Chapter 20

I'm worried about Rosie.

She hasn't gone to work in a few days, so I swung by the bakery. They said she quit.

Fuck. Why? I thought she liked this one.

Damned if I know, but she's been off since you were here. She said you seemed depressed, not yourself.

I told her you were always a miserable bastard.

But she says you shouldn't be alone.

You can tell her I identify as a miserable bastard.

You know why we can't be in the same place.

Do I? Or is this another case of big-brother-knows-best? Because, if so, I can give you a documented list of twenty times you've been a dumbass.

Nah. I'm selling myself short. Fifty.

I was worried about you too, for the record.

I slip my phone back into my pocket after reading Shay's last message and checking my alarm. It's set for six-thirty on Monday morning, and I've got a job in Asheville at seven-thirty. If I had any respect for my future self, I wouldn't still be out here at one in the morning, drinking bourbon and beer and eating marshmallows with Claire, Nicole, and Damien, gathered in lawn chairs around that bonfire of memories as the photos within it crumble to dust.

But I'm too busy living to think about what trouble might be lurking tomorrow. Worry about Rosie is dancing at the edges of that feeling, but it's so nice to finally feel that way, in the moment and enjoying it, that I can't stand for it to end just yet. Even if my own memories keep dancing into view in those flames.

One of those memories is of sitting at this same fire pit with Dick, drinking beers and talking, Dick wearing one of his Hawaiian shirts. He'd had dozens of them—ridiculous since we were about as far as a person could get from Hawaii while still remaining in the same country. He'd always said he'd get there someday, although to my knowledge he never had.

"Do you regret whatever brought you here, Dec?" he'd asked that night, leaning back in his chair and smoking a joint.

At that point, that had been the closest he'd come to flat-out asking me about the trouble that had driven me to Marshall. To living near a city but not in one, hidden away in the woods, alone.

I'd thought about it a moment before saying, "Yes and no."

My non-answer had made him laugh, and I figured he was going to give me some shit about it, but instead he said, "I understand that, bud. Sometimes the right answer for you has to be the wrong one for someone else."

Had he been talking about leaving Nicole and Claire? Had he had a reason for abandoning them, beyond knowing he didn't have it in him to be a parent? I can't respect him for that. Then again, I'd never thought he was a good man—just a man I'd liked, despite myself.

I'm not a good man either, although if I said that to my sister, she'd probably punch my arm and tell me I'm an idiot. That I definitely know is true. I'm an idiot for being out here right now. For picking the lock earlier. For setting this fire. And I am most definitely an idiot for offering to teach Claire to drive stick shift when I don't know how to do it myself.

Seamus would have a fucking field day with that one, not that I ever intend to tell him. He's a car nut, so he'd take it personally if he knew—and tell me I'm pussy whipped, of course.

Nicole sighs and says, "I think we need some of those weird cookies Claire made. Declan, did you know my sister is a baking goddess?"

"I may have noticed that," I say, captivated by the way Claire's blushing. Her eyes are bright in the firelight, her hair rustling in the wind. She looked like a fucking goddess earlier, dancing around the fire—a goddess who went and got herself stuck in Marshall. Next to me. I feel myself leaning in closer, like I can't help myself, like I'm a wolf circling a lure even though I know it"s laced with poison.

Then again, what man could resist her?

"Let's not exaggerate," Claire mutters. "It's just a hobby."

Nicole skewers a finger at her. "Never undermine your accomplishments. Let someone else try to do that for you—and then kick them in the balls. Because, let's be honest, it's probably going to be a man who does it."

"I take offense," Damien says lazily.

I clink beer bottles with him across the fire. We switched to beer from booze about an hour ago. "Amen, brother. My sister's friends were vicious to each other in high school."

It's only after I say it that I remember I'm not supposed to talk about Rosie, or myself, or my life before. But it's hard to remember why that's so important right now, sitting out here with them. Having fun in the first time since…well, since I baked with Claire the other day.

Nicole huffs. "And why do you think that is? Because women are pitted against each other by men, which is so fucking stupid. There's space for all of us." She trains a look at Claire. "Even twenty-eight-year-olds who wear boring clothing and smell like senior citizens."

"Are you talking about me?" Claire asks, her brow wrinkled.

"If the smell fits…" Probably in response to Claire's confused expression, she adds, "You always smell like Chanel No. 5. I've never met a woman under fifty who regularly wears that shit."

Claire lifts a hand to her collarbone, the fingers spread out, and I want to layer my hand over it. I want to tip her head up and kiss her and suck down her scent—not the Chanel No. 5, but the scent of apples and rosemary that underlies it, probably from her shampoo. "Agnes gave me a bottle for Christmas. Every Christmas, actually. I have seven of them. Last year, she must have been pissed at me, because it was just a travel bottle. That's the one I have with me."

"You like it so much you brought a travel bottle with you?" Nicole asks, gaping at her. "You know, she probably gave it to you because she wanted you to smell bad."

"Shit," Claire says, her eyes widening. "You might have a point. Why do I still wear it? She expected me to, every day. If I didn't wear it, she'd make a passive-aggressive comment… I got used to it."

"Go get it," Nicole says with shining eyes. "We'll add it to our death fire. That woman doesn't hold any power over you anymore either. This is the fire of absolution!"

Claire gets up and actually takes a step toward the house, which is when I realize they're both loaded. I'm drunk, but not that drunk.

"Let's not throw flammable liquid in the fire," I say, getting up and taking her hand. To my surprise, she weaves her fingers through mine. Awareness floods the place where our skin is touching—little zips of sensation spooling and unspooling. "Come on back to your chair. I don't think that would end well for any of us."

She watches me, her pink lips parting, and I wonder if she feels the same combustibility between us. There's this feeling that something is drawing us together—and the world will fucking blow up if we let it happen, and will blow up anyway if we don't. "Oh, you're probably right," she says softly, a hint of huskiness in her voice, and lowers back into her chair. I sit back down beside her, feeling the ghost of her hand in mine.

"Besides, if we do, this whole damn place will smell like Chanel No. 5 for months," Damien adds. "Nobody wants that. I don't like the stuff either. No offense, Claire."

"Seriously, none taken," she says, lifting a hand. "I don't like it. But I wore it every day for seven years. For her. And, you know, I don't think she even said thank you to me. Once."

"For the Chanel No. 5?" I ask, riveted without quite knowing why. Maybe because it's hard to imagine Claire in that other life. Bound to an office chair. She seems so vibrant—as if the land and sky met to make her—and every office I've ever been to is the very opposite. A box, with pet people inside.

"For anything," she says. "I've done thousands of things for her—millions—and not a single thank you."

"Has Mrs. Rosings ever said thank you?" Nicole asks with a giggle.

"Have you?" Damien retorts.

"The thank you is immer— immma—." Claire frowns and then snaps her fingers. "Immaterial. It's immaterial. It's her complete inability to care about other people that makes her terrible. I'm going to write a comment on her Facebook page," she adds, fumbling into her pocket for her phone.

"I'll be taking that," I say, reaching in, trying not to feel the swell of her hips, or the intimacy of reaching inside something so close to other places I'd like to explore. She's drunk, and I may not be a good man, but I'm a better man than to take advantage of a drunk woman.

I tuck the phone into my own pocket.

"You're bossy too," Claire says with a pouty look. "People are always telling me what to do. I'm tired of it."

"Hallelujah, sister," Nicole crows, lifting a bottle that has to be empty at this point.

"But you're probably the bossiest person I've ever met," Claire adds. "Even more so than Agnes."

Nicole shrugs, making no argument. "I use my powers for good. When I like people."

Claire nods. "Yes, I think that's actually true. Agnes doesn't like anyone except for herself. And maybe Doug." She scowls. "I hate Doug."

"So why'd you fuck him?" Nicole asks, making me bristle. I have no right, and I know it, but I don't like thinking about other men touching Claire, earning those breathy little sounds of pleasure.

"I don't know," Claire says airily, waving a hand. She misjudges the size of the gesture and strikes the side of my shoulder. She absentmindedly rubs where her fingers struck, and I restrain the urge to hold her hand in place. "You know, he thought the female orgasm was a myth."

Nicole laughs. "Because he's never given one to anyone. I'd feel sorry for him if he weren't such a dipshit."

Anger forms a fist in my gut—that fucker didn't deserve to touch Claire or even fantasize about touching her.

Claire continues, oblivious, "I think I was just bored. I kept waiting for something to happen. Waiting, waiting, waiting." Something inside of me comes to attention—like a dog perking its head at the sound of "treat." Isn't that what I've done too? Isn't that who I've been? I've waited for someone to find me, for someone to make me pay, and that's all I've done. Claire sighs. "It went on for years. But nothing did happen. So sometimes I made things happen. Like with Doug. Or when I convinced Agnes that pigtails were coming back into style for grown women. Otherwise, it was the same old shit, day after day, year after year, until two months ago."

"What happened two months ago?" I ask as she continues to absentmindedly rub my arm. I don't ask for any information about Doug, because I have a feeling knowing more about him won't make me feel any less inclined to drive all the way to New York so I can crush his legs. Jealousy isn't a usual emotion for me, and I decide I don't care for it at all.

"Lainey and Todd broke off their engagement because he's a cheating douchebag, and I got fired, and Nicole called me, and then I met you. And now everything is weird and interesting. It's like…" But she trails off, staring at the fire, maybe taking in the curled coal at the bottom of it—what used to be photos.

"Damn straight it's interesting," Nicole says, lifting that empty bottle again. "And this roller coaster just left the station."

I catch another smirk from Damien, and I smile back. "I think it's time to tuck it in," I say.

"Is that a penis analogy?" Nicole asks with another wave of the bottle.

"No," I say immediately, then amend it to, "I don't think so," because I don't actually know where the saying came from. "But it is time for us to get some sleep."

"No way," Nicole says. "Didn't you just hear me? The roller coaster just left the station. We can't push it back. Gravity would be against us."

"Why are you so hung up on roller coasters?" Claire asks with another frown. "You're right, though. This is a big moment. I'm seeing everything so clearly now. It's like when you take your glasses off, and you can see."

"Aren't glasses supposed to help you see?" Nicole asks. She's put the bottle down and is waving a stick at the fire. The end catches flame, and she holds it, watching as the fire travels upward before dropping it into the flames.

"You're right. And I had some reading glasses!" Claire says. "They were only like one-point-five, but they helped me on the computer. Agnes said they made me look like a bug, though, and wouldn't let me wear them at the office. Like, what the fuck? But, you know, my dad actually calls me Bug as a pet name. So maybe she had a point."

"Probably," Nicole says thoughtfully. "We'll get you some new glasses that make you look like a badass."

"There are glasses that make people look badass?"

"If there aren't, we'll make them. Maybe we should start a new company. A badass glasses company." She frowns. "On second thought, no, that sounds boring as fuck. But maybe we can find other people we can pawn the idea off on."

Damien and I exchange another half smile over the fire—the look of two men whose women are wasted, a thought that gives me immediate pause, because Claire's not mine. She's my neighbor. My desire. Maybe even my friend.

But she's not mine. When I did what I did, I gave up my right to other people. Or at least that's what I've been telling myself so long I don't know how not to believe it.

"What other symbolic things can we do with the perfume?" Nicole asks. "Why don't we bury it?"

"Veto," Damien says, leaning back in his chair. "Right now, you'd be lucky to get it half a foot under, then I'd accidentally step on it someday and get flooded with Chanel No. 5."

Nicole starts laughing hysterically, rocking back and forth on her chair. "Let's donate it to a nursing home," she says through laughter.

"Hey, that's actually a good idea," Claire says. "They might like it."

"Or you could give it to your new overbearing boss."

"No, I'd rather give it to the nursing home. Besides, Mrs. Rosings isn't much older than my real dad, and she scares me. I don't want to inadvertently piss her off."

I laugh. "Yeah, she scares me too."

"Really?" she asks, turning toward me in her chair—the motion so sudden it almost topples over.

"Really."

She smiles slowly. "Add that to the list of mysteries of Declan…" Her eyes widen. "I don't even know your last name."

"I don't know your last name."

"Rainey."

I put out a hand, and she takes it, her grip sending another jolt of need through me. "Claire Rainey, I feel privileged to meet you. I'm Declan James."

I hear a snort from the other side of the fire. "No, you're not."

"Yeah," Claire says with a grin. "You're messing with me, aren't you? That sounds like a cowboy movie name."

But ice is running down my spine, because the way Nicole said it…it sounded as if she knew…

You're being paranoid, a voice in my head insists.

Still. The spell is broken.

"Time to…" I stop myself from saying "tuck it in." "Time to get some rest. I've got to get up early."

"You and me both, my man," Damien says with a groan, getting up from his chair.

"You got any sand for the fire?" I ask.

He nods. "Dick kept some in the shed."

I knew that already, but it seemed impolite not to ask, like I'd be saying I know this place better than they do, and even if it's true, it's theirs now. They have the power to tell me to fuck off and stay away, and even though that seemed like the wise course of action before last weekend, now I wouldn't like it.

"I'll get it," I offer.

When I get back with the sand, they're both gone, leaving only Claire behind. Well, shit.