Page 117 of What We Burn

I eat up every minute she spends relaxed, teasing Jamie, letting Amy pick the pedicure color. Every moment that’s not a flashback, a panic, a forced smile. The way she leans over to point at a chart, brushing her arm against Jamie’s—uncalculated, unguarded. The way she laughs so hard her shoulders shake, a sound I haven’t heard since well before the hospital.

She lets Amy take a selfie. They both make faces, duck lips and crossed eyes.

At four-fifteen, they head toward the cinema. I check the listings on my phone. There’s a horror movie playing about a cult of creepy kids. I buy a ticket on my cell, wait until they’re inside, and take a seat in the back row, to the far left.

They’re down near the middle. Sage in the seat between Amy and Jamie, a bucket of popcorn bigger than her head balanced across both their knees. Best friend on one side, a decent man who makes her laugh on the other, and me eight rows back with the exits in view.

I let myself have it for a second. This is what safe is supposed to look like.

The lights go down. I watch the back of her head in the dark, the occasional flash of her profile when she turns to whisper something to Amy, the way her shoulders shake when she laughs.

I think about the last time I disciplined her. About how she looked, bent over the chaise with her wrists bound and my hands on her skin. Her voice begging for more.

She’d pushed me until I broke open. Pushed past every wall I’d built—the teacher, the leader, the man who keeps everything boxed and sealed and labeled. She found the beast underneath and she wasn’t afraid of it. She wanted it. Wanted me—not the version I show the world, but the one who likes control because without it, everything inside me turns to fire.

She’s pushing again now. Different method, same instinct. Testing the edges. Seeing how far she can go before someone pulls her back.

She slipped out of a building I was watching. Left me drawing smiley faces on reading logs while she walked out the back door with another man. And didn’t look back.

I’m not angry.

I’m something worse.

I’m patient.

You wanted to run, little savage? I’ll let you run. But soon you’ll understand what happens when I catch you.

THIRTY-TWO

SAGE

“That movie was evil,” Amy says as the lights come up, blowing her nose with the delicacy of a foghorn. “Why did we watch that? Why did I agree to watch children get possessed by a goat demon?”

“Because Sage wanted horror and you’re a pushover,” Jamie says.

“I wanted fun horror,” I argue. “Jump scares and fake blood. Not— not that.”

Amy gestures at the screen like it personally victimized her. “That child spoke Latin, Jamie. Fluent Latin.”

“Impressive, honestly,” I say, wiping my eyes. “I can barely speak English.”

We shuffle out with the rest of the audience, blinking in the fluorescent glare of the lobby. My feet are sore from the pedicure chair—the massage setting was either broken or designed by a sadist—but my toenails are a deep burgundy that Amy picked and I love. Jamie went with sage green, which he claims was not a pun directed at me, but I don’t believe him for a second.

I feel good. Light.

“Gosh, look at the time. I should get you back to your men,” Jamie says, checking his phone. “Before they send out a search party. Or a SWAT team. Or whatever the multi-boyfriend equivalent of a manhunt is.”

“A manhunt,” Amy says. “Literally.”

“Speaking of which—” Jamie slings an arm around my shoulder and steers us toward the exit. “I’ve been thinking. This whole harem situation. I feel like you’re understaffed.”

“Understaffed,” I repeat.

“Five guys is a lot of dick, Sage. And I respect that. But what you’re missing is balance. Variety. A different perspective.” He puts his free hand on his chest. “I’d like to formally submit my application.”

Amy snorts. “To do what?”

“To join. Obviously. I’ve never eaten pussy before, but I’m a fast learner and I’m very enthusiastic about new experiences. I have references.”