Page 39 of Wildfire
I hate running, but it’s one of the only things I can do to clear my head. Like Xander said when we arrived, occasionally your phone comes to life and messages come through. This morning, my mind was already working overtime after dealing with drunk Aurora, so when it started buzzing in the early hours I checked it.
The first thing I saw was a message from my mom with a picture of her and Dad out for dinner, smiling into the camera like nothing’s wrong. That triggered my curiosity and I started to scroll up, eventually piecing together that Dad had won big somewhere and they were celebrating. The frustration was enough to have me running before anyone was awake.
Dad’s addiction issue has never been with alcohol; it’s gambling. The alcohol consoles him after losing, and like most gambling addicts, he loses a lot. It’s the alcohol that turns him nasty, and that’s when his texts start to change into something harsher. When he’s on a winning streak, he’s a different man, but streaks are what gamblers say is happening to make it seem like some kind of skill is involved and not purely a series of lucky occurrences.
Aurora is still waiting for me to answer.
Talking about my parents feels like opening Pandora’s box. I sometimes wonder if the load would feel as heavy if I had someone to confide in, but I can’t bring myself to tell anyone. Even thoughHenry knows my history, I still find it difficult to tell him as stuff happens. It’s embarrassing to admit that my own dad doesn’t care about me as much as he cares about betting slips.
I settle for my default vague answer. “Not much, no. I’m used to it, though, don’t worry. I can’t believe you were up early enough to see me.”
She takes my thermos back, her hand brushing mine ever so slightly, just enough to send sparks up my arms, and places them both on the now clean table. I watch her as she methodically unscrews and presses buttons until she’s poured me a cup. “Would you believe me if I told you I was meditating?”
“No.” I accept the coffee cup, watching her over the rim as I take a sip.
“I was sick. That’s why I was awake so early,” she says, laughing awkwardly as she pours herself a tea from her own thermos. “I like to think it was food poisoning and not the excessive amount of tequila I drank last night. You may remember it; I was the one making a fool of myself in front of you.”
“I do vaguely remember having to decline your skinny-dipping offer.”
Her cheeks flush pink, eyes widen. God, it feels good not to be the one blushing for once. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find a hungry raccoon and feed myself to it. Bye.”
I grab her hand as she tries to turn to leave. “It was funny, in a very stressful I-don’t-want-to-be-alone-with-this-drunk-girl-wanting-to-get-naked way.”
When I realize she’s not leaving, I let go of her hand. She clears her throat and sips from her cup, watching me carefully as she lowers it. “Do you need any help today? Emilia banished me from the dance area.”
“Why?”
She kicks out her leg, the darkening purple indicator of bruisingspreading across her shin. “I was bored because she’s a control freak and I tried to hurdle the freestanding ballet barres.”
The laugh that rips out of me is so loud I don’t realize it’s me until she starts laughing, too. Dragging a hand down my face, I shake it off. “If I let you help me, can you be good?”
“Usually, with the right motivation.”
I sense I shouldn’t ask further, but I can’t help myself. As much as I don’t want to be, I’m the moth and Aurora is the brightest flame. “What’s enough motivation for you?”
Her teeth sink into her lip again while she pretends to think and my brain flashes back to a very different scenario where I watched her do that. “You thinking I’m good.”
I’m going to get burned. “All right then, grab a paintbrush.”
AURORA HAS HER LEGS OVERmy shoulders. Again.
This time she’s sitting on them to paint the highest point of the storage shed, but the same inappropriate thoughts remain. My hands cling to her thighs, which are warming my ears, and her hand is intwined in my hair while her other swishes the paintbrush against the wood.
“Have you ever seenRatatouille?” she asks, running her fingers through my hair again.
It’s hard not to physically react to goose bumps spreading down my body. “Of course I have, why?”
“I feel like the rat.” She tugs on my hair gently. “Should we see if I can make you cook?”
“Excuse you.” I squeeze her thighs playfully and her hand tightens in my hair. “His name is Remy.”
“My apologies, I didn’t realize I was in the presence of aRatatouilleexpert. Okay, I think we’re done up here.”
The shed looks ten times better than it did when we started, andwhile it probably wasn’t necessary to spend so long working on a random structure, the lack of interruptions has been nice.
“Russ?”
“Yeah?”
