Page 21 of The Fire We Crave

“And what?” I snap, interrupting him, for once. “That’s all I’m good for to you. I’m a mile marker you left in the ground here while you go off and do whatever the hell it is you want. Oh, and I had a great birthday, thanks for asking. Bye, Dad.”

Tears sting, threaten, then spill.

“I don’t know why I even care anymore,” I mutter, trying to suck in a sob.

“Your dad is even more of a cunt than I remember.” Smoke’s voice makes me jump. It’s still deep and gravelly. In my bare feet, he’s taller than I recalled, the difference made greater by the thick soles on his boots.

I was so wrapped up in speaking to my father, I didn’t hear him come in. “Well, this is just perfect timing.” I sweep beneath my eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears. Once they overtake me, I’ll fall straight into them, and that won’t help anyone.

“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Had shit to do at the clubhouse.” The look in his eyes tells me there wasn’t any shit to do, and he knows it.

“Your dinner is in the fridge. Good night.”

I march past him, and as I do, he reaches out for my wrist. His fingers wrap around me easily. But he smells of cigarettes and someone else’s perfume.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I snatch my wrist from him. “I don’t need anybody’s kindness. Not tonight.”

“Not sure I was offering any,” he admits. “But you don’t need to rush off all upset.”

I force a smile. “I’ve been fine on my own for a long time. I don’t need anyone else’s help now.”

I turn on my heel and hurry down the hall to the bedroom I’ve been staying in, and once there, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. The book I’m currently reading is out on the kitchen island, and Lord knows I am not going back out there to get it. I suppose I could watch something on my phone, but that’s a sure-fire way to lose three hours of my life watching videos of cats doing the wild shit cats do and the entire third season ofGrey’s Anatomyin fifteen-second video clips.

Sleep.

That feels like the safest option.

I have to be at the bakery at six in the morning to get the bread in the oven and to start setting up the counters.

I change out of my sundress and pull on a soft pair of shorts with a boxy T-shirt. It’s mostly cream with tiny little pineapples on it. The teeth of the comb catch on the knots as I vigorously yank it through my hair. The sting is a welcome distraction from the shock of the call.

My father has no idea how to be a dad. It’s like, the moment Melody went missing, his desire to parent went with it. Silas was already out of the house and uncontactable most of the time. And the truth that I wasn’t enough to remain a father for stings like a thousand paper cuts.

I used to think I was happy in my own company. I used to think I enjoyed solitude. But now, I realize I’m lonely.

Bone-deep, painfully lonely.

Bones is asleep in an undignified heap on his dog bed. “Some guard dog you are,” I mutter. “You didn’t even wake up when he came home.”

People think I’m sunshine, like the romance trope. What I offer them confirms it: A friendly face in the coffee shop, learning their orders so I can ask if they want the usual. Some commentary about the town and the weather.

Always service with a smile, because Lord knows it’s hard enough to keep a business afloat in a tough economic climate when you sell things people could easily make at home.

The door to Smoke’s room closes, and suddenly, I feel suffocated in this room.

Even this house.

I make my way to the rear of the house, unlock the door, and step out onto the back porch where there’s an old-fashioned swing seat. Sucking in a few gulps of clean, fresh air, I sit on it. Using my toes, I push off and let it swing back and forth. I can’t see much in the darkness, but during the day, you get the most beautiful view of the mountains, all gray and craggy.

“You still hate me, don’t you?” Smoke says, stepping out onto the porch. His voice cuts through the dark.

In the split second between my hearing a noise and realizing it was Smoke, my heart sky-rocketed, beating hard and fast in my chest. I swallow; my mouth suddenly drier than a bag of flour.

“Does it matter if I do?” I ask, but I’m unable to quell the shake in my voice.

“Considering you’re sleeping under my roof, it might. I thought you were going to bed, then I heard footsteps. Could be willing to kill me in my sleep for all I know.”