Page 11 of Wildfire
The sound of crashing blocks makes me jump, and when I drag my attention back to the game, one of the guys is holding a block and staring at the pile on the table.
“Henry, you can’t just knock over the tower when you get bored,” one of the guys shouts.
“I didn’t,” Henry says. “Maybe I’m just not very good at Jenga.”
Russ scoffs behind me. “You’re never going to be good at it if you pull the one block keeping the foundation straight.”
“Not everyone is an engineer, Russ,” he says. “It isn’t my fault.”
“Time to face the consequences!” the redhead across from me squeals. “Get naked!”
“If you wanted to see me naked, Lola, you could have just asked.”
“Watch it,” Robbie snaps.
Emilia nudges me, interrupting the argument between what are obviously very close friends. “Bathroom and drink? I have no interest in watching a naked man scare the neighbors.”
As much as I’d like to see someone streak down a road, I don’t want to leave her alone. “Sure.”
It takes all my willpower to give Emilia my hand and let her drag me away. “I’ll be back” I mouth to Russ, and fight my way through the crowd with the heat of his hands still on my skin.
HOW DO YOU LOSE SOMEONEin their own house?
“Maybe he’s hiding from you,” Emilia says, muffling her snicker with her drink.
“I thought he was interested…”
“I think he’s really shy, y’know,” she says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I’m sure he’s the guy JJ said just moved in. Quiet, keeps to himself. Not your usual type at all.”
I roll my eyes as I reach for a soda bottle. Not because she’s wrong—she isn’t, shy isn’t who I usually bring home—but because Emilia likes to regularly remind me how terrible my taste in men is. To be fair, I give her an opportunity to remind me every time a guy turns out to be the asshole the red flags told me he’d be. The red flags I ignored in favor of string-free sex. Emilia thinks liking men is a poor choice to begin with, and I have to remind her that, unfortunately, you can be attracted to men and not actually like them as a species.
“If I wanted to be rejected by a man tonight, I’d have called my dad.” An awkward not-quite-a-laugh bubbles out of me as I fill up our glasses, careful not to spill the soda this time. “God, I can’t wait to get away from Maple Hills.”
Before I can say anything else, Emilia’s cell phone lights up in her hand. “I’m gonna step outside and take this call from Poppy. It’s breakfast time in Europe, you good for five minutes?”
“I’m sure I can keep myself out of trouble for five minutes, go. Give my love to Pops, please.”
Emilia kisses my temple affectionately. “You say that, but I’m not convinced. I’ll be back. Text me if you’re about to go missing.”
She looks genuinely excited as she makes her way toward thebackyard to talk to her girlfriend. I love their love, I really do, but God they make me feel single. It’s hard being the official third wheel to two people disgustingly perfect for each other, especially because I’ve never had a real relationship in my life. I haven’t even had a first date. For the most part, I’m happy single, but sometimes, when they’re curled up together under a blanket at home, for a tiny moment that I’d never admit to, I do feel a little jealous.
When faced with two people so well suited, I find it impossible not to wonder what my own version of that might look like. But then I remember how fun being traumatized by my parents’ relationship was, and the desire for my own evaporates as quickly as it arrived.
For all the romance books I’ve read and all the happy endings I’ve enjoyed, I can’t imagine my own. I’d like to hope I’ll have one, but hope can be dangerous.
Someone much smarter than me once said something poetic and clever about love being when you give someone the power to hurt you but trust them not to, but I can’t imagine ever trusting someone that much. If I want my feelings hurt, I am more than capable of doing it to myself. It’s a skill I’ve honed over many years, and arguably my best one. I’d like to trust someone one day, though, maybe.
Pulling my cell phone out of my purse, I decide to wait for Emilia by pretending to look at what people are saying about qualifying for this weekend’s Grand Prix. My aimless scroll lasts ten seconds before I give in to the real reason I got my phone out: snooping on my dad’s latest girlfriend from my fake account.
It’s my current favorite way to hurt my own feelings and, luckily for me and my masochistic tendencies, Norah loves updating every second of her life on her stories, like she’s a thirteen-year-old on social media for the first time, and I love being unhappy watching it.
I also love reporting the pointless lives she does for bullying and harassment.
At least 90 percent of the impulsive decisions I’ve made in the past month have been triggered by her posting about how wonderful my dad is—and yet here I am again, watching it. Her face fills the screen, far too close and terribly lit, and then, in a move that makes my heart stop beating, she pans around to film my dad packing boxes in what appears to be her daughter’s dorm room.
I’m not sure my dad would even know where I go to college if he didn’t pay my tuition.
I hate watching it, but I can’t stop. My entire life has been a fight for my dad’s time, so to watch him give it away so freely is like a punch to the gut.
