up and put away the leftovers, and by then, he’s on the couch, flipping to the fight he wants to watch. I grab my laptop and sit on one of the big leather armchairs adjacent to the couch. I dangle my legs over the side and pull up a bunch of sites I go on to wind down. Nothing exciting is happening on any of them, so my eyes drift to the fight.

  In the month I’ve lived here, I’ve gotten a crash course in mixed martial arts. I now know a few fighters’ names, especially the female fighters, and understand
what gives a certain fighter an advantage over another. I still don’t understand all the jiu-jitsu moves and stuff, but I can guess at what’s a good move and a bad one.

  This fight isn’t one of the big events that we watched with Andy that one time. It’s a bunch of fighters who want to get into the big leagues, competing. The very first guy looks like he’ll kick the next guy’s ass easily — he’s enormous, and from the pre-fight footage, he looks like he could punch a punching bag in half. The other guy is still big even though he’s not as huge but looks a little soft.

  “He’s going to win,” Noah says, pointing at the more out of shape looking guy before looking back at his computer “I know it. Gut feeling.”

  “How?”

  “Just watch.”

  I do, and sure enough, the softer guy wins. The fight is long, and the huge muscular guy gets tired after the first round. The softer looking guy is much more agile than he looks.

  “See?” Noah says. “These huge guys have power, but a lot of them rely on their strength to end fights fast instead of their endurance.”

  “What got you into this anyway? How do you know all of this?” I ask him.

  He pauses for a second, not looking at me. “My uncle got me into it. I had a lot of loose energy as a kid, so he had me channel it into martial arts.”

  “Oh.” I know he lost his uncle somewhat recently. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He finally looks at me, a sad smile on his face. “I still miss him every day, but I’ve learned a lot from him. A lot of good.”

  I look down into my water cup, feeling sad right along with Noah. These dips into his deeper emotions always throw me. There’s a lot more going on beneath his surface than I ever thought.

  “If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be some douchebag banker type. He’s the main reason I do what I do now,” he continues, his eyes focusing on something out the window. “It’s weird realizing how random things you do or conversations you have can change your life drastically.”