He looked at her, and she shook her head.
“I thought that was garbage. I decided I’d wish without them knowing. But when I tried, I couldn’t. Because what if she was right? I was scared. And ashamed and angry. I sulked all the way home. Classic teenage slamming-doors-when-I-got-home sulking. Brutal.” He shook his head, smiling at himself.
Riley thought about her next words carefully. “But who makes the rules, anyway? As much as we’d all like to believe in wishes coming true, it does sound like nonsense. Would it have hurt anybody to just let you make your wish?”
He watched her. “I don’t know. I would have wished for her to live, and she didn’t. Later, she found me and asked me to trust her. I told her I’d try. She was gone a month after that. On her terms. She was at peace with everything. More than anything else, that gave us peace. Which, knowing my mom, was probably her wish in the first place.”
The sound of the creek wove its way around them, a fervent rush and bubble over rocks and under the aged beams of the bridge.
“So it worked,” Riley said, hushed.
He leaned against his elbow. “She hoped.”
There it was. The hope Riley had scorned so brazenly when they’d first met. It was the very foundation of his family’s peace during the worst of times. “Mark, I’m sorry for what I said about hope.”
He shrugged. “You had your reasons.”
“I wish I hadn’t been so careless.”
“Doesn’t do any good to wish backwards,” he said.
“Is that something your dad says? Or are you just wise?”
He turned around and leaned his back against the rail, his arms folded. “I think I’ve just learned that prayers and wishes don’t always work the way you want them to, but eventually you can say, things are okay.”
She placed her hand on his arm, and he put his hand over hers.
“That helped,” he said. “Later. After the fires. Once I crawled out of my hole and looked around.”
“I’m glad,” she said. He’d been through so much. And here he was, talking about strength and peace. No wonder he’d defended hope so fiercely. She was almost jealous. “You make me want to try harder.”
He made a sound of contempt and shook his head.
She watched him looking out over the water, the wind playing with his hair around the edge of his hat. His silhouette against the colors in the sky.
He spoke to the water. “Last night, realizing there might be something between my dad and Yvette . . .” He shook his head. “That threw me. Just the idea of it.” He glanced at her as if needing validation.
“That’s understandable. He’s stayed single a long time, huh?”
“Yeah. I’ve thought about leaving, you know, getting my own place, but part of me doesn’t want to leave him alone again.”
She watched him, grasping for something to make him feel safe. “Yvette’s nice.”
He smiled out at the trees. “Yeah, she’s great.”
“She’s my best friend here besides you.”
He remained quiet.
“I’ve never known anyone like you, Mark.”
He huffed a laugh under his breath. “Yeah. I can believe that.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make yourself less than you are.” She reached up, running the back of her fingers over his cold cheek. Cautiously, she lifted her other hand to the other side of his face, to where his scars were.
His hand shot up, fingers wrapping around her wrist, stopping her movement.
She held her ground. “You’re strong again. Be strong right now.”
He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
This is a boundary, Madigan. Are you sure you want to cross it?
She heard the warning in her head, but she felt the strength in his grip give way, and she couldn’t back down. She wouldn’t. He had to know.
Her fingers touched his skin, and he closed his eyes. He drew in a breath. She paused, but he didn’t stop her. Carefully, she trailed her fingers down over his burned cheek to his jaw. She traced the pattern where smooth scar tissue turned to shaved skin. She spread her fingers and slowly moved them down the side of his neck.
She looked up and found him watching her. “How far does it go?” she asked.
He hesitated, his chest rising and falling with his breath. “Down this side, past my hip,” he said. “But the graft-harvest scars . . . They had to take healthy skin from the other side so . . .” He swallowed.
She lifted both hands, cradling his face, and he closed his eyes again.
“Does this hurt?”
“No,” he said quietly. When he opened his eyes, they were dark and intense. “Not yet.” He lifted his hand slowly, as if fighting himself, and touched her cheek.
She shivered. It wasn’t from the cold.
He smoothed her skin with the back of his hand. “How far does it go?” he asked softly.
She suppressed a smile, even while losing her breath. “None of your business,” she managed to say.
His brow lifted ever so slightly. He moved his fingers down along her neck. “Does this hurt?” he asked, watching her mouth.
She trembled at his touch. “Not yet,” she breathed.
They stood like that for a moment, touching and breathing, as the wild creek rushed below their feet.
“Why do you call me C-fire?” she asked.
He held her gaze, his voice soft. “Fire classification. Class C fire is an energized electrical fire. It’s tricky.” His fingers traced over her jawline. “You have to find the source and de-energize the circuit, and then use carbon dioxide to put it out.”
“Sounds simple enough,” she whispered.
He shook his head, moving closer. “No way. No one’s ever putting you out.”
She shook her head, breathless.
As he bent to her, his hands slipping down her body to rest at her waist, she lifted on her toes, melting her lips into his. Her eyes closed, and she let him lead. He took it slow, but her heart sped at his touch.
The
