Lunges.
He reaches into the fire with his bare hand and snatches the flowers from the smoking pile of shattered picture frames.
I freeze.
He hisses in pain as he drops the smoldering clump to the rug, stomping out the sparks while shaking out the arm he stuck in the flames.
“Why did you do that?” The question comes out as a whisper.
Ignoring me, he collapses on his ass beside the mess of charred petals and ribbon. His shoulders heave as he catches his breath, cradling his burnt hand between his bent knees.
“Jesus.” I drop to my knees in front of him. “What did you do to yourself?” I reach out, but I’m afraid to touch him. His thumb and index finger are red and shiny up to his singed cuff.
“I thought you threw them out,” he mutters, staring at his hand. “Why’d you put them in a book?”
I sink back on my heels. “To press them.”
He finally meets my gaze, and I’m struck. He’s in pain. He’s lost. He’s confused himself.
I’ve never met this man before. He’s younger somehow. A tiger with a thorn in his paw.
“That was stupid,” I say. “You burned yourself.”
His gaze darts meaningfully to the fire full of family photos. “Stupid, eh?”
I inch forward on my knees and take his hand by the wrist, bringing it closer so I can see it better. It’s only red, not bubbling. That’s got to be good.
When I glance back at his face, he’s staring at me, and something strange unfurls inside me. The room’s dimensions change, but not like when I’m losing it. The space around us feels huge, but the space between us is nothing at all, like an earth and its moon in an empty galaxy.
Before, I would’ve said I was the moon, but I’m not so sure. I always thought we had nothing in common, but I guess we were both alone. We were both clinging to each other.
I cradle his hurt hand in my palm.
“Cora,” he says, gruff and quiet, like we’re two kids hiding together somewhere we’re not supposed to be. “Don’t leave. Don’t leave the girls because of me. I deserve it, but they don’t.”
“Don’t you hate me now? Since I’m a liar?”
He lets out a bitter, chastened laugh. “I don’t hate you. I’m going out of my fucking mind.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re leaving me.” He looks up to meet my eyes, and there is such pain there, like he’s drowning, reaching for me as he sinks to the ocean floor, and I’m at the surface, peering down, watching him disappear, and he knows he doesn’t deserve rescue, he’s accepted it, so he’s doing the only thing left—memorizing my face before it’s all over.
“Don’t leave me, Cora.” His voice crumbling to pieces, demolished. “Even though you probably should. Just don’t.”
He has always had the upper hand—richer, older, stronger. Colder, which is his greatest advantage.
He doesn’t anymore. Somehow, I’m on top. Even though he knows that I’ve lied to him since the day we met. Even though he might as well own me.
I could hurt him worse than he hurt me. I could break him. I wait for the feeling of victory. Or at least satisfaction.
Instead, a terrible tenderness invades my chest. I could never have done what he did, but I sure as hell have felt how he feels.
I don’t pity him. This isn’t empathy or compassion or anything like that. It’s much more elemental. I feelnot alone. It’s a small feeling. A seed, not even a sprout. But still—it’s alive.
“I don’twantto leave you,” I mutter, breaking the moment.
“Then where were you going?”
