Flames At Midnight

12 | grace yearwood

"Is your brother coming home to celebrate?"

Porter had an older brother, Garrett, who was in college on the other side of the country. He was a third year at UC Irvine.

"No, he's not."

"But you're turning eighteen. It's a big one," I said.

"He doesn't want to come home. And I don't blame him a bit."

I opened my mouth to say something, to let him know that he should come back for his younger brother's birthday, but I bit my tongue. I wouldn't push it.

Porter didn't like talking about his family life much. And even though he never said anything, Quentin and I suspected things happened behind the closed doors of the Moretti house. There was a reason why Porter was always trying to get away and sleepover in the basement.

"You know," I said, "you and I have been friends with Quentin for years and have somehow become friends by association."

"Right."

"But I feel like this is the first time we've ever been together without Quentin."

He looked like he was racking his memory. "It is? That doesn't sound right."

"If it wasn't for Quentin, we might never have spoken. Isn't that weird?"

"We might've," he said.

"I'm not so sure. You wouldn't dare try to make friends with me. Only Quentin is stupidly brave enough. You would've thought I was too mean," I teased. "You wouldn't want to be friends with me."

He didn't crack a smile.

He turned briefly toward me briefly before saying in a quiet voice, "No I wouldn't have. I know what mean is like. I've been bullied before. I've been bea—" He caught himself. "You are nothing like those people. You are not mean, Grace."

The smile slipped from my face. "Do you, um, want to talk about it?"

A part of me was hoping he'd want to. This was the first time Porter and I had ever connected on our own terms, without Quentin being the glue that holds the three of us together.

And then the other part of me was also borderline terrified he might take me up on the offer.

"Not really."

The relief I felt as he said that was instantly replaced by guilt. I was a terrible friend.

I peeked over at him.

"Are you...crying?" I asked, horrified that he might be. I was not good at consoling people. I knew that I shouldn't have asked so aggressively, but I don't stop to think about what I say before it comes out of my mouth. "I mean, are you okay?"

There was moisture around his eyes. He quickly dried his eyes with his sleeve. "No. I think, uh, some rain must've slipped in through a crack in the window."

We both knew he was lying.

"It's okay if you are," I tried. "Crying is a perfectly natural response to an emotional conversation, so you go ahead and—"

"You don't have to say anything. I'm fine, Grace."

"No. I do. We're friends. Well, friends by association, but—" My eye was drawn to a sudden movement in the road. "Porter, watch out!"

Someone was in the middle of the road. He didn't even flinch as the car barreled towards him.

Porter yelped and jerked the steering wheel to the right. We bounced around in the car as it spun and started hydroplaning on the wet road. The world was a blur of greys and greens as we spun. I dug my nails into the door handle and screamed.