Page 195 of Burn Bright
Then I skid to a halt in the living room.
It’s Charlie.
His yellow-green eyes flit from the soy wax candles on the bookshelves, windowsill, and coffee table. I can’t read his blank expression, so I say quickly, “I’ll blow them out. They won’t catch anything on fire.” Except the image of flames spreading across the couch, of me starting an inferno in my brothers’ apartment and burning them alive, is now scoring my brain.
I rapidly begin blowing out candles—my stride lengthy, slightly frantic.
“It’s not kerosine,” Charlie snaps. “This isn’t even the hundredth idiotic idea involving fire that’s been in this apartment. So rest assured, the two pyromaniacs will burn down the whole building before you even light a match.”
Makes sense, still I side-eye a few candles on the bookshelves. I need to blow those out. I’m waiting for him to leave so he doesn’t give me a hard time. “Is that it?” I ask.
He looks me over, unpocketing his cigarettes. Then he eyes the rumpled sheets on the pull-out. “Here’s a tip. Worry more about the girl you left in the bathroom, less about us.” He sticks his cigarette between his lips. “Revelatory for you, I know.”
I clench my jaw. My concern for Harriet isn’t something I feel like I need to defend, but I do tell him, “She’s not just any girl.”
“Didn’t ask. Don’t care.” He lights his cigarette, showing me the flame of his lighter as it eats the paper. He takes a drag, then blows smoke up at the ceiling. “And look, I’m still alive.” He clicks the lighter closed.
I’m not afraid of him causing an uncontrollable blaze. Me, on the other hand…I shouldn’t be living here.The thought has flared up less and less frequently since I kissed Harriet at the Halloween party. I haven’t forgotten the necessity of completing the Kappa bet and securing new housing—but it’s been shelved behind Harriet.
I like that she’s crowding the front of my brain. I like that I’ve stopped picturing Beckett scrubbing his arms at the sink.
The past week, I haven’t felt a half second away from packing my duffel and exiting. I’ve been contemplating delaying for longer. Sometimes, I even wonder if there is a way to stay in New York. With her. With my brothers.
We hear the door open, and I turn as Eliot and Tom slip inside the apartment. When I glance back at Charlie, he’s gone.
Eliot and Tom pass the kitchen with monstrously big smiles while I extinguish the last waxy candles. They might as well be arm-in-arm, skipping in glee, as they put all the pieces together. The candles. Me, naked in a towel. The shower still running in the bathroom.
“What are you doing here?” I ask before they can launch questions.
Eliot chokes on a laugh. “We live here.”
Tom arches his brows. “Dude, we thought you were alone. We were coming back to keep you company.”
“Unless you are alone,” Eliot grins wider. “Is this a side of you we don’t know about, brother? You light candles and set the mood before you jerk one out.” He mimes the motion with his hand because of course he does.
I skate a palm across the back of my neck, still wet from the shower. “Harriet is here. She’s spending the night on the couch with me, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t make a big deal out of this, for her sake. She grew up as an only child. She’s not used to having you two as brothers.” Last thing I want is for Harriet to be uncomfortable.
Eliot can’t suppress his elation. “Next time you want to fuck your girlfriend, just tell us. We’ll go somewhere else for the night, or I can even give you my room.”
Fucking on Eliot’s bed—not on my Bingo card.
But really, I’m still hung up on the other word. “She’s not my…” I can’t even say it.She’s not my girlfriend.
Eliot’s smile fades.
A grimace contorts Tom’s face.
They know me too well. I’ve been hanging out with Harriet so much that there’s no universe in which shewouldn’tbe my girlfriend now that we’re hooking up. I’m the relationship guy out of all my brothers. I have the most experience truly dating—and that’s a terrifying fact considering I’m the youngest.
“You’re not calling her your girlfriend?” Tom just comes out and asks. “Is it because I don’t like her? Because I have no problem going from disliking your friend to disliking your girlfriend.”
I’m not getting into Tom and Harriet’s feud. It’s about as heated as a shishito pepper.
“It’s new,” I say, which isn’t a lie. I know that I’ll be dumping a truckload of suspicion on myself if I continue not callingHarriet my girlfriend. It is weird. I understand that. Because if I knew with absolute certainty that I’d be in New York by the end of the year, I’d be screaming it off every rooftop in the city.
Harriet Fisher is my girlfriend.
I want it so fucking badly. I just can’t figure out if this is a cruel temptation—like I should want to keep my family safe more than I want to be with her. I don’t know…I don’t know, but I’m not going to stress about it right now.
