Page 26 of On Fire

Nic’s face relaxes. And he flops on the bed on his back. Light plays across his bare chest and dark shadows accent that sixpack. “Keller. Damn. I thought you were going to say something like ‘Let’s forget about this.’”

All I can hear is my own heart for a moment.

It’s what I should say—so I can keep my job, so I can keep my friends, so I can keep my mind. But seeing him lying on my bed, his lashes dark and curling like his hair right now makes me want to forget all the reasons why this is such a bad idea.

“Does that mean you want to stay here? Tonight?”

His stomach muscles tighten as he sits up and smiles.

“Well. You said you wanted some cuddling. I’m pretty good at that.”

As I return the water glass to the table, he rises, opens the small window at the end of the room and the second one overlooking the ocean. Despite the heat and stuffiness, he shivers in the sudden coolness of the breeze and then turns back to the bed.

He doesn’t wait for me to lift the sheet but slides in next to me as if he’s meant to stay there. His body, long, warm, and tight, moves in from behind and now he spoons me, slipping a strong arm around my waist. His breath is in my hair, his lips press against my shoulder. A finger strokes an ear.

“You are very cuddly,” he says and then he shifts and kisses my neck.

Jesus Mother Marie, here I go. Hook, line, and sinker.

΅

In the morning I wake up, sleepy, stiff, and, as I glance around, alone. I feel the bottom sheet. Cool to the touch. The coffee machine suddenly sputters downstairs, so . . . maybe not alone. I slip on my robe, trying to decide if I should leave it open or not. Feeling lucky, I opt for open. I can smell coffee in the pot, and I round the downstairs corner expecting to see him standing in the kitchen.

“Fuck me!” I startle easily.

It’s my brother, Luke, closing the fridge door.

“Well, that’s not happening,” my kid brother says. “Plus. Weird. Hey, thanks for the brew old man.” He lifts a mug of coffee in my direction as if toasting me. Nic must have brewed a pot.

“What are you doing here?” I hurriedly wrap the robe around me and cinch the tie tight.

“Devon’s sleeping. It was a long night. House fire up Bingham Road.”

There’s only a fire pond up there. Too many houses for one pond.

“Fatalities?”

He shakes his head. “No. Vacay home and no one was home. But Devon crashed, and I’m starving. I figured I’d bang pans here.”

I glance around a bit wild-eyed I’m sure, trying to figure out where Nic went.

“What’s wrong with you? So jumpy. Here. Coffee. Sit,” Luke says.

I straddle a stool at the counter and lower myself down gingerly and he pushes a mug of black coffee in my direction.

Luke watches me with a cocked eyebrow and then begins rifling in the fridge and retrieves a carton of eggs. My brother sets them on the counter and takes a long look at the empty mason jars lined up against the backsplash. “You can put those away now.”

Those mason jars helped him monitor his water intake when he was living with me and still recovering. Something about them lined up there makes me feel connected to him. For him, though, they’re a reminder of how sick he was.

“Yeah, I know.” I take a sip of coffee and nearly spit it out again when the back screen door slams shut—but it’s just the wind.

Luke’s busy cracking eggs into a bowl for scrambles. That’s what he called them when he was little. He still does.

“What is up with you today?” he asks. “You even look weird.”

I catch a reflection in the microwave. My hair is sticking straight up from various locations.

“I’m fine.”