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“For sure,” Emil said. He eyed the pile he needed to take care of. “Anyway, I need to get going. Call later?”
“I’ll try. We’re heading off to Bermuda, and Oliver’s convinced we’re going to get lost in the triangle. So if he’s right…”
“I’ll be sure to spare no expense in your search party,” Emil said.
Victor laughed, and it was the last sound Emil heard before the line went dead. Stuffing his phone back into his pocket, he walked over and grabbed the first box before stepping outside. He was entirely underdressed for the weather, but the plan he had in mind would warm him up shortly.
He’d dug a pit earlier, and the only thing he needed to do now was fill it with wood and then pray that he remembered how much lighter fluid to use without causing an explosion. He made his way over the stiff, dead lawn, then tipped everything against the dark, damp soil. He wasn’t sure how much of his mom’s things would actually burn, but whatever didn’t would hopefully decompose when he buried the pit.
It felt oddly cathartic to take care of it, and a small part of him hoped that it would dispel whatever was left of her ghost when the flames finally died out.
None of the things she’d left behind had anything to do with him. He’d gone through as much of her stuff as they could salvage, and it was almost like the moment he’d been taken out of her care, she’d forgotten he existed.
It was absurd. All he’d wanted was for her to forget him. And then she did.
So why did it hurt? Why was there an ache in his stomach?
His jaw tensed, making his temples ache, and he glanced over at the neighbor’s house. There was a light on in one of the bottom-floor windows, but he hadn’t seen movement in a long, long while. Maybe no one was home. Maybe they were asleep early.
Under the cover of darkness, he crept over the icy grass and caught his breath as he came to a stop beside the house. The woodpile the neighbor had been chopping before was arranged on the porch, but there was a huge stack of uncut logs under a blue tarp.
Two would do it, he figured. Two would burn long enough to char what was left of his mother in a sort of fucked-up effigy that he could only hope would let her go. He flexed his fingers against the cold, then carefully grabbed two of the smallest ones he could manage on his own.
Emil wasn’t used to this kind of workout, so on the way back—as his luck would have it—he tripped and fell. Twice. He let out a soft cry the second time as his foot caught in some sort of burrow, and he froze, glancing behind him, but the house remained completely still.
When he was sure no one was going to come out with shotguns blazing, Emil picked himself up and finally reached the little pit. Kneeling down, he set the logs in the dirt, then did his best to arrange all of the papers and bits of clothing around them.
He was feeling exhausted by the time he went for the second box, but he wasn’t about to stop now. It was late, and it was cold. The sky was clear, and there was a hazy ring around the moon, and soon enough, tendrils of smoke would reach the heavens.
His own personal goodbye, in a way.
Emil rose onto his knees, then pulled the top off the lighter fluid and drenched everything as best he could. The scent was acrid and unpleasant, and he pressed the sleeve of his sweater to his nose while he fumbled with the lighter. It took several tries before it caught, and then he brushed the flame over one of the fluid-soaked sweaters.
There was a pop and a hiss, and then suddenly, the blaze took over. Heat rushed across his face, and Emil scrambled backward, feeling around his eyebrows until he was certain they were still there. He smelled a little whiff of burnt hair, but he was pretty sure he was mostly unscathed.
The rest of the pit caught after a bit, though he could see the bigger logs weren’t burning. Feeling somewhat defeated, he dropped his ass to the cold dirt and hugged his legs close to his chest. Just like everything else, he’d gotten it wrong. He had no real idea what he was doing because no one had ever taught him these basic life skills, and he wondered how the hell he was going to survive any of this. At least not without escaping to the city and going back to the things he knew.
But…maybe that wouldn’t be the worst idea. Maybe that was just his destiny. What was the worst that would happen if he gave all of this up, lived, and died young?
“Did you know that stealing wood here is a misdemeanor crime?”
Emil jumped half a foot, then spun, his heart thundering in his chest when he caught a glimpse of the bespectacled would-be lumberjack standing a few feet away from him. The guy was staring at him with absolutely no expression, and in the firelight, he was even more beautiful than Emil had seen earlier that day.
“Er. I’m happy to pay for it,” Emil offered.
The guy lifted his eyebrows, then took a step closer. “You do know that’s never going to catch, right? You can’t just throw half a tree in a fire pit, cover it with lighter fluid, and get a bonfire going.”
“I wasn’t aware, thank you,” Emil said with a small sniff.
The guy sighed, then dropped to his knees, and it was then Emil realized he had a handful of split wood. When the stranger reached into the flames, Emil cried out, but he was promptly ignored as the guy used his bare hands to rearrange everything, making a sort of grate shape with the smaller pieces of wood.
“Is this an ex-wife thing?”
Emil blinked. “Sorry?”
“Burning dresses and sweaters,” the guy said.
“Oh. Oh, uh.” He swallowed heavily. There was every chance this man knew his mother. There was a chance he liked her, which would make him the villain. But he supposed now wasn’t the time to care. “These are my mother’s old things.”
