With the bright gleam sparking in his gaze he looks like a fucking fiend. I’d never say it to his face, but I thought that scene with Story at his parents’ party was a mistake. Tristian has the kind of wealth and privilege that South Side kids like me have dreamed of our entire lives. Secretly, I’ve been rubbed a bit raw at his willingness to risk losing it all. It’s not that Story isn’t worth it, because she is. It’s that he can never really understand the magnitude. It’s not even his fault.
But looking at him now, I come to this realization.
The life the Mercers want for Tristian isn’t him. He’d blow his goddamn brains out. Tristian was born for a life of menace, the danger of the flame, the heat of the blaze, the tenacity of the ember. Probably the thought of leaving all this behind for crisp suits and glass walls is as unbearable to him as slinking back down into a South Side gutter is to me.
The heat builds and I grab his arm. “Come on, dude. Time’s up.”
At the door, he takes one last look, whistling appreciatively. “Fuck, man, she’s a beauty. My finest work yet.”
I glance back at the fire. He’s not wrong. The licking flames, the way it zips from one spot to the next, up the curtain and across the ceiling… “I see it.”
“What?”
“The symphony,” I answer. It’s a living thing, riled and writhing, reaching its spindly fingers toward the ceiling.
We step out into the cool, quiet night, the door shutting behind us. The first window shatters by the time we reach the car. The flames are on the second floor when we’re pulling out of the parking lot. Sirens echo through South Side as I shift the car into third and hit the highway, but we’ll be long gone by the time they arrive.
Two fiends vanishing in the night.
24
Story
When I slip into my coat and turn around, I’m hit with a tidal wave of déjà vu.
“Oh,” I breathe, gaping at the bouquet of flowers.
My stepbrother is holding it in front of him stiffly, but pulled to the side a bit, as if he’s holding a weapon. When I just stare at them, too taken aback to form a proper reaction, he says, “You like flowers.” It’s not a question. In fact, it sounds more like a heated accusation.
“I-I-I do,” I say, reaching out to take them. They’re daisies, which isn’t a surprise. What is surprising are the dark chrysanthemums scattered within the bouquet. They’re absolutely gorgeous. An exercise in contrasts. Light and dark. Cheery and muted. I try to imagine him at the flower shop in town, picking them out. Did he ask for someone’s advice? Or did he choose them himself?
For a second, I half expect him to yank them away and storm out of the den. Instead, he waits for me to grab them before jerking his hand away. He uses it to straighten out his tie. “We should leave soon.”
I’m so busy smelling the flowers, reaching out to stroke the spiky mum petals, that I don’t hear him. “I should—”
“Put them in a vase,” he interrupts, extending a hand toward the mantle. “I remember.”
There’s already a vase waiting there—the same one I’d used for the daisies Tristian had given me. They died long ago, before being strung up in my bedroom, pressed and currently drying. It’ll be nice, I think as I arrange the flowers in the vase, to have some life back in here again.
Killian waits patiently as I fuss with it, turning the vase just-so, and once again I’m struck with the feeling I’ve done all this before. Only that’s not quite right. There’s a nervousness here that wasn’t present the night I escorted Tristian to his family’s Christmas party. I can hear it in the way Killian is shifting restlessly behind me, buttoning and unbuttoning his blazer, only to button it once more. I can see it in my hand’s tremble when I go to pick up my clutch purse. I can see it in the lurch of his eyes when I turn around, rising from my ass to the flowers on the mantle.
Assuming what some of the nervousness is about, I pull the ribbon from my purse—the one he’d tied around my wrist on New Year’s Eve—and offer it to him. “For good luck.”
He stares down at it, but when he reaches out, he just uses his fingers to close my fist. “I wasn’t lending it to you. I was giving it back.” I tilt my head in confusion, and he releases a slow breath. “You wore that ribbon in your hair, the first time you came to one of my games.”
“Really?” I blink, trying to place it in my memory. “Tied around my ponytail,” I suddenly remember. It used to be a far more vivid shade of cobalt blue; our high school’s spirit color. “I thought you didn’t want me there,” I admit, giving a confused laugh. “You were so grumpy all night.”