Page 8 of The Love You Fight For
Macon tosses the ring box to me, and when I catch it, I swear I can almost feel it burn my palm.
“Pawn it and buy something she’d fucking hate,” he says.
I put the ring box in my pocket without a word.
“Ready?” he asks, bending over and snatching the gas can before handing it off to me.
I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I take a few steps forward and splash some gas on the stuff inside the cardboard box, making sure to soak that fucking pink teddy bear. When I hand Macon back the gas can, he gives me a booklet of matches, so I strike one and drop it into the box without thinking twice.
Everything is in flames within a second, the cardboard turning to ash before my eyes and the cheap pink teddy bear practically melting in the heat. Macon and I take a few cautionary steps backward, and then I fold my arms over my chest, content to watch the last year of my life burn.
I turn slightly to tell Macon as much, but a loud pop rings outfrom the box along with a spark of flames, making Macon and me both jump. When a second, louder pop sprays even more flames into the air, we yelp and take off running, stopping about twenty yards from the box before turning to stare at it warily.
“Shit.” Macon pants. “The fuck else was in there?”
I squint at the flaming box, once again mentally running through the contents before barking out a loud laugh.
“Perfume,” I say through my laughter. “I forgot about the fucking perfume.”
“Fuck. Lennon told me to bring Benny.” Macon laughs, pulls off his ball cap, and swipes sweat from his forehead before putting the cap back on. “Maybe I should have called him.”
Benny’s a kid we’ve known since middle school. He’s a volunteer firefighter now. That just makes me laugh harder.
“It was just one bottle,” I tell him with I grin. “I think we’re good now.”
We stay with our feet planted where we’re standing, though. We don’t approach the box again until the flames are dying down and all that’s left of my relationship with Sable are charred remains and ashes.
Good fucking riddance.
I seta Dr. Pepper with lime and a mock Bloody Mary on the end of the bar, popping an extra pick full of green olives into the tomato juice.
Lennon grins at me, grabbing the garnish pick and eating one of the olives.
“Thanks, Casper,” she says while chewing.
I screw up my face in feigned disgust. “You might as well be drinking pasta sauce.”
She laughs like I knew she would, but she doesn’t argue.
Even though booze was never Macon’s vice of choice, and he says it doesn’t bother him when other people drink, Lennon’s stillgone sober in solidarity. She misses brunch cocktails, though. It’s something she picked up in France and hasn’t lost. When they come into The Outpost, it’s always mock Bloodies or mock Mimosas for her, and Dr. Pepper with lime for Macon.
“Can you keep an eye on the door for Sam?” Lennon says casually, and I hope she doesn’t see how I freeze momentarily. “She’s on the way here. Just tell her we’re in the booth in the back.”
I raise an eyebrow as I slide extra napkins in front of her before she can ask for them.
“The princess is coming down from her gilded tower?”
Lennon rolls her eyes. “Be nice, Casper. I don’t want to play mediator.”
“I’m always nice.” I shrug, and she scoffs.
“No, youusedto be nice. Now you’re all snarky and antagonistic.”
I don’t say anything. I take an order and fill a draft beer, ignoring Lennon’s eyes on me. When I slide the pint in front of the customer and drop the dollar bill in the tip jar, I turn back to face her. She takes a sip of her drink and pops a brow.
“I’ll be nice,” I tell her earnestly.
“Hmm.” She hums, popping another olive in her mouth.
