Ablaze

Chapter 20

Agatha is fourteen.

She is a pretty girl. Her parents find everything special about her. They even brag to their friends how she won't eat anything with coconut and they indulge her. In other respects though... they're very, very strict. No sleep-overs when she was a little girl, no overnight trips, no social media. Certainly no parties with friends, because her mom has a kidnapping phobia.

However, James and Arletta Leung go abroad often to supervise the projects. At those times, Agatha stays in her uncle and aunt's house. She's an angel next to their boys. The adults barely pay attention to her, a super-refreshing change of pace.

There is this underground rave party. Literally all Agatha's girlfriends think it's an absolute must to go. She's a total nervous wreck over it. Not because of the cautionary tales with the underage girls who fall prey to drug dealers and predatory men. That's just eye-roll material... She's heartbroken because the party comes two days too late for her. With her aunt in charge of her, Agatha knows, it would have been super-easy to sneak out. But it's two days after her parents' flight. She's still going to make it, but...

'Please,' she prays with the fervent, blind stubbornness, 'please let them be delayed.'

It's not like she doesn't love her folks. It's just... they're going to be pissed if they catch her. Disappointed. And she'd be like—

***

By this point in her story, Ablaze hiccups so much, she has to stop. Her whitened fingers clutch together. Her eyes track the dizzying streams of water outside the cave. Down and down they fall, yet she stands still.

To hell with propriety! Harris wraps an arm around her. She's warm, alive, shivering. He holds her even tighter, until she's pressed to him and her every breath goes through him too. When her shoulder blades shake it's like an earthquake.

"Please don't cry." The random onlookers can think he's to blame for her tears all they want. Her grief cuts into him, constricts his chest. "Please don't cry."

There must be something he can do to fix—

To fix what? The past? There're no time-machines on offer, even in Singapore, the city where the future seems to come early.

He clears his throat. "Do you want to go to my hotel? This place is awful... too many people. Too much noise."

"No, no... I have to tell the whole thing before I lose my nerve."

"I'm staying at the Sands," he says sheepishly. "It's ah... it's really close."

"I know where it is." She chuckles through her tears, the quiver in her voice gone. If he has to play a dumb tourist to cheer her up, he doesn't mind that.

"It's Mrs. Ang's treat. Believe it or not—" he might be pitching his voice too high to create amusement, but to hell with that too! "It's her definition of a decent hotel in Singapore. The Sands!"

Ha-hah, how funny is that? The Sands is the iconic triple-bodied silhouette over the Marina Bay. It's on every website, postcard and t-shirt. He pushes hair out of her eyes, peers into them. It's funny, right? Please, let it be funny!

Her cheeks regain some color. A wan smile flits to her lips.

He exhales the breath he was holding. "And I promise to behave like a perfect gentleman."

Her lips stretch into a wider smile. "You are."

"Then..." he offers her the crook of his elbow. Some stories can only be told in a place where you can cry in peace.