Page 76 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

He names Mike’s street.

Leaning back, he closes his eyes as the car pulls away from the curb. He feels slightly dizzy, sweating through his too-warm shirt even though the driver closed the windows and turned on the air conditioning. Must be the toll of travel combined with the heat that his body will need to adjust to first.

Yeah, Toby doesn’t even believe it himself.

“First time in Hawaii?” The driver doesn’t sound as if he particularly cares.

Toby keeps his eyes shut. “Yeah.”

“Long flight?”

“Sorry, can we just... not talk?” Shaking his head, Toby spares a quick look at the houses that rush by outside. He thinks he spotted the ocean, framed by a hotel and a glass-dominated building that reflects the sun, but maybe it was just a spark of light in his eyes. He closes them again and adds, “Nothing personal, man. Just a little exhausted, that’s all.”

“Sure thing.”

Blessed silence descends. Unfortunately, it allows Toby’s brain to churn at a faster pace, no distraction provided by words, only the reggae music that is meant to be relaxing. It isn’t working.

There’s a remote chance it was an outdated address. Or maybe Mike isn’t home, might not even be on the island. He could have decided to visit his sister, or the relatives he grew up with—there are countless reasons for Mike to be somewhere else. He did, however, land only a day before Toby.

Outside, the distance between houses grows. Flowers bloom in every nook, small-leaved plants crawling up the sides of buildings, palm trees reaching high. While there must be sufficient rainfall to sustain the vegetation, there is not a cloud in the sky. Absently, Toby watches the amount on the meter climb. Paradise does not come cheap.

He should tell the driver to turn around, drop him off at a decent hotel. It’s not a good idea to show up on Mike’s doorstep like this, tired from the flight and in need of a shower.

Just then, the taxi turns into a side road. The driver’s gaze flicks up to meet Toby’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Which number did you say it was?”

“We’re here?” Fuck. Toby is not ready. He is so not ready. He’s less ready than he was when the plane took off in Newark.

“Depends.” A careless shrug. “There are over a hundred houses on this street, and every single one of them comes with a nice, big property. Could be another few minutes.”

My mistake, Toby intends to say. Must have given you the wrong address, sorry—just turn around, please.

What comes out is, “Twenty-seven.”

“Ocean side. Nice.” The driver hums a short, cheerful tune that clashes with the reggae music. A minute later, the car stops in front of an open wood gate that is framed by flowers, palm trees visible in the garden, the ocean half-hidden behind a small house that looks like something straight out of a Sotheby’s catalogue: tasteful, subtly luxurious without being garish about it.

Wow.

Toby already suspected that there’s a little crazy in Mike, but exchanging this place for a standard hotel room with a complimentary treadmill, even temporarily? He’s certifiable.

“You gonna get out?” The driver sounds curious rather than impatient, but it snaps Toby out of his contemplation.

He pays the substantial sum without much thought, then tucks his wallet away and wills his body to move. He’s come this far. It shouldn’t be hard to take those last few steps which are no more than a completely logical conclusion to this entire trip, so really, what is he waiting for—a heavenly sign of some sorts? Rainbows without rain, church bells without a church? There’s an open fucking gate. How much more do you need?

He pushes the door open, slides out of the cab and grabs his suitcase from the trunk. Turns to face the house. Mike’s house. After the air-conditioned interior, the warmth outside is dizzying and he stands still for several seconds, trying to get his bearings. Behind him, the cab pulls away and that’s that: he’s arrived.

Enough already.

Toby nudges the gate fully open with his hip and makes his way along the paved driveway, an old pickup truck sitting at its end. Apart from that, everything looks clean and well-tended—not the work of an owner who’s been gone for weeks and weeks. That leaves three options: Mike has a gardener, he doesn’t live alone, or this isn’t his actual home. Bourgeois component aside, Toby would like to pick door #1, please. Also, he needs to quit stalling.

Marching forward, he counts the number of steps from the gate to the front door. It distracts him from the anxious knot in his stomach, from reviewing all the ways this could go wrong. If Toby can shoot some fucker while his hands are tied behind his back, he should damn well manage to ring a fucking doorbell. It is not that difficult: set suitcase down, lift one arm, extend index finger, press button.

The sound cuts through the peaceful quiet of a late afternoon. For a moment, even the ocean seems to fall silent.

Toby repeats it—press, hold, and look at that: it gets easier.

Something clatters inside the house. It’s followed by a yelled, “I’m coming, hold your horses!”

Mike.

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