Page 6 of The Fire We Crave

He winces as he lowers his thickly veined and tattooed arm. He has a mix of styles of ink, but there are lots of ocean references, like a lighthouse surrounded by waves with starfish under the water.

Ember told me he’d been injured, and while I want to ask if he’s okay, I don’t.

Bones’s feet scramble on the ground as he rounds the corner and playfully prances around Smoke’s legs. He was asleep—as usual—when the truck pulled up.

“Bones, sit,” I say, and point to the floor, evading Smoke’s question.

My good boy with big soulful eyes does as he’s told. With tan floppy ears, a white belly, and a wagging tail, he’s always two steps behind on everything, unless there is a scent that’s worth chasing.

“You brought your dog?” Smoke asks, his expression incredulous.

“Obviously, I did. I mean, he’s sitting right there in front of you.”

“Smart-ass. Does that mean there’s dog hair all over my furniture?”

I wince. “Maybe a little. Nothing a good vacuum won’t solve.”

“I brought your bags in,” Atom says, stepping inside. “Hey, Quinn.”

“Hey,” I reply. “Thanks for dinner last night. Tell Ember I ate the doggy bag she sent home with me for lunch today.”

“No sweat,” he says. “You want me to put these bags in your room, Smoke?”

“Sure,” Smoke says. “Maybe leave that canvas one here so I can get the laundry going.”

I take Smoke’s momentary distraction to disappear into the kitchen, but when I see the mess, I know I can’t avoid him forever.

My need to be here transformed from a temporary thing when I brought a couple of cooking gadgets over so I could get a head start on my raspberry and white chocolate chip oat cookies for the following day. I figured that given Smoke’s home has such a nice kitchen with a big double oven—God bless Margie—I could make some things here and transport them there. It’s not exactly in line with all the city food preparation compliance things, but I figured they’d never know.

But then, more things started moving over.

Because given Ember’s bar, Whiskey Fever, was set on fire, I started to think about what would happen if they burned down the bakery. It wouldn’t just be the business I would lose. It was everything in our family apartment above it.

Melody’s baby album.

My mom’s jewelry.

Birth and death certificates.

Photographs taken before digital photography became a thing.

I’ve already lost the people. Even though I resent becoming a keeper of things, losing their personal possessions would be more than I could take.

So, things started coming over in boxes. I often creep up to the apartment during the day to fill one. It’s become anobsession to the point where I lie awake at night, thinking about things I’ve left behind.

Looking at the tall cooling rack on wheels, I guess that might have been the point when it went too far. Large metal objects, designed to go into an oven, that aren’t even sentimental, should have stayed exactly where they were.

“What the fuck?” Smoke asks when he walks into the kitchen, his eyes landing on the stack of cases I use to take cakes over to the bakery.

I turn to face him. “I need your help.”

“No kidding. I said you could stay for a few nights. Why the fuck did you move all this shit in?” He gestures to the boxes and…stuff.

“It was an accident, of sorts. Unintentional. I didn’t mean to.”

“No, I’m not helping you.” His answer is the bluntness I deserve.

“I don’t want to be here, either,” I admit.

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