Page 19 of Ablaze

Dean clears his throat, snapping me back to the present. While he avoids answering my question, I can tell he’s mulling over my words.

His eyes drop to the collar of my sweatshirt, and my body tightens instinctively in response. I pull my collar up again, feeling exposed, even though I know he can’t see anything below it.

“You, of all people, should know what the risks are,” he rasps.

My heart tumbles around in my chest, and I thumb the rough patch of skin on the inside of my wrist, trying to find something to keep me feeling steady. “And yet, I’m not the one who’s afraid.”

Dean’s jaw tightens. “That’s not what your actions say.”

My voice scrapes against my throat. “And what do my actions say?”

His nostrils flare slightly, right as his eyes dip back to my chest, then to my thumb rubbing circles on my wrist. “That you’re adept at hiding. That you can’t get rid of the memories, no matter how hard you try.” His eyes bounce between mine. “That you don’t see yourself the way everyone else sees you . . . the way I see you.”

“And how do you see me?” I whisper. My body feels alight under my skin, my breaths shaky, unreliable.

“The word doesn’t exist in English.”

I hold his gaze, my heart determined to bound out of my chest. And as much as I thought his answer would have me finding my footing around this conversation, it has me feeling more wobbly. “I don’t hide myself.”

Dean lifts a brow. “Yeah? Then what would you call that?”

I follow his gaze to my hand fisting my collar. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I suppose I’ve always done it whenever I’ve felt too exposed, too seen. Ever since I was ten, I took comfort in the fact that I escaped with my life, and that at least my scars weren’t out for the world to see.

They were mine to deal with. Mine to love and mine to hate.

I release my collar abruptly and drag my eyes toward the TV, not processing a single thing happening on it.

The wails and screams as flesh burned and people rushed to get out of the two small exits on the other side of the theater roar inside my ears. The fear and confusion as I wondered where my parents were overpowered even the feeling of my skin blistering under the massive beam that pinned me to the ground.

They called it one of the worst theater fires in the city’s history. A children’s show gone awry when the pyrotechnic performance set the stage on fire.

Dad had gotten us front-row tickets.

From what I was told–days after I woke up–Mom died at the scene, and Dad was so badly injured, he didn’t make it past the first night at the hospital.

Dean’s index finger hooks under my chin, bringing my watery gaze to meet his. “You’re a survivor, Mala. Proclaim it like a triumph. Brandish it for all to see. Don’t hide behind oversized sweatshirts. At least not from me.”

I shake my head, a knot lodged inside my throat. “I’m not–”

“Yeah?” he rasps, his eyes kindling like blue flames. “Then, show me.”

My face heats, my fingers coming back to fist my shirt when Dean grasps my hand, tugging it down. He runs his thumb over the patch of burned skin under my wrist, giving me an account of how much he pays attention.

He so often shows me–and the rest of the world–this flippant and playful side, that I forget how observant and intuitive he can be.

“Don’t hide from me, Mala. Never from me.”

“I haven’t–” My voice wavers. “I’ve never shown–”

“I don’t care who you have or haven’t shown it to.” His molars grind. “I’m not just anyone.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask who he is, if not just anyone–or why he thinks he should see what I haven’t shown to anyone but doctors–but my senses, my thoughts, my fucking sanity, are being overwhelmed by his nearness.

Dean watches intently as my fingers wrap around the bottom of my sweatshirt and I pull it up. I halt momentarily when my nerves overpower me, but the look in his eyes leaves no room to question the path I’ve already begun.

Lifting my sweatshirt over my head, I grasp it in my fist as I meet his eyes again. They blaze as he takes in the sight of me. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

I turn my head to the side, away from his gaze, feeling all too exposed when his finger brushes over my mangled scar. A tremble ghosts down my spine as I feel his finger linger down the middle of my sternum, stopping at the top edge of my bra. It continues down to my stomach, halting at the end of the crater carved over my skin.

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