Firebloods

by Hays, Casey

  I stare at him, stunned. The timer sings out, and he turns his attention to his cookies as if nothing else but baking has been happening all night.

  “Look, I’ll crash on the couch in the den.” He deposits the tray on the countertop and leans back on the heels of his hands, a pot holder dangling from his fingers. “You won’t even know I’m here. Besides, my mom thinks it’s a good idea too.” He shrugs. “So I guess we’re stuck.”

  I can’t believe it. This must cross the mother/daughter line of trust in a parenting handbook somewhere. I don’t even know what to say, and I’m suddenly as angry at Kane as I am at my mother. Whatever. I’m done.

  I drop the spatula in the sink with a sharp clatter and leave Kane with a dirty look and a kitchen to clean up by his own damn self.

  Ten

  The sun decides to peek at me through a slit in my curtains long before I’m ready for it. I shift out of its way, but it’s too late. I’m awake. Rubbing at my eyes, I turn over with a grunt and stare at the tiny thread of light that creeps across the ceiling. And I remember.

  Kane is downstairs… sleeping on my couch. I release a huge sigh and sink deeper into the mattress.

  I went to bed with a fire in my belly, furious that we spent the entire evening together, and he never mentioned the phone call from my mother. But tucked even more deeply in the flames of my anger was his kiss. I dreamt about him all night because of it. His stupid, green eyes and those perfect pecs chased me all over the place behind my closed lids. At one point, he was flying, and I couldn’t get away from him, and then I didn’t want to. It all ended with me falling into his arms and kissing him… for a really long time. And he was a good kisser too, which just made me mad. And confused.

  And really wanting to kiss Kane O’Reilly again.

  I’m so angry right now, and I want to scream. Aside from these weird lingering feelings, I have to get mentally geared up for a camping trip, and my traitor of a mom is in Portland on some stupid clandestine mission. I hate to complain, but I’m sure facing a lot of unneeded pressure for one small girl.

  Noises on the stairs catch my attention. I lift my head and stare at my closed door. A knock.

  “Jude?”

  Great.

  I drop my head against my pillow, my breath catching. “Just a minute.”

  I drag on a robe over my tank and boxers and scramble into my bathroom. Black rings line my eyes, and my hair is a ratty mess. I desperately need a shower. What I don’t need is Kane knocking on my bedroom door at early-thirty in the morning, especially after he spent every minute in my head last night. I’m not prepared for this.

  Sometimes, I wish we were still ten. If we were ten, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.

  I sniff an armpit, brush my teeth, and run a comb through my hair. When that does nothing to make me more presentable, I pile all my dark strands on top of my head. My reflection blinks at me disapprovingly.

  Oh, shut up!

  I need to be mad. Because I am mad, right? Yes. I’m still mad at him. I check that my scowl is firmly in place before I open the door. Kane leans against the wall, a mug of coffee in his hand.

  “Hi.” He straightens and holds out the mug, eyes steady. I hesitate a second before I take it. “I, uh, made breakfast.” He thumbs at the stairs over his shoulder. “If you want some.”

  In response, I step into the hall with such force he has to back up to make room for me. I breathe him in, and it’s a fight to keep my expression hard. Neither one of us says a word for a good ten seconds. We just stare at each other, this awkward presence hanging between us as if we’re meeting for the first time in our lives at the top of the stairs outside my bedroom door.

  After several jarring heartbeats, Kane shrugs up his shoulders once and lets them fall back into place. “I’m sorry?”

  He says it like it’s a question. As if he’s begging me to review the entire evening from his perspective, and that if I do, I’ll realize that an apology isn’t necessary. I twist my ring over once with the tip of my thumb.

  He shuffles his feet, shoves his hands into his pockets. His black hair is wet and curly all over the top of his head. He must’ve showered in the guest bath. He’s also replaced his blue tee with a gray one. So… he came prepared, did he? My eyes settle on his lips, but I harden myself a little and lift my chin.

  “So now what?” He perks up at my question. “Are you supposed to stay on my couch every night until Mom comes back?”

  He angles his gaze at me. “We’re supposed to play it by ear.”

  “Play it— What?” Exasperated, I whisk past him and pound down the stairs. “I don’t need a babysitter, Kane.”

  “I know that.” I hear his feet on the stairs behind me. “But I’m not telling your mom no.”

  On the bottom step, I spin around to face him. My untouched coffee splatters up over the lip of the mug, wetting my fingers. I ignore it.

  “So you just do anything Mom says? You don’t think maybe you should ask a few questions? Like why? Because I would sure like to know.”

  He descends the few steps that separate us, his eyes pleading. “Look, I’m just doing what I’m told. And I’m not about to tell my mom no. Trust me, I’ve been there. It’s not pretty.”

  I ignore his attempt to be funny.

  “Why you? Why not Jonas or Devan, or—or an adult for that matter?” I lift my chin and repeat, “Why you?”

  “She trusts me.”

  “She trusts you? The good-looking boy who’s crushing on her daughter? She trusts you to stay here with me alone? All night?”

  The beginnings of a grin form at the corner of his lips. “You think I’m good-looking?”

  My temperature climbs a notch. I whirl away, mostly so he can’t see my cheeks flushing. Whether they burn from anger or embarrassment is questionable at this point.

  The breakfast nook is set with orange juice, eggs, bacon, toast, biscuits and gravy, and coffee. It smells delicious. My stomach grumbles, and I’m further irritated at his kind gesture. Ugh. Does he have to be so… good at things… all the time?

  “I know you like your eggs scrambled,” he says.

  “I don’t, actually.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He toys with a smile, and I glare at him. My phone is still on the bar. I retrieve it on the way to the nook. The chair scrapes across the tile as I tug it out and sit, placing the mug next to my plate. Kane joins me, propping his elbows on the table.

  A car whizzes past, causing a streak of light to dance across the nook walls. I select a piece of bacon and crunch into it. He ladles up a spoonful of eggs and plops them on my plate. I ignore him and slide through the notifications on my phone. There’s a text from Frankie.

  CAMPING TRIP TONIGHT. PICK YOU UP AT 3. NO BACKING OUT OR YOU DIE.

  That’s a bit extreme. I close the thread and dial my mom’s number. Of course, it goes straight to voicemail. I drop the phone on the table. Kane holds a piece of bacon suspended a half inch from his mouth. He seems content in the silence, but the look in my eyes makes him lift a brow.

  “Did Mom say anything to Gema about why she’s in Portland?”

  “No,” he insists “She just said to keep an eye on you. That’s it.”

  He lowers the bacon and leans back, propping the chair until the two front legs leave the floor. A hand rests on his thigh. He looks relaxed as ever… except his pupils. They shrink so small in the morning sun that his irises explode with shades of dark green. His Adam’s apple bobbles once with a sharp swallow, and I pierce him with narrowed eyes. He’s hiding something. I drum my fingers against the tabletop before I slide them around my mug. He sighs.

  “What do you want me to say?” he asks.

  “I stay alone all the time, you know,” I retort.

  “I know,” he nods.

  “So… you can leave, then.”

  I clench a fist as I wait for his reaction. I never should have let him stay. I should have fought him. The legs of his chair hi
t the floor with a resounding click.

  “Okay,” he nods.

  He rises, wipes his hands on a napkin, and grabs up his duffle bag. And oddly, a flash of panic sears me.

  “You’re just going to leave?”

  What am I doing?

  Confusion fusses up his face. “Yeah.”

  “Really? No fight?”

  “You want me to stay?”

  When I don’t answer, he drops the bag and lifts his hands in defeat.

  “Look, your mom asked me to stay over; I did. The end. I don’t know what she’s doing in Portland; she didn’t tell Mom. And I don’t know why you’re mad at me.” He props his hands on his hips. “I made you breakfast and everything.”

  I process this… while staring at his moving lips. This isn’t intentional, but they’re just right here in my face—full and pink and saying all the right things. Not to mention, he’s trying so hard to keep the smile out of his voice. It’s endearing.

  “Why did you kiss me last night?”

  This is what’s really on my mind. If I have to pinpoint what fuels my irritation, this is it. So the question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. My breath catches in my chest, but it’s out, so I pin the responsibility on him to answer.

  “Why did you let me?”

  I blink. Oh, I see. He’s going to turn it round. Unh-uh.

  “I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t stop me,” he interrupts. “And you know you could have.”

  I should argue the point. I mean, his mouth was on me before I knew what he was doing. I pull my lower lip between my teeth and bite down, frustrated with myself. What is it that I want here? I take a sip of coffee, concentrating on its rich aroma while I work out my next move.

  “Are you trying to prove a point?” I ask, clinking my mug onto the table. “Is there some hidden lesson in your reverse psychology?”

  “No.” He licks his lips. “I just like you, Jude. A lot. And that’s why I kissed you.”

  My cheeks tighten. I don’t like the path of this conversation. It comes far too close to revealing a few subsurface emotions I’m not quite ready to tackle. I can’t deny that I find myself staring at Kane a little longer than usual these days, and that’s just it. That’s why I shove him away. I like wading in the shallow water, and I want to get back to it. The subtle innuendos, the skirting around the edges of our feelings but not absolutely talking about them… this is where I want to swim.

  Unfortunately, Kane keeps diving into the deep end.

  “You could have at least fought to finish your breakfast.” I nod at his plate. It’s all I can think to say.

  That’s it, Jude. Bring us back to neutral ground.

  The momentary silence is a wall between us. He sighs and sits.

  “You’re too much, Jude Gallagher, you know? I hope you figure things out with us really soon, because whatever this is…” He picks up his fork and waves it back and forth between us. “It’s exhausting.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not helping.”

  He pauses. “You’re right. I’m not.”

  I chew on my thumb nail feeling stupid and uncomfortable. I didn’t want him to go, and he knows it. Isn’t that strange? Last night, I wanted him gone. But this morning, his sweet, musky aroma reaches for me right across the table like a siren… the kind who drags pirates to their deaths. Only this time, it’s the mermaid who’s in trouble.

  I don’t want to feel any of this. I want the “us” back I’ve always known. The “us” that makes comfortable sense in my mind. Where did those two go?

  Kane’s fork clinks across his plate as he scoops up his last bite. He examines my full plate.

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  I shrug and scoop in a mouthful of eggs just for show. They’re cold. I chew slowly. Kane leans on his elbows, fists clenched together.

  “So. You think I’m good-looking, huh?”

  A smile curls the corner of his lip. I pause in my chomping and swallow down a gulp of juice, keeping my face neutral. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  “I know. But coming from you, it’s a real compliment.”

  He says this, not in a cocky way. Because Kane has never been cocky, not in the sense that cockiness entails. He’s just confident in who he is—the whole package. So it’s merely a statement, plain and simple. In fact, he sounds almost bored when he says it. He runs the tip of his pink tongue along the edge of his lower lip. I select a fluffy biscuit and drench it in gravy.

  “Are you still mad at me?”

  I keep my voice steady. “I should be.”

  “But… it’s kind of hard to be, isn’t it?”

  And he thinks I’m too much? I cut into my biscuit.

  “You should have told me Mom called Gema.”

  “Noted,” he nods.

  “And what if Mom’s in trouble?” I glance toward him, a real fear mounting with the words. Every other conversation we’ve had vanishes into this. Mom has had her moments, but she’s never done anything like this before. I drop my fork and tug on my fingers one at a time.

  Kane wastes no time edging around the table to take the seat closer to me. He drops his hand over both of mine to settle my fidgeting.

  “My mom didn’t seem worried. I’m sure she’s fine.”

  A weird kind of believable assurance reflects in his voice. I want to believe him; I just can’t feel it.

  “That’s easy for you to say.” I ease my hand from his and climb to my feet. I’ve lost my appetite. “You don’t have to live with her. You think I’m exhausting? I’m a walk in the park compared to my mother.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  He does know, and so I don’t downplay his words. I grab up our plates and carry them to the sink. Kane shoves his chair away from the table and rises to follow.

  “I also know you’ve had to act like the parent these last few years, and it sucks.” He sets the plate of biscuits on the countertop and leans against it, arms crossed. I scrape food into the garbage disposal and open the dishwasher. “You don’t have to keep doing it, you know. Your mom is not your responsibility.”

  “I can’t just shut it off like water.” I flip on the faucet and rinse out the sink. “My mom can’t pull it together most days, so I have to. For both of us.” I turn off the water, and twist myself around to match his stance, brushing up against his shoulder with the motion. “You know that.”

  “It isn’t fair,” he says quietly. It’s not just some placating phrase to make me feel better, either. He genuinely means it.

  “Well, don’t worry. Mom has a nice habit of disappointing me. I’m used to it.”

  We stand in silence a minute, the huge ticking clock the only sound.

  “So… why are you fighting me?”

  Surprised, I swivel up to meet his gaze. “What?”

  “You heard me.” He slinks down to his elbow, level with me. “You never used to, but lately, you shove me away. Most of the time. Why add one more battle to your field when you could have an ally?”

  “An ally?” I scrutinize him. “I didn’t think you were my enemy.”

  “Metaphorically speaking,” he smiles.

  I take a little too long to respond, so he digs in.

  “I know your excuses. We’re friends. It would complicate us. Why screw up a good thing?” He lifts a hand in defense. “All valid points, by the way. I get it.”

  He chews on his lip as if he works to get a tighter grip on his next set of objectives. My robe takes this moment to slip off my shoulder, and I tug it back into place and circle the bar to sit on a stool. This conversation is getting real, and putting the bar between us suddenly seems like a great idea.

  “You know, we had this all sorted out last night until you decided to screw it up again,” I remind him.

  He studies me, his arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked up under his pits.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve slept on it. And maybe I don’t want it sorted out.” His voice takes on
a determination that grips me, holding my eyes on a firm line with his. “You might not want to hear this, but I’m gonna say it. See, I chose you when I was twelve years old.” He shrugs. “Ever since, I’ve been biding my time, waiting for you to catch up. I’m just tired of waiting.”

  And now… I’m speechless. I know people use that phrase all the time and don’t mean it literally. I literally do. I clutch the collar of my robe and blink, dumbfounded.

  In hindsight, I can’t deny that I suspected this. But I guess I never expected Kane to ever vocalize it. Not so bluntly. Clearly, things have changed—we’ve changed—and maybe that’s why he says it now. But at twelve? I ponder this, and I am certain I had no such feelings at twelve. Overwhelmed, I tug at my collar, and for several seconds, all I can see is my daddy’s gravestone and the tips of Kane’s tennis shoes winking at me from my porch and confusing all my feelings.

  In this moment—with this confession—it becomes extremely obvious why I keep pushing him away. I’m afraid. Scared to death that I might actually feel something more for him—that I might love him more than a friend should—and what then? Then I have other possibilities to contend with. Like losing him the way my mother lost my dad. Besides Jonas, Kane means more to me than anything else in this life. But… if I fall in love with him?

  This is my fear.

  Kane inhales, breaking into my thoughts and pulling me back into our reality where nothing at all has happened… yet. Nothing of significance anyway. So I take a breath and force myself to rein it in, pause in this moment, and hear him out.

  “I know I’ve kind of been a real flirt pretty much since puberty.” A soft laugh escapes his lips. “In the beginning, it was just a nervous tick, I think.”

  My smile pinches my lips, then fades. I wring my hands.

  “But now?” His black brows fold together. “What do you feel, Jude? I mean, when you really think about it, what’s in here?” His fist falls over his own heart, and I flash him a nervous glance. My heart treads a wild pattern that seems to twist into a mess of confused beats, but he keeps talking. “After all these years, you and me, we just make sense. Don’t you think?”