Page 40 of The Fire We Crave

I’m utterly baffled by how he managed to sneak in here and climb into my bed without waking me, given the slightest sound grates on my jagged nerves these days. I hate to think it might be because I’m getting used to him. That the sound of his footsteps on the wooden flooring, and the scent of his cologne, and the vibration of his body is…comforting…rather than frightening.

It’s also hard to truly think about anything but him with his chest pressed up against my back and his strong arm beneath me, holding me tenderly. Through my boxy pajamas, I canfeel his heat. His palm has slipped through the buttons to cup my breast, and even in sleep, he occasionally strokes his thick thumb over the nipple.

I’m sure there must be a pool of moisture between my thighs because of the sleepy gesture.

His thick erection sits aligned between the cheeks of my butt, and I wish I weren’t wearing shorts.

I’ve grappled with the notion of consent here. He certainly didn’t ask if he could join me, and definitely didn’t ask if he could touch me the way he is. But I find myself weak for him.

And I’m guessing he’s in here because he was drunk. Is it wrong of me to lie here and benefit sexually from the ways he’s crowding me and stroking me and making me feel safer than I have in weeks, when he’s clearly oblivious to what he’s done?

I have no answers, because sometime in the last hour, I’ve decided that I want this man, even though it is in no one’s best interests.

Sometimes, horrible and irrational questions would pop into my head. Like, what would Melody say, or what right does she have to be upset at me at all? And do I hate her for taking my own life from me and making me doubt this moment?

I don’t remember him coming home or what made him climb in behind me. I’m just glad he’s here, with his warm breath and soft snores.

All the different versions of him.

A stranger.

A young adult I once knew.

A man I’m getting to know.

A safe harbor.

When I first woke up, a burning question had rattled around in my chest. Did he climb in here because he was confused as to which sister was in his house?

But then I rationalized. It’s been so many years since we saw Melody. That’s a long time to hold on to those kinds of feelings for someone. And it’s irrational that a man like Smoke would care that much about a girl he had feelings for once. There is no way he’s spent so much of his life waiting for her to return.

It could only have been me he thought of in that moment last night, even as the lingering scent of cigarettes and alcohol remind me he was unlikely sober when he joined me.

And maybe this is the two of us.

Vacillating in how we feel about each other.

Uncertain of the other’s intentions.

Gently, I extricate myself from his hold. He reaches for me, mumbling my name, and the sound of it spilling from his lips gives me second thoughts about leaving my bed. Well, his bed that I’m currently occupying.

Itwasme he thought of, then. And it’s me he’s reaching for now.

But there is something vitally important about consent. I know he got into my bed drunk, which is a violation of my consent, but…it’s hard to explain why that doesn’t bother me as it should. Or why I feel that continuing to stay with him when I know that, is a violation ofhistrust.

I perhaps should feel guiltier than I do for staying as long as I did once I realized he was there.

As I head to the kitchen, I see the trail of his arrival as clearly as if I were a crime scene investigator.

Various clothing items, a belt, a lighter, and a packet of cigarettes adorn the hallway. His cut is the only thing neatly placed over the back of the chair.

And it strikes me that it’s sweet that the only thing he really took care of was this black leather. I stroke my fingers over it as I walk by.

On the counter is the sourdough. It’s been left exposed all night so is now likely harder than a brick. But I wince at the horrible hack job. The knife is placed precariously on the edge of the cutting board, and I deposit it to the side of the sink, where I find three of the big rings Smoke wears on his fingers. They’re big solid brash blocks. A letterIon one and anOon the other. The third has a skull.

The morning sun is already high and hot, turning the pine-studded mountains to gold. There’s a comforting constancy in putting the coffee in the filter and setting it to brew. The hiss and fizz and bubble are reassuring.

Today, Kinsey is opening the bakery, and I send her a quick note letting her know I’m running late, but that I’ll let her go earlier to make it up to her.

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