Page 39 of What We Burn

“Maybe.” Eli’s eyes move across us. “But maybe it’ll help you all realize I’m in this. I know I fucked up.” His eyes move to mine. “This is me groveling like a motherfucker. This is me choosing her.”

I let out a grunt, knowing he’s referring to the visit I paid him the night after he tried to make Fury leave us by calling her easy. I told him if he couldn’t be in this, if he couldn’t love her wholeheartedly, he needed to pack his shit and go—otherwise he’d be dealing with me.

I square up, the memory of my fist in his gut still fresh from the last time, but it’s not anger pushing me now. It’s the hard gravity of an apology the size of a planet. Eli stands absolutely still, the set of his face resigned and raw, like he’s already decided this is what has to happen and he’s not backing down.

“One hit,” I say. “Then you shut the fuck up. No more dramatics.”

He nods. Doesn’t flinch.

I cock my arm back and let it fly. Open hand, flat across the jaw. It’s a bitch slap that’s hard enough to snap his head sideways. A punch from me at full force would break bone, and I don’t want him broken. I want him to feel like he’s atoned for what he did and walk out of this garage upright.

Eli takes it. Breathes through his nose. Straightens. His cheek is already reddening.

“Feel better?” he asks, blood on his teeth as he tongues the inside of his cheek.

I step back. “A little.”

Holden moves next. He doesn’t wait to be invited. He closes the gap fast and hits with a closed fist, shorter range than mine, right under Eli’s ribs. Eli folds, catching himself on his knees, and coughs.

“Jesus,” Holden mutters, flexing his hand by his side. “You were right. I do feel a little less ragey.”

“My turn! My turn!” Milo bounces off the crate, dancing around Eli. “Where to hit, where to hit?”

“Just pick a spot,” Holden growls.

“But there are so many good options.” Milo feints left, feints right. Eli tracks him but doesn’t make a move to protect himself.

“You know, I’ve always thought your face was a little too symmetrical. Very punchable. Like a TV host who got lost on the way to a reality TV show inter⁠—”

He hits mid-sentence. Fast, clean, right across the cheekbone. Eli’s head rocks back and a cut opens thin and bright above the bone.

“Fuck!”

“That’s for kitten,” Milo says, shaking out his hand since faces are bony and they fucking hurt to punch. “Ow. Your face is harder than it looks.”

“Thanks?”

“Not a compliment.”

Micah steps forward. Eli squares up to face him. Of all of them, I think Eli expects this one to hurt the most.

Micah stops in front of him. They look at each other for a long time.

Then Micah shakes his head.

“You’re not fucking worth it.”

He turns on his heel and leaves the garage.

Milo lets out a low whistle, elbowing Eli in the ribs. “Dude, you are so gonna have to grovel.”

TWELVE

SAGE

Milo drives like he’s being chased by a monster only he can see.

Not fast, exactly. Fast would imply a straight line and a destination he’s trying to reach. This is more evasive. Lane changes that serve no purpose. A left turn followed immediately by a right turn followed by a U-turn in a Wendy’s parking lot while he checks his mirrors obsessively.