by Nash Summers
“Christ, Levi,” a voice said. And then cool hands touched my face, wiping away my tears. They moved to my forehead, gently, and then again down the side of my neck.
I tried to brush the hands away, but my body—somehow—had been drained of all its strength. The coughing wouldn’t stop. I tried to suck in huge breaths, but the air stung my throat, causing another round of coughing to begin.
“Fuck, Levi, I’m so sorry,” someone said. I knew that voice. And when I pried my eyes back open and looked at the person hovering above me, I remembered where I was.
Monroe knelt next to me. His brows knitted together, his expression grim.
“Fire,” I said. It came out half whisper, half croak.
Monroe leaned down closer, his hard chest pressing against my own, his hands placed on my shoulders, gently squeezing. The skin of his jaw brushed my bottom lip as he put his ear up to my mouth. He smelled like smoke and warm, country air laced together.
“Fire,” I said. Monroe pulled back, his eyes hard on my face.
“There’s a fire?” he asked.
I nodded, wrapping my fingers around my throat.
He jumped up immediately, grabbed both of my forearms, and yanked me up. He crouched slightly to toss me over his shoulder, but I took a step back, my arm out, and shook my head.
“For fuck’s sake,” he snapped. “I almost killed you. At least let me help you out of here.”
Too dazed to protest, I allowed Monroe to sling his arm around my shoulders and help me walk. Together we made our way down the hallway, Coin whining anxiously at our heels.
The moment we stepped through the front door into the night, a hand wrapped around my arm and pulled me away from Monroe. I fell against Ward’s side. And then Ward’s hands were on my shoulders, his gaze first on my eyes, falling to my throat.
Ward said nothing, just stared at Monroe.
Monroe stared at me. “I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you, Levi.”
“It was an accident,” I wheezed. My voice was thrashed, the words coming out harsh.
Monroe’s gaze finally snapped up and latched onto his garage. He stormed down the porch steps, taking them two at a time, and walked up to the front of the garage, barely keeping a safe distance. He stared at the burning, crumbling wood as he laced his fingers through his hair.
“One of the neighbors saw the fire,” Ward told me. “She came outside, and I listened to her call the sheriff’s station. The fire marshal and volunteers should be here soon.” As if on cue, our town’s one fire truck turned and started toward us. In a matter of minutes, the volunteer fire crew, all local men, poured out and raced toward the burning garage. Monroe remained unmoving, staring into the spinning flames that were eating their way through the building.
The volunteer fire marshal slowly walked over to Monroe, patted him once on the back, and said something to him I was too far away to hear. He barely blinked, just stared at the fire.
The building was a lost cause. Most of the men focused on dousing the flames nearest the house, as to not allow it to spread. Some of the others stood there and watched it go down in flames. Townsfolk had left their houses, even during this time of night, to come watch the fire that temporarily took over the sky.
No one else said anything to Monroe, but I figured there wasn’t much to say to a man who was losing his livelihood in one hot swoop. Everyone in town knew he’d moved back with all the intention of using his garage as a small mechanic’s shop to work on cars. I hoped, for his sake, he hadn’t kept all of his tools in the garage. There hadn’t been any explosion, so I figured there at least weren’t any canisters of gasoline lying around inside.
People began talking, whispering, staring. If I hadn’t been looking at Monroe so intently, I wouldn’t have noticed the way his jaw locked or his fists clenched. I probably also wouldn’t have noticed how natural he looked with the lights of the flames casting rays on his sooty hair, or how it drew warm, beautiful colors on his handsome face.
I went to him. It felt like all I knew how to do. I didn’t know if I wanted to comfort him or yell at him for strangling me.
In the end I stood next to him. We were almost close enough that our arms touched. My closeness seemed to ease him in some way. His shoulders slumped, and he unclenched his fists.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
I looked at him sideways. “Me too.”
“You weren’t the one who lit my garage on fire.”
“Maybe I was.”
He looked at me then, his expression wary. “And why would you light my garage on fire?”
“To get your attention,” I joked.
His gaze lingered on my face a moment before returning to the flames. “You wouldn’t need to start a fire to get my attention, Levi.”
I stared at him, eager for a chance to play this game with him and try to ease his mind. “What would you do if I had lit your garage on fire?”
Monroe leaned in to me. His lips brushed my ear. His warm breath petted my skin. He whispered, “Then I’d have to light you on fire too.”
How badly I wanted him to. I yearned for him to swallow me whole, to whisper unclean words into my ear and bend me over the wooden railing on his porch. I wanted him to pull my hair and lick my spine and tell me all the worst things he’d ever done.
“Levi,” a voice said.
Monroe and I both turned.
My mama stood a few feet away from us, my little sister by her side. They wore matching long dark jackets and uneasy expressions on their faces. My mama’s eyes were unfocused, but pointed directly toward me. She gripped Silvi’s tiny hand.
“Are you all right, Levi?” Her voice wavered. She looked as though she might faint or turn on her heel and begin running any second.
“I’m fine, Mama,” I took a step toward them. “What are you two doing out here?”
“I was frightened for you.”
“We made it out fine.” I hoped her fuzzy vision wouldn’t allow her to see the color of the bruises I felt blooming on my neck.
“Ma’am,” Monroe said. He put out his hand in front of him. “My name’s Monroe.” Monroe did little to hide his shocked expression when my mother instantly reached out, took his hand in her own, and shook it. “I know who you are, Monroe Poirier.”
“I don’t think there are many people in this town who don’t know who I am.”
“Got quite a reputation for yourself, young man. Especially after what happened at Whiskey’s. People claim they saw a demon fly out of you that night,” she said.
“With all due respect, ma’am,” Monroe said, “I think those men had it coming.”
She leveled him with a look. After a moment she said, “Alta. Call me Alta.”
Monroe’s lips pulled up slightly in the corners. “I’ll do that.”
“So,” she said. “Do you know what happened to your garage?”
“No damn idea. I was sound asleep inside my house. Didn’t hear or see a thing. If it hadn’t been for Levi waking me up…” He shook his head.
“You’re able to go inside the house, Levi?” my mama asked me, obviously surprised. “That old house used to make you sick to your stomach. Even walking near it upset you.”
“It feels different now that Monroe lives there,” I admitted.
She looked between Monroe and me. I felt my face warm.
“Do you think someone started the fire?” she asked eventually.
“Maybe. But somehow I doubt the sheriff’s department is going to spend any time looking into it. It ain’t exactly like anyone wants me in Malcome.”
“It might not have been a person who started the fire,” I said. “I dreamed of the flames. Usually when I dream of things, they’re not… real.”
Monroe gave me an odd look. “Dreams are never real.”
“They’re real to me.” It came out more defensively than I’d meant it to. “My dreams mean things. Usually they try to tell me something but are rarely based on worldly
facts. That’s why I said it might not have been someone from town who lit your garage on fire. It could’ve been something supernatural, something relating to your curse.”
I didn’t like the way Monroe looked at me. He wore the same expression most of the townsfolk wore on their faces when I was around. Skepticism, unease, pity.
“Forget it,” I snapped. I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my arm and spun me back around.
“Wait. I didn’t mean anything, Levi. It’s just hard for me to wrap my mind around. You have dreams that tell you of things otherworldly, and can look into a person’s eyes and see their soul. No one else sees the world the way you do. You gotta understand, it’s all a bit much for me to take in.”
“I wasn’t asking you to take me in.”
“I’m trying to understand you.”
“And I definitely didn’t ask you to try to understand me.”
“Christ, Levi.” Monroe threw his arms up. “I’ve known rattlesnakes friendlier than you.”
“And I’ve met rodents with kinder souls than yours.”
“Is that right?” He took a step closer toward me. “Did you stare at them as much as you stare at me?”
“Fuc—”
Just then, Silvi squealed. When I turned to look at her, I immediately thawed. She was crouched down on the ground, the bottom of her long dark coat lined in mud. Coin sat next to her, wagging his tail furiously as she patted his head.
“I love him,” she proclaimed. Coin’s long, pink tongue ran over her face. Puffs of dried dirt and muck covered his tail from where it thumped against the ground.
“He sure likes you,” Monroe said softly. “And Coin here is a real good judge of character.”
Silvi looked up at him. “All dogs are.”
The crowd outside the Poirier house was dying. People left to go back to their warm beds and dark rooms. Barely any part of the structure still stood. Charred scraps of wood and piles of ash littered the area the garage had once been.
Most of the people left were the volunteer firemen who watched the few remaining coals on the ground. A few men were tossing buckets of water over the still-warm embers, causing them to sizzle and smoke.
“I hear you saved my boy’s life,” my mama said to Monroe. He frowned, so she continued. “Weeks ago when he was sleepwalking. Said he almost drowned himself out in the swamp.”
“Yeah,” Monroe said awkwardly. “Scared me half to death. Saw something glide right by my window in the dead of night. Thought I was going crazy or seeing ghosts.”
“I see ghosts,” Silvi said matter-of-factly.
When I looked at the expression on Monroe’s face, I couldn’t help it—I laughed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Monroe turn toward me, stare at me silently.
“Well, best we be getting home,” Mama said. “Would you like to stay at our house for a few nights, Monroe? We can only offer you a couch to sleep on, but it might be better than staying home tonight. You look a little pale.”
Something sparked in his eyes. “Thank you, Alta. That would be… nice.”
She nodded. “You’re welcome.”
I gave her a sideways look. I had no idea why she was suddenly being so kind to him—not that she was an unkind person. But I knew the stigma that Monroe carried around, and I remembered what my mother said about staying away from him.
When Monroe was done talking with the volunteer fire marshal and the sheriff, we left the Poirier house at our backs.
Silvi took that opportunity to tell Monroe and Coin about her favorite kinds of ghosts. She told them that she loved the ghosts from the eighteenth century, especially the ladies in big dresses who carried around parasols. One time, she told him, she met a ghost of a little boy who wouldn’t stop crying. When Monroe asked her if she’d been afraid, she giggled as she scratched Coin’s ear.
When we reached the front porch of our house, Monroe stopped. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and looked up at the second-story windows.
“You coming?” I asked him, standing on the second step of the porch.
“You sure about this?”
“About what?”
“Letting me into your house.”
I frowned. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
Monroe took a step toward me. In a quiet voice, he said, “After what happened tonight? The fire? The—” He paused to glance at my throat. “What I did to you? What if it happens again?”
“It won’t.”
“I don’t even remember doing it, Levi. I don’t remember falling asleep. I woke up and I was on top of you, my hands around your neck. Your eyes were closed. You weren’t moving. You looked… happy. I was so damn afraid I’d killed you.”
“Well, you didn’t.” My throat had throbbed since the moment his hands left it.
“You boys coming?” my mama hollered from inside the house. She, Silvi, and Ward had already gone inside. I could tell that Ward was wary of Monroe coming home with us but said nothing. Alta stood in the doorway looking out somewhere above Monroe’s head.
“We’ll be in,” I said. “I’ll get the blankets out. You and Silvi should try to get some sleep.”
She paused for a moment to stare where she knew I was standing. I didn’t need her eyes to focus directly on me to know what the look meant.
We came inside and shut the door behind us. “This way.”
I led Monroe down the hallway and into the small living room. Unlike his own stark, barely furnished living room, ours was full to the brim. The old plaid sofa sat pushed against the main wall. Above it hung an old painting of a crow that my gran had bought off a local artist in New Orleans. A huge rug sat in the middle of the room, the worn, chipped coffee table on top of it.
In each corner were shelves and cases covered in things that my gran had found in her travels around the world: little boats in glass bottles, vintage cookbooks, good-luck charms. Our house sometimes felt like a museum of Gran’s things. We all preferred it that way.
I walked over to the hall closet and pulled out a spare pillow and blanket. Monroe took them from me with an uneasy smile and set them down on the sofa.
“You have a nice home,” he said.
“Thanks.”
I liked our small house. It wasn’t anything fancy or new, but it was a home and felt that way. Everything we owned had a story to go along with it.
“Where’d you get all this stuff?” he asked, his eyes glued to a faux bearskin rug folded inside a basket against the wall.
“My gran, mostly. She traveled a lot. Met a lot of people, brought back a lot of junk.”
“She must’ve led a really interesting life.”
I smiled sadly. “She did.”
“Sorry.”
I shrugged. “No one can cheat death.”
“Not even you?”
“Probably not. I haven’t ever tried.”
Monroe thought this over for a moment. I watched him tasting my words, letting them sit on his tongue like a man might sample scotch. “Do you believe in luck?” he asked me.
“Not really, no.”
“A man who can see souls but doesn’t believe in luck.”
“I can see souls. I can’t see luck.”
“So you only believe in things you can see?”
I grimaced. “Not exactly.”
“You’re an odd person, Levi Bell.”
“Because you’re the walking personification of normality.”
He tossed his head back and laughed. And I watched him, because when a man who looked like Monroe laughed, everyone watched.
The couch springs made a squeaking noise when he sat down and put one of his arms along the back. “You’re always so serious, Levi. Tell me something unserious. Tell me something silly or fun.”
Barely noticing I was doing so, I sat in the chair opposite, curling my legs under me. “Something silly?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“Well, what do you like to do for fun?”
I bli
nked at him. Realizing how pathetic it sounded, I didn’t want to tell him there weren’t a lot of things I did in my life for fun. I constantly found myself busy working, taking care of Silvi, helping my mama out around the house. Fun was one of those things that seemed to have slipped away with me when life got in the way.
I like to see and watch people and things. Listen to stories, look into the sky and wonder if Gran was watching over me then. But sitting and watching people wasn’t a hobby. “I don’t really know.” I stared down at the frayed edge of the rug under my chair.
Seeming to notice how uncomfortable I was, Monroe sat farther back into the sofa and sighed heavily. “I’m pretty boring, myself. I could spend all day, every day, under the hood of a car. Prefer it if I’m working on something vintage, but doesn’t every man on the planet say that?”
“I don’t know the first thing about cars.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at me as if I’d just sprouted wings. “For real?” he asked. “Do you know how to drive?”
I shifted in my chair. “I have my license, but I’ll admit that I’m not the best driver. We have a car, but we don’t use it much. I can walk pretty much anywhere in Malcome that I need to go.”
“Damn. Well, if you ever want another lesson, I’m your man. Driving is probably one of my favorite things to do. Cliché, ain’t it? But it’s true. Wind through my hair, roar of an engine, all that power. Not many things in life better than an open road and a sunset.”
That was when I saw it again—that flicker of gold in his soul. It was like a padlock being removed from a chain around my heart. I hadn’t been wrong when I’d thought there was still something good buried deep inside this troubled man. Even through all the darkness that was his soul, there was still a glimmer of hope.
I rested my head in my hands and leaned against the arm of the chair, watching, smiling, listening to Monroe rant about how cars ain’t made like they used to be, how some idiot once filled his diesel car with regular gasoline and then brought it in his shop, and how to really clean a car properly.
I didn’t remember closing my eyes, or the sound of his voice fading away. The only thing I could think of as I drifted away was that beautiful sparkle of something gold.
