Page 42 of Burn for You

I say that, but I know it’s not true. That’s just what she allows me to see. Not that I’ve given her any reason to show me anything more. I don’t know if I want to know more. It almost scares me to think of what’s laying under her surface.

“I never said thank you.” I draw my gaze back to look at her, but she’s got her eyes closed. “For the fire, for…helping me. For saving me.”

I nod, not that she can see me. “Yeah.”

The flames dance in front of me. I’d almost think it was beautiful if I couldn’t hear May’s terrified voice in every crackle of wood.

I can’t believe a kettle on the stove caused all of that. It just proves how easily your life could change if you’re not careful. I don’t even want to think about what could’ve happened to May if I’d never turned up. Or even if I showed up ten minutes later. But my mind shows me, anyway.

I look away, not being able to stand it for another second, and my eyes land on the girl now peacefully sleeping on my couch. I always thought that she was so naive at twenty-five, so oblivious to how harsh this world could be, but that look in her eyes every time we talk about the fire reveals how worn she feels. Like she’s felt that kind of fear before, the kind that makes your legs want to give out. I can’t help but wonder what ever made her feel that way.

Her breathing is steady as she lays there, peace finally touching her features. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so relaxed in my presence. Her eyebrows are slightly curved instead of fiercelydrawn together. Her lips rest together like cushions, and I notice how long her eyelashes are as they cast a shadow across the apples of her cheeks.

I stand up from where I’ve been kneeling by the fire and walk over to her. I can hear her short breaths as I look her over.

I grab the corner of the blanket and pull it up over her shoulders, making sure that she’s covered, before I switch off the lights and walk down the hall to my room. But when I get to the doorway, I can’t help but look back, noticing the backdrop of the flames behind the girl who nearly got swallowed up by them, and I walk back down the hall.

I drag the extra blanket she has draped over the back of my couch into my arms and lay it down in between the couch and the fireplace, creating a makeshift bed for the night. As much as I know May likes her space, there is no way I could close my door and sleep peacefully in my bed, knowing she was out here, so close to the flames. I know they’re contained, but my instincts tell me I shouldn’t leave her alone right now. So even though I am probably the last person she wants sleeping by her side, that’s what I’m going to do.

I wakeup to the soft sound of the kettle brewing. It takes me a moment to catch my bearings, to remember why I’m lying on the hard concrete floor of my living room, to remember the way I didn’t want to let May sleep out here next to the fire by herself, and to remember the way that she told me a kettle is what set the fire in her cottage.

I wrestle with the blanket that is wound around my legs and sit up, cursing the hard floor as my back aches when I stand up.

I round the couch, rubbing my eyes, to see May standing there in the kitchen. Her hair is a mess. She’s pulled half of it up into alittle bun at the back of her head, and she’s still wearing those sweats from last night.

Her gaze flicks up to meet mine. “Coffee?” She asks as if we are normal roommates who do this kind of shit all the time.

“Sure,” I say, playing along, not sure where this is going.

She was beyond pissed at me last night. I was pissed at myself. That apology was real. I should've never spoken to her like that. I was mad, finding her the way I did in my kitchen. But it’s no excuse. I was a dick. That’s why I'm so surprised to wake up to find her offering me a cup of coffee.

I pull out one of the stools from under the island and sit down, letting my head hang in my hands as my eyes adjust to the early morning light. Why did I design this place to have so many windows?

In my peripheral vision, I can see May opening multiple cupboards and drawers around her.

“Second drawer down on the left,” I say.

She flicks me a quick glance. “Thanks,” she says, opening the drawer before she stops in her tracks, looking perplexed as she peers into the drawer.

“What?”

“For a chef, you have really boring mugs.” She pulls two plain white mugs out of the drawer.

“What about being a chef means I have to have fancy ceramics?”

“I don’t know, I just thought you’d want to have nice crockery for your chef level food.”

“Coffee isn’t really chef-level food.” She glares over at me. “Why, what kind of special mugs do you have?” I say jokingly, but when I see the look on her face, I realize she’s serious.

A small smirk tugs the corner of her lip up before she schools her face back to neutrality. Or is it more like sadness? “Mugs are a form of self-expression,” she says.

“How is that?”

“Well, when I felt happy, for example, I’d pull out my llamamug. It always made me feel even better just looking at it. Or back at home, I always used to give Isla the Claude Monet mug I had, for obvious reasons.”

She talks with her hands, adding the expressions I’m missing, given that she’s looking down at the mugs in front of her.

“When I felt sad, or sick, I’d use my rain cloud mug. It had a kind of frowny face, and it made me feel like I wasn’t the only sad one out there.”

---