Playing with Fire

His lips brushed the crown of my head. “You don’t have to continue.”

But I wanted to. For the first time, I wanted to get this off of my chest. To cleanse myself of the burden of knowing the truth and keeping it from the world.

I took another breath, soldiering on.

“I ran to Gram’s room and dragged her out. We couldn’t jump out. There were rosebushes directly under her window, and Grams had a bad hip. Besides, she was fast asleep. I shielded her with my body, wrapped her around like a human blanket, then charged back to the hallway. By the time we made it out of her room, the second floor began to collapse, like a stack of cards. A part of the wall warped on top of me. It pressed against my left side. Hard. For a few seconds, I couldn’t move. We were crushed against a wooden plank, and the plank was on fire. I felt my face, my shoulder, my arm meltin’ away. I was sure this was it for me. That I was already dead.”

Another tear fell on his chest. I remembered thinking being dead still had some life to it. I could still hear things and feel pain.

“I fainted. Probably from the adrenaline and pain. What woke me up was Grams. She was wide awake and screamin’ bloody murder, crushed beneath me, but safe in my arms. Her voice kicked me into action. I wanted to save her, no matter the cost, like she’d saved me when my momma …”

Left me at her door.

Ran away with her tweaker friends, never looking back.

“I grabbed Grams with the remainder of my strength and got us both out. I remember what I did when we were finally out of the house. Just when it started folding into itself, like in the movies, the flames dancing so high, they tickled the sky. I rolled on the grass, screamin’. It was damp from dew, and soothed my burnin’ skin. By then, there were a few ambulances and fire trucks parked in front of our door. My downfall had an audience. Everybody came out of their houses to watch. Including Mrs. Drayton, who got out with her three-year-old son, Liam, clutched in her arms. He’d asked her aloud, ‘Mommy, why does Grace smell like toast?’”

I closed my eyes again.

His chest caved beneath me.

Toastie.

That was how the name stuck. Eden Markovic overheard Liam say it, and passed it on to Luke McDonald, who told all his friends, who told their parents, who told everyone at church.

Even when they didn’t say it to my face, they still said it behind my back. I knew every single person in Sheridan heard the tale of how I rolled around on the grass like a dog in heat, shouting like a madwoman as my face melted away in front of an audience.

The ungraceful fall of Grace Shaw, who’d almost slipped from the deadly claws of the screwed-up future her mother had given her. Almost.

“Texas …” The rawness in West’s tone snapped me out of reliving that moment.

I shook my head. I wasn’t finished. “Wanna know the worst part?” I licked the salty tears around my mouth.

“I thought I already did.”

I smiled bitterly. He had no idea.

“When Grams woke up at the hospital, she was very confused. She didn’t remember anything. Not even the part where I got her out of the fire. I don’t think she had dementia back then. I think she just blanked out, or maybe it was the first raindrop in what was going to become a thunderstorm. Either way, I was on life support and unconscious when they asked her what happened …” I stopped, forcing myself not to break. Not to scream.

I wasn’t there when she’d given them her version of the story. I’d been busy fighting for my life as my inner organs failed, a few rooms down from her. “When they asked her what happened, she said her granddaughter must’ve tried smokin’ one of her cigarettes and left it unattended downstairs. She didn’t remember causing the fire. Still doesn’t. She thinks it’s my fault. And … well, I let her think that, because it doesn’t matter. By the time I woke up, everybody made up their minds, and the insurance company accepted her version of things. It was a done deal. The fire was my fault.”

That was the story Grams offered Sheridan, and the townsfolk ate it up.

Grace Shaw, daughter of Courtney Shaw, the infamous, late junkie, played with fire and got burned. After all, she must’ve inherited Momma’s flavor for trouble.

“Really, it was her fault for trying her grandmomma’s cigarettes. What kind of kid does that?”

“An utterly irresponsible one. And it took away her best asset—her beauty!”

“Try only asset. Poor Savannah Shaw can’t catch a break. First, her daughter. Now, her granddaughter. She ain’t nothin’ short of a saint, yet both of ’em broke bad.”

I heard it all.

With my ball cap on, my oversized clothes, and my head down, I was barely recognizable. Completely invisible. And hard to miss when you were out on the town, eager to gossip.

I lived in a town I hated, among people who were suspicious of me, with no chance at escaping, because I needed to take care of my grandmother—who’d started the fire she’d blamed me for.

West cupped my cheeks—even the tainted one—and forced me to look up at him.

I blinked away the tears, holding my breath as I awaited his verdict.

He kissed my forehead, his lips lingering on my skin, then said the most stupid, outrageous, beautiful, awful, touching thing anyone had ever told me.

“I’m grateful that Tuesday went down the way it did.” His voice was scratchy. Thick. “Because the worst day of your life gave me the best version of you.”

Grace

 

The next day, I walked the length of Lawrence Hall toward its cafeteria, hugging my textbooks to my chest. I thought about how weird it was that so many things had happened in the same week.

West had begun to work at the food truck.

The rehearsal for A Streetcar Named Desire had started.

And because our university auditorium had been under construction ahead of the big show, fifty percent of my classes had moved to Lawrence Hall—where West spent most of his time—until the end of the semester.

Normally, I wouldn’t have seen him too often. We were on opposite sides of the university, in different buildings, in different cafeterias, even different sections of the parks.

Suddenly, our lives were entwined everywhere.

An arm snaked through the narrow gap of the men’s restroom, yanking me inside.

My back hit the wall with a thud.