Strawberry shakes, warm golden streetlights, and old Christmas music in late October.
It's not exactly how I imagined I'd spend my twentieth birthday, but I'm not complaining. Micah gave up trying to fix the radio five minutes into our drive, but since the broken radio seems to only pick up a station dedicated to old Christmas music, I've been humming along softly as we cruise down the dimly lit highway.
We've been driving for forty-five minutes. In that time, we've managed to eat the bacon burgers he stopped to grab us before he pulled us onto the highway. Now, dipping my hand into the brown bag sitting on the seat between us, I rifle around the fallen fries on the bottom of the bag and pull one out. Dipping it into my strawberry shake, I take a bite, smiling at his thumbs drumming absently on the steering wheel to the beat of the classic Christmas carol humming softly from the speakers.
Reaching in for another fry, I manage to ladle a much larger scoop of the thick strawberry shake and lean over the middle seat, sliding it into his waiting mouth. His eyes never leave the road as he closes his mouth around my fingers, sucking the sugar and salt from my skin. My veins flood with kerosene when his tongue caresses my finger, but it's the lazy, suggestive hint of a smile — the insinuation of what that tongue will taste later — that lights the match. His teeth graze the pads of my fingers as I pull them away, only adding more kindling to the fire scorching my veins. The hint of a smile dances in his eyes when he glances over at me, his gaze dipping down to my lap.
"What are you making?" The way he's reading every passing exit sign like he's not familiar with the area only makes me more curious, but when I look back down at the bracelet in my lap, I cross one leg over the other and attempt to mirror his cool indifference.
"You'll see."
It's the same thing he's said to me every time I ask where he's taking me.
His cheek twitches at that.
I've been working on it in my spare time for the past two weeks, but since I've been at the studio so much lately, I've barely been able to pick it up. Once I realized he wasn't going to tell me where we were going, I settled back in my seat and pulled it out of my bag. I've been intricately braiding and twisting this thread for the past twenty-five minutes, smiling down at the thread whenever the warmth of his gaze would linger on my fingers for a few seconds. I'm only a few braids away from the end now.
Sliding the final knot into place, I tie it off with a satisfied smile and hold it up, admiring it in the passing streetlights. It's a quarter-inch wide, made up of silky smooth black, white, and red thread in a delicately braided design.
"Can I have your hand?"
His brow raises, but he doesn't argue as he extends his arm, resting his hand in my lap palm up. "You know you're not supposed to give me a present on your birthday, right?" The truck's cab is so small and warm that I can feel the low vibration of his laugh as if he pressed his lips against my neck to do it. The warmth of his gaze lingers as I tie the bracelet around his wrist and trace the line of it against the smooth, black-stained skin beneath. The veins in his arm protrude even more when he flexes his hand and rolls his wrist as if he's getting used to the feel of it. I've never seen him in jewelry — not a necklace or ring, and certainly no bracelet.
"It's an incredibly late but still very sincere, congratulatory gift," I admit, looking up at him. His brows cinch in confusion, so I clarify, "For the draft, I never said congratulations."
My cheeks warm, not wanting to admit why. He knows, though.
I was jealous. I was eaten away with spite, my mind spiraling with thoughts of him hanging up the phone to go lick someone. Someone who wasn't me.
It's been over a month since he left me that voicemail and almost as long since we agreed to be friends with benefits. I haven't felt a surge of jealousy like that since the night of that missed call, and looking over at him now, part of me wonders if that's because there's nothing to be jealous of or because he's perfected the art of discreet casual sex with strangers, leaving no trails or evidence behind.
It has to be the latter. I know that. Not only because Micah has never been a one-woman man, but because we both know that what he really wants, he's not getting from me. As much as his hands and lips and tongue have explored my body, it's not the same as what most other girls are willing to give him.
The soft hum of casual bliss that's been thrumming over my skin stops dead, leaving my body cold and empty as I trace my finger down the line near his middle finger. The deep crease. The unbroken, unwavering path down his palm. That love line is destined for someone. Someone gets to keep him — someone, who won't have to hold onto the ghost of him after he's left.
He grabs my hand, threading his fingers through mine. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." I nod, my eyes trained on the bracelet. Mostly to watch my finger run over the braided colors, admiring how the black ink underneath blends so perfectly with the black thread, but also because the backs of my eyes are burning, and I can't cry about this.
"I have a present for you. A birthday present." I don't have to look up to know he's smiling, the kind of smile that's a few watts brighter than usual. The one meant to make me smile, too. But I keep my eyes on his wrist, now tracking the art climbing up the back of his hand. The white paint dried onto the sides of my fingers is rough, like the calluses on his, so I'm careful not to brush them against his skin. "But I'll have to give it to you after because we're here."
I look up at that. I didn't even realize we had left the highway.
His truck is parked on the street in front of a small house, the stained glass window panels on the front door illuminated by the warm light inside. The sign hanging above the front porch sways heavily in the strong breeze, pulling the dark gray clouds above closer.
Perla's Psychic Readings.
"What?" I sit up, setting both of my Docs back onto the faded floor mats. "Are we here for a reading?"
"I did some research." He puts the truck in park, cutting the engine. "Apparently twin flames —" His tongue pressed into his cheek like he's trying not to laugh as he says it. "Reincarnate together. I figured we could see what other lives we've lived. How many times our paths have crossed."
He clearly doesn't believe it, but the flicker of something that feels a hell of a lot like hope whispers to life deep inside my chest — hope that maybe, in some other life, that line was destined for me.
A rush of cool air only feeds that flickering flame when he opens my door. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I pull my bag onto my shoulder, smiling at him as he leads us up the walkway. The icy air should have bitten at my bare legs, but the heat of excitement that sears through me spikes my blood as I hurry past him, climbing the stairs to her front porch. I've never thought about the possibility that being twin flames — maybe, potentially, hopefully — would mean we could have lived past lives together. Another wave of excitement crashes over me when he steps up on the porch behind me, close enough to warm my back as he leans forward and rings the doorbell.
His hands find his pockets, his eyes trained on me as I attempt to bury my overly-excited smile. It's useless, and I give up when the silhouette of a woman appears on the other side of the stained glass. When she opens the door, she appraises Micah before her eyes fall on me. A soft smile brightens her face as she steps back and welcomes us in.
"Micah, I presume." She shakes his hand, her eyes lingering on the bruises marring his knuckles. "It's nice to finally meet you."
"Yeah, thanks for fitting us in tonight." I catch the annoyance laced in his voice, and when he pulls cash from his back pocket, my eyes widen at the multiple hundred dollar bills. Perla takes it, her fingers quickly shuffling through to count the money.
Three. I counted at least three hundred dollars before she stuck the folded bills into the front pocket of her velvet dress.
"Of course, I'm glad I could free up some time tonight. I wouldn't have wanted to wait until March, but my waiting list is extensive, you see."
He...he paid to jump her waitlist? Eyes wide, I look up at him. His jaw is tight, clearly not as satisfied by the agreement as Perla. Her eyes avert from his quickly, nodding for us to follow her into her living room, where a trim, round reading table is placed near the roaring fireplace. When she takes the seat closest to the fire, she motions for us to take the two chairs opposite her.
She lights a bowl of sage, placing it carefully onto the white lace table cloth, and after we give her our birthdays, she closes her eyes and picks up her deck of cards. She takes her time shuffling, breathing in deeply, holding it, and then releasing the breath slowly. I don't even realize that I've aligned my breaths with hers until she stops breathing mid-exhale, her eyes flying open. She considers both of us, a curious glint flickering in her brown eyes.
"Most interesting," she muses softly, her eyes fixed on Micah.
"Care to share?" Micah sighs, leaning back in his chair, his arm draping along the back of mine. I elbow him lightly in the side, a silent plea for him to be friendly. Perla tracks the movement, her lips perking at the exchange.
"Lovers," she murmurs.
My cheeks flame as I cross my right leg over my left, glancing up at Micah sitting beside me. He seems unbothered by the observation, staring impassively at the stack of cards in her hand.
"Not all twin flames are lovers. Most aren't, in fact. They have a strong bond, of course. They might even be destined to spend their time on earth together, but usually not intertwined like this. Not this tightly. Not as lovers."
Lovers. My skin hums at the word.
"You two, you've lived many lives together." She shuffles through the cards, studying each one as she goes. She doesn't lay them down for us to see, not that we'd understand them if she did. "And each one..." Her brows raise, and her eyes unfocus as if she's no longer seeing the cards but something much further in her mind. "Each one is an echo of the very first."
"So we're living the same life over and over?" His jaw twitches like he wants to laugh at that, but he keeps the same indifferent tone as he watches her hands shuffle slowly through the deck.
"Different, but the same in many ways." Her eyes focus again, looking at me. "There are events that happen in each life. Moments between you two that align, almost like a series of mirrors pointing at each other. If you step up to the mirror, your reflection will echo through all of them. It's not your entire life, of course. But flashes — moments where your souls...touched. Twin flames are two halves of a single soul; when they graze each other, when they collide, they send an echo."
"Which moments?" I ask, sitting a little straighter.
She offers a soft smile as she looks between us.
"They come in flashes — images in my mind, too hard to understand since they're from so many different lives. It's like trying to translate speech that changes language with every word. But there are moments that stand out. Blood and sex being the most common."
My eyes widen, the air in my lungs freezing.
Blood and sex.
Micah sits up a little, suddenly interested.
"Your virginity, in each life, it seems, is given to him."
My entire face flames, heating more at the feel of his gaze, but I keep my eyes on Perla.
Her eyes are unfocused again. "Bloody hands, always bloody hands. Although —" Her brows knit, eyes still unfocused. "Rarely from your own blood." When she blinks, she sets her sights on me. She's talking about my hands. "That's all I can see from the collective lives. To be more specific, I will need to look into one."
She places the deck down, focusing her attention on us as she leans back in her cushioned armchair. The light of the tall floor lamp behind her is washing her in warm light, tinted orange from the stained glass shade. "It's important to note that not all twin flames are reincarnated together. Some live many lives apart. Some are lost, trying to make their way back together over the course of many lifetimes. And some are lucky enough to be reincarnated together many times. That seems to be the case for you two. From what I can tell, there are not many lives, if any at all, that you've not lived together."
His thumb caresses the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.
"Even in the same lifetime, twin flames are not guaranteed to always find each other. Some are like shadows in your life, always around but never truly seen, and others are there, but only in passing. However, some twin flames are so magnetic that you're drawn to them like a lighthouse on a dark sea, like a moth to a flame."
Like a lighthouse.
Her words echo through the recesses of my memory, pulling at one from the first night I met Micah. The night I sat beside him in the campus art studio.
He's like a beacon, a lighthouse, illuminating the entire room in the kind of magnetic energy that pulls your attention, just by him being in it, just by him sitting here.
A lighthouse in the dark. A moth to a flame. It's fitting, I suppose—to be the moth eaten up by his flame. I can already feel the heat of him, a promise of the inevitable.
"I have a feeling," she muses, looking between us. "That I know which one you two are."
His gaze warms my face. I look over, meeting the swirling gray of his eyes before they dip to my lips. A knot twists in my stomach as the question I've been purposely pushing down rings through my mind—does he feel that same pull when he sees me, or am I simply drowning in wishful thinking?
His gaze lifts back up to mine, and like a life jacket floating slowly to the surface, its owner already lost to the depths, I think I know the answer.
"Now, as I said, I can't go over all your past lives, but I can go over the most prominent one. The one that sticks out so clearly among the rest." I focus on her, trying not to think about the image of that life jacket floating away with the current, not even a marker as a reminder of what it left behind.
"I believe this specific life was your first life together here on earth—the echoes of which you're still living out now." She picks the cards back up and thumbs through them, not sharing them with us as her brow twitches. "It was a very, very long time ago. Two halves of one soul dancing in fire, untouched by the flame." I smile at that, but it's short-lived. "Until the war."
"The war," Micah echoes, running his thumb down the back of my neck again. He's not buying any of this, but his tone remains unstained by sarcasm.
"A young maiden and a solider, ripped apart by a war spanning a sea that stretched further than either of them could have ever imagined."
"Did he survive?" My cheeks warm when it comes out a whisper.
The weight of his gaze caresses my cheeks and down to my chest, where my breathing has deepened slightly.
"He did." She bows her head softly.
The softest tug on my ribbon relaxes me. Micah might not believe any of this, but when he took me here, he did it knowing that there's a part of me that does.
"After the war ended, his ship set sail, back to the land he once knew. Back to you." She considers me, her eyes softening. "The journey took longer than expected, forced off course when the entire sea nearly froze with the coldest winter they'd ever seen." She releases a deep breath, her voice soft as she says, "A warring soul, lost at sea, desperate to get back to the only respite he's ever known."
A strong gust of wind pulls through the window, sending a few red leaves cascading from the towering tree just outside. The cold bites at my skin through the thin cardigan, shaking my shoulders as the goosebumps scatter across my body. A gasp dies in my throat as Micah reaches down and drags my chair across the small space separating us. Draping his arm across the back of my chair again, he pulls me into the warmth of his side.
"It wasn't until the turn of the season, when the warmer spring rain and winds carried the ship through, that he finally returned." Her eyes are unfocused as if she's genuinely seeing it in her mind's eye, and when I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I swear I can see a whisper of it too as she murmurs, "A warrior breaking down in delicate arms. He's finally home."
"Josie."
"Micah." I try to mimic his deeply disappointed tone, but my smile kind of butchers it.
"You can't be serious." He holds out his hand, and I drop a few sour candies into his palm, smiling at the bracelet still tied around his wrist. It looks so at home against his inked skin, like it was always meant to be there.
Relaxing back into the worn, cracked leather seat, I tuck my boots underneath me and roll my head to the side, watching the passing streetlights illuminate his face every few seconds. The moon is already lost to the wall of gloomy clouds above, and with a low warning rumble of thunder, he adds more gas, sending us flying down the dark expanse of highway.
It's pointless, but I plead my case regardless. "She knew too much to be a fake." I smile as I place another sour candy on my tongue, humming to the chorus of the Christmas song softly playing.
I was too busy texting Halle back while Micah filled up the truck at the gas station to notice him disappear inside the shop, but when he pulled open the driver's side door and tossed a small bag into my lap, my eyes widened at the pack of sour candies. I've been eating them, piece by sour piece, since we pulled onto the highway. Placing another on my tongue, I watch in the rearview as the wall of clouds races us back to Pullman.
"Nothing she said even made sense."
"You're just trying to be difficult," I accuse.
"Difficult or perceptive enough to know when someone's bullshitting me?" He throws back, holding out his hand for more candy. I ignore his silent request, popping another candy into my mouth instead.
"More like cynical."
"Intuitive," he corrects.
"Petulant."
His lips pull back at that, not arguing it.
"Explain the blood." I raise an accusatory brow. "I've never had bloody hands until I met you." I hold up my hands like they're still dripping scarlet. A few weeks ago, they were.
"She was observant, not prescient." He holds up his hand. The passing streetlights illuminate his deeply bruised knuckles. "Blood but rarely your own," he recites it like some old wives' tale. "Of course she'd say that when I have busted knuckles. She's not even creative with her bullshit."
I consider that. I suppose she could make that connection.
I don't fight him on it. Instead, I move on to my next point. "Okay, what about the warrior? Not only are you a fighter, but you're literally a Warrior." I nod to his bracelet—the one I made from our school colors, the colors of USW's Warrior mascot.
"She had my name; she definitely did some recon before we got there."
Looking down at my preverbal cards, I play my best one. "She knew I was a virgin."
"Anyone could tell you're a virgin," he counters lazily. His gaze fixes on the clouds catching up to us in the rearview.
"Excuse me?" I challenge, leaning forward with a perked brow.
"There's a look. You've got the look." He shrugs.
My lips pop open, confusion washing over me as I try to figure out which part of me apparently looks particularly virginal.
"What look?" I demand. He clears his throat, trying not to smile as I glare at him. He said it like I have a neon sign over my head flashing, watch your step, virgin here! My cheeks burn, pushing for him to say it. "What look, Micah?"
His eyes are set on the road ahead, rubbing his jaw to cover the smile I can hear in his voice as he says, "You just like you haven't been fucked yet."
Like you haven't been fucked yet.
Yet.
A rush of heat washes over my body as I look down at the pack of candy in my hands.
Your virginity, in each life, it seems, is given to him.
Her words echo silently between us as I place another sour candy on my tongue, my skin heating at the memory of what his tongue can do. When his hand reaches out again, I relent and spill a few into his palm.
The first few raindrops hit the windshield, and with a crack of bright lightning and a deafening clap of thunder, heavy sheets of rain come pouring down on us. The old windshield wipers aren't doing much to clear the downpour, and after a few seconds of blind driving, Micah sighs and slows the truck. He pulls us off the road and onto the grassy plane, far enough away from the shoulder to not be in danger of reckless cars passing by. Throwing on the hazard lights just in case, he puts the truck in park and cranks up the heat.
"We should wait it out for a while. The wipers on this piece of shit are shredded."
I unbuckle my seatbelt and pivot on the seat, leaning against the door to stretch out my legs on the middle seat between us, crossing them at my ankles. His eyes dip down, coasting up the bare expanse of my legs to the short hem of my dress before he turns against his door too, hiking one leg up to rest his elbow on while stretching his much longer leg down the seat. His shoe stretches down to my door, snuggly fitting between me and the back of my seat.
Like you haven't been fucked yet.
His eyes meet mine, illuminated only by the red flash of hazard lights. They hold me until I'm lost in the dark swirl of gray — a perfect mirror of the storm raging around us. His hand rubs the stubble on his jaw, and I track the movement, tempted to feel it for myself. Under my fingers, against my lips, between my legs.
I clench my thighs when the familiar warmth pulses.
"The past lives," I say, clearing my throat as my cheeks flame. "Did you believe any of it?"
His eyes linger on my thighs, warming my cheeks further before he looks up. He shakes his head, leaning it against the chilled glass window as he says, "I think Perla reads a lot of Homer in her free time."
"Homer," I repeat, trying to place where I know the name.
"The Odyssey."
The Odyssey. The book we read at the creek. The book we bet on.
"A man coming home after the war, desperate to return to his family — to his lover." I realize, my voice cracking softly. It does sound eerily similar.
Is that what all of this is? An elaborately weaved lie. A cash-grab?
My heart sinks.
"I didn't want to ruin this for you, Jo. That's not why I brought you."
"I know," I whisper, looking down at the bag of half-eaten candies in my lap.
"I'm a pessimistic asshole." He sighs, wrapping his hand gently around my ankle, caressing the bone there. "And I'm sorry. This was supposed to be a gift, and I shouldn't have fucked it up for you."
"You didn't." I shake my head.
"I did." His eyes meet mine, the softest frown pulling at his lips. Guilt, regret, a silent apology. "But I have one more present, and I'm going to try not to fuck this one up."
Reaching over me, he pops the glove compartment and pulls out a small wrapped present. The flashing hazard lights almost paint the paper red, but when he hands it to me, I can see the true gray of the shiny paper.
"Happy birthday, Josie. I'm sorry I'm such an asshole." I catch him wipe his palms down his jean-clad thighs, and I smile, wondering what could possibly make him nervous. "I wanted to get you something that meant something..." He shrugs, his eyes trained on the present. "Something to remind you of me, I guess." When this is over, my heart clenches at the unspoken words.
I turn it over, sliding my finger under the only untaped part. The paper falls away, and my lips part in a soft inhale as I consider the familiar book. It looks exactly as it did when it was sitting on his nightstand — old, yellowed from time, well worn from multiple reads over the years. I smile, running my fingers over the embossed letters where the author's name is printed.
"Tennessee Williams," I read softly. "The house on fire."
He nods when I glance up at him, his lips hinting at a smile. "You understood it. You saw it in a way I never did." He looks down at the book. "I just figured you should have it."
The spine is nearly broken, fanning open in my hands easily as I flick through the book. I smile at his messy scrawl in the margins, at the parts of him he left for me here. A flash of red catches my eye as I flip toward the end, and I pause before backtracking, searching for the pop of color. When I finally find the right page, a beautiful red ribbon falls from the book, landing in my lap. It's silk, lustrous in the flashing light, and as I thread it through my fingers, I smile at the warm amber of it — it smells like him.
Looking back at the book, I realize the ribbon was marking this page.
I read out the underlined quote, smiling at the memory. "We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it."
The underlined quote is in black ink, with the annotation scribbled in the margin — hope is futile, a burning man's last illusion. It's the red ink, shiny and new on the outer margins, that catches my eye next — hope is futile, but sometimes, sometimes, it's a burning man's salvation.
I look up to find him searching my face.
"So there is hope for the burning man," I muse as I place the ribbon back in the book to save the page. Setting it down on the seat beside me, I bite back my smile when his fingers interlace with mine, pulling me across the seat and onto his lap. His hands rest on my bare thighs, and I cup his cheeks, brushing my fingers across the stubble on his jaw as he considers my question. Finally, he shrugs, too stubborn to willingly admit I was right.
I perk a challenging brow.
His lips quirk.
"Sometimes," he corrects with a sigh, spilling a bit of water from my proverbial glass.
His smile breaks through as his hands slide up my thighs, over my hips, and up my back, warming me through my thin dress as his lips graze my jaw. I shiver in the warm air when he unbuttons my cardigan, sliding it down my arms and onto the seat behind us, and when he grabs my chin and brings my lips to his, I smile into the kiss before leaning back just enough to agree.
"Sometimes."
A/N:
Are you squealing excitedly into your pillow too?