Page 117 of The Fire Went Wild

“That’ll all fade.” He crawls backward over me, the dappled light making him look like some kind of predator of the swamp.A rattlesnake or an alligator—sleek and dark and dangerous. “I’ll help you out, okay? I’ve got basil lemonade ready for you. My grandma always said it helps.” He smiles again, his eyes brimming with affection. “She had it for me after my first death.”

He slides his arms under mine and helps me up to sitting, my head grazing the top of the tomb. Then he drags me out, slow and gentle. I help him along as much as I can, scooting my butt over tangled blankets and crushed flowers. They’re everywhere. Whole blooms braided into my hair. Dried petals sticking to my chest and arms. I’m still in the white dress, although it’s become dingy from being outside for a year and a half.

We emerge into the sunny yard, and I immediately have to squeeze my eyes shut, it’s so bright. Jaxon wraps me up, pressing my face into his chest. “I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ll walk you up to the house, okay?”

I nod into him because I don’t want to talk, and he helps me up to standing. My legs shake like they’re barely able to hold my weight, but it’s okay because Jaxon is there propping me up. We move together, taking slow, stumbling steps. When I start to fall, he catches me and murmurs soft words of reassurance in my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut against the sun most of the time, but every now and then I blink out at the world, seeing it in flashes because of the brightness. His yard is thick and wild and very, very green.

“You’re doing so good,” he says. “I’d carry you, but the earlier you start moving your legs, the faster things’ll come back.”

I nod again and focus on the sensation of the tall, soft grasses against my feet and ankles. “We’re at the porch,” Jaxon says. “Careful with the steps.”

With his help, I make my way up to the screened-in porch, where I open my eyes experimentally. The screen blocks enough of the sunlight that it doesn’t hurt as much, and I take in mysurroundings. It’s like seeing them for the first time. The porch. The yard. The swamp.

Home, I think distantly. Which isn’t right. Home is supposed to be California. My little apartment on Camellia Street. I never told anyone where I was going when I left to find Edie, and I wonder if I’ve become a cold case on CrimeSolvers, if Internet sleuths have argued over my disappearance.

“My clothes,” I say roughly. “My paintings?—”

“Ambrose cleared your place out for me right after you died,” Jaxon says. “I’ve got everything up in the spare bedrooms.”

“Ambrose?”

“Yeah. I didn’t want to leave your body alone.”

Of course. That was part of our agreement. So was Jaxon finding a way to get my stuff. It comes back to me in fits and starts.

“We should tell Edie I’m okay,” I say. That was another agreement. We tell her everything.

“Of course. I’ll call them and let them know as soon as you’re settled.” He smiles, and he’s so handsome I feel a burst of dizziness.

Jaxon doesn’t let me fall, though.

“But first, let’s get you that lemonade.” Jaxon guides me into the house and sets me down on the sofa in the living room. The mummies are gone. The living room looks cleaner, actually. Like he dusted and tidied up.

I sink into the sofa cushions, my muscles already aching from exertion, while Jaxon gets the lemonade. He comes back with a tray, two big glasses, and an antique pitcher.

“It’s got basil and some mint,” he says as he pours my glass. “A touch of feverfew. It does help. Promise.”

I drink it down in frantic, thirsty gulps. It doesn’t taste like any lemonade I’ve had before—the herbs add an earthy freshness to it that seems to brighten me up from the inside.

“It’s delicious,” I tell him.

Jaxon grins. “Meemaw’s secret recipe.”

I wonder if I’ll ever meet her, Jaxon’s grandmother. If I’ll meet any of his family. Surely I will.

I can’t die. We have all the time in the world.

Jaxon scoots closer to me, taking my hand in his. His palm is warm and rough and dry, and I remember how I felt it as I floated through the darkness.

“How many times did you fuck me?” I ask him.

His cheeks immediately darken. “I don’t want to answer that.”

“A lot, then.”

“I missed you.” He sounds sheepish and embarrassed and that just makes me swell with love for him. Because it didn’t feel like a year and a half to me. A few days. Maybe a week. But he waited for me all this time. He covered me in flowers and kept me safe from all the ravages of the Louisiana swamp. He protected me.

“I’m not mad about it.” Now it’s my turn to blush. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

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