Page 52 of Memories with Fire

“I hate her,” I breathe, barely audible. It doesn’t matter. I could have mouthed the words, and Luke would know.

He nods, tugging me towards him, releasing my hands to wrap his arms around me. My own arms slide around his midsection, and I press my face into his bare chest, breathing him in. Breathing comfort in. Warmth. Stability.

“In this moment,” he says, pressing his mouth against the top of my hair. “In this moment you hate her. Don’t decide right now that you hate her for the rest of your life.”

That’s a big ask. One I don’t know if I can follow through on.

Eighteen.The number of text messages my mom sent Luke.

Nine. The number of times she’s called him.

Sitting at his kitchen island, wearing one of his Waco fire t-shirts that barely covers my ass when I sit, I stare at the messages until they blur in my vision. Wringing my hands in my lap to keep them from trembling with the rage still swimming inside of me, my mind feels like it’s on a hamster wheel, trying to work out the logistics of what my mother must have done to get me to this point.

Luke texted, called, emailed, checked my socials. And when I came out of my coma in the hospital and was able to look at my phone, there was nothing. No trace of him. By then it had been weeks since we’d seen each other. Long enough without contact that he’d given up hope, and believed my mom when she said I wanted nothing to do with him.

I don’t understand why she would do it. There isn’t a single reason, as I wrack my brain, that makes sense. She met Luke that summer. Seemed fine with him. She was cautious, sure, but I was a seventeen year old kid, about to fly the nest and go to college. Of course she was cautious. She’s cautious about everything in life.

“I can hear you from here,” Luke says, breaking through my thoughts.

Across the island, he’s slicing through avocados to make homemade guacamole for the chicken enchiladas, waiting for the oven to pre-heat, and I give my head a small shake and sigh. “I just can’t figure out why.”

“You’re not going to figure it out until you’re ready to talk to her.”

Luke’s phone dings on the counter, and I glance down at it and sigh again. Nineteen.

Mom: I’m begging you. Please have her call me.

Scrubbing my face with my hands, which probably does nothing to help the light remains of the makeup I was wearing, I let out a loud, frustrated huff before dropping my arms and head onto the counter with a thunk. What am I supposed to say to her? My fingers itch to tell her off, to say the hell with her, but I can’t. She’s my mom—and I’m the only thing she has left in this world.

Luke was right. I can’t make a decision right now. Knee jerk reactions never end well, and I probably do need to hear her out. Eventually.

The water turns on, the sound of it running filling the kitchen, then turns off, and a moment later arms slide around my middle from behind, pulling me up from the counter to sit back against the chair. Luke leans forward, grabbing his phone from the counter, holding it out for both of us to see.

He types: I’m fine. Stop calling my friends. I’ll talk to you when I’m ready.

“She’ll know something is wrong,” I mutter, and with some reluctance, I take the phone from him, and start to delete the last line, then stop.

Maybe it’s better if she knows I’m angry about something. Why should I shelter her from what I’m feeling? She’s the one that created this mess, not me. I tweak the message until I’m happy with it and then press send before I overthink it.

Me: I’m fine. Stop calling my friends, I told them to block you. I’ll talk to you when I’m ready, until then you’re blocked here too. If you don’t know why, go back ten years in your memory and figure it out.

Hitting the block button on her number after the message is delivered, I put the phone down and give it a bit of a shove, pushing it away from me on the counter. Even though she’s blocked, I don’t want the temptation of looking in Luke’s blocked messages folder to see if she’s messaged back.

Luke nudges my cheek with his nose. “Good girl.”

His arms are still around me, one hand pressed to my stomach, the other having found my thigh when I took over the phone. Turning my head towards him, my lips gently brush across his once, twice, and by the third time, I’m capturing his mouth, half twisting in the chair to bring my hand to his face. Holding him there, needing to taste him.

Fingers dig into my thigh, gripping me almost to the point of pain, like he’s refraining from moving his hand up my leg to the apex of my thighs. Where I want him. Need him.

“Make me forget,” I groan into the kiss.

Our kiss is frenzied then, Luke taking the reins, plunging his tongue between my lips to sweep through my mouth. I swear I taste myself on him, and he swallows my cry of need as my fingers curl into the short hair at the back of his head. His grip loosens, pushing one leg to the side, opening me to him before his hand slides up my thigh until he’s between them. One slow, delicious stroke of his finger over my clit has my hips bucking, seeking more. I turn towards him, hooking my other arm around his shoulder as he moves around the chair to gain better access, his finger sliding lower until he’s at my entrance.

My body knows what to do with him this close. I’m drenched for him already, wanting more than he’s giving, but willing to take what I can get.

Except… I want more. I need it. I need him. To wash away the sudden grief cascading over me for everything I know I lost. For the moments like these that I wasn’t allowed to experience. For a future that wasn’t meant to be lived. Taken from me, not because I was unloved or mistaken, but because someone I thought loved me ripped them away and pretended it wasn’t their doing.

“More,” I gasp into the kiss, my fingers digging into his shoulder. When he breaks away, one finger partially inside of me, and leans back, I don’t hide the tears that have filled my eyes. “Please. Make me forget. Make it better.”

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