Chapter 13: JADE - A Very Good Bad Idea

I wake up slowly, surrounded by a weighted warmth and the scent of cotton and sandalwood. It takes a second to reach full consciousness . . . and realize I’m in bed with Damon Burke. His arms are snug around me and my nose is pressed to the hollow of his throat. This is how we slept, practically fused together.

And it was the best night of sleep I’ve had in forever. No restlessness, or nightmares, or worries poking at me. Just solid, satisfying rest.

I tilt my head back slightly, looking up at Damon’s face. His dark hair curls over his forehead, his mouth is relaxed, his thick black lashes fanned out beneath gently shuttered lids. He inhales slowly, his arms going tighter. He grunts a little, moving his head against the pillow, shifting his hips forward. And that’s when I feel it—him—the hard, heated pipe of him wedged between us, pressing against my stomach. He gyrates his pelvis in a tight circle, his palm opening against my lower back, pressing me closer.

A silent gasp catches in my throat.

Because, oh, that feels nice.

Hot, heavy sensation pulses between my legs and rolls languidly up my spine, making me want to mimic his movements, arch my back, and circle my hips in time with his. I could so easily bend my leg, slide my knee up Damon’s thigh, hook it over his hip, and glide my slick center up and down his hardness.

And even through our layers of clothing—that would feel even nicer.

I’m saved from the haze of morning-lust-induced temporary insanity when Burke clears his throat and opens his eyes, blinking down at me with a gaze of bright, sky blue.

I shove his shoulders as he lurches back—and we roll away from each other at the same time to our respective corners of the mattress.

“Could you be any more on top of me?” I grumble. “I practically suffocated last night.”

“Because you were strangling me like a blond boa constrictor,” he shoots back. “I couldn’t move.”

Precious’s tiny nails tap against the hardwood as he spins in rapid, urgent circles.

“I’m taking Precious out. And I’m bringing the blanket,” I say. And I attempt to mummify myself with the worn, holey quilt.

Burke stands with his back to me, subtly adjusting his crotch. “Good. He’s stinking up the room.”

My jaw drops indignantly. “He does not stink.”

“His farts do,” Burke insists.

“He does not fart!”

Burke turns my way, lifting a mocking brow. “Really?”

But I stand my ground. “No. He’s a classy canine. He passes gas. Occasionally.” I scratch Precious’s tiny head consolingly—he’s sensitive about his flatulence. “Isn’t that right, Precious?”

A chuckle rumbles from Damon’s chest.

“Whatever, Jade.” He moves to the window, inching back the closed drape. “It stopped raining. I’m going to work on the fire again.”

I make my way to the front door, clutching Precious to my chest. When I step onto the porch, a gust of wind punches the air from my lungs and icy particles pelt my face like frozen acupuncture pins.

This suuucks.

I wonder if Clara considered this type of situation when she set the disaster ball in motion with her will. She wouldn’t have known the time of year, of course, but she lived her whole life in this house, on this shore—and the northeast wind off the water is serious shit. The frozen dead grass crunches beneath my feet as I set Precious down and give him his daily encouragements.

“Go on, Precious. Go pee-pee. Do your business.”

Once we’re back in the foyer, a full-body shiver wracks through me. I bring Precious with me to the bathroom off Gunther’s room to wash up. In the medicine cabinet, I score a tube of toothpaste that’s not expired and use my finger to brush my teeth. Because hygiene is the only thing that separates us from the animal kingdom.

When I step out of the bathroom, the house doesn’t feel any warmer—but there’s a pleasant smell of hickory smoke in the air that gives me hope. I slip through the sheet that hangs over the entryway to the parlor and there, in the gray, gaping mouth of the stone fireplace, is a glorious little flame.

“Oh, thank god,” I gasp, kneeling beside Burke as he feeds pieces of paper and wood shavings to the young fire, making it grow.

“I think ‘thank Damon’ is what you meant to say,” he tells me dryly.

The fire expands with a snap, crackle, and pop, and blessed heated air begins to flow around us. The kitchen is still frosty when I head in there to use the French press and grounds from Carolina’s Café that Piper brought me.

And a few minutes later, I walk back into the warmed parlor with two steaming mugs of the best coffee in town.

I sit down in front of the fire and hold one cup out to Damon.

He looks at it—and at me—surprised.

I shrug. “You gave me clothes last night. I’m not completely ungracious.”

He takes the cup, uttering a quiet, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Burke blows at the heated liquid, then he angles his head back, staring suspiciously at the mug. “I know it’s pointless to ask but I’m going to anyway. Did you spit in this?”

I grin. “No.”

“Did you lace it with laxatives or something?”

“Also no. A good idea, but it didn’t occur to me.”

He seems satisfied, and drinks.

* * *

We don’t do much the rest of the day. We only leave the room for necessities: food, and to gather dead branches outside for firewood. Burke skips his run, alternating between focusing on the fire and tinkering with the television and VCR. I find Clara’s crocheting kit in a box at the bottom drawer of the bureau—that still has the original instructions from the 1950s—and commit to learning a brand-new skill. My initial attempts are . . . monstrous . . . but I’ve got plenty of time to improve.

When nighttime fully descends and the wind howls mournfully against the windowpanes, we’re both back in front of the beautiful, blazing fire. I take my socks off and lie back on my elbows, stretching out my legs and wiggling my toes, enjoying the sensation against my bare skin.

“It’s crazy how good that feels,” I say for no reason in particular. “Isn’t it weird that such a small thing can feel like the best thing in the whole world?”

“Heat isn’t a small thing,” Damon replies.

“That’s true. But, I mean, we’re basically trapped in a one-room cage now. My belongings have been taken hostage by a trash panda, and yet right now I’m . . . content. Almost happy.”

Burke nods decisively. “Yeah, Jade, you’re right. That is extremely fucking weird.”

And I laugh—full-throated and genuine. The first real laugh since I stepped through that front door. It’s not sneering or spiteful, just simple and sincere.

When I glance over at Burke, he’s staring at me—his jaw tight, almost clenched, and his eyes pinned to my lips.

“What?” I ask, wondering if I have soot on my face.

His gaze pulls to the opposite end of the room. “Nothing.” He stands abruptly, his movement quick and harsh. “I’m beat. I’m going to sleep.”

He settles onto the mattress, on his side, facing away from me. I pat Precious’s head good night, then slip onto the mattress under the covers with my back to Damon—careful to keep several inches of empty space between us.

Despite the fire, it’s still chilly. I turn on my side, inching just close enough to feel the pull of Damon’s heat.

And then he turns around, shifting toward me at the same moment I roll against him. His arms go around my back as mine slide around his waist until we’re comfortably clasped together. I sigh into his neck, and a pleased growl vibrates in his chest. And that’s how we fall asleep, again.

• • •

When I open my eyes the next morning, I’m alone on the mattress. Damon’s at the fire—it crackles loudly, spitting embers as he lays a fresh thick log inside it.

Like yesterday, I get to my feet, still wrapped in the blanket, take Precious out for his business, freshen myself up, and come back to the parlor.

Burke yawns next to me. “The fire was down to embers when I got up. I went outside for more wood. Didn’t see any reason to wake you”—he lifts his chin toward Precious—“or Sleeping Beauty.”

“That was decent of you, thanks.”

“What would you do without me?” he asks snarkily.

“Uh, make a fire myself,” I volley back.

He scoffs. “As if you could.”

“It’s really sexist of you to assume I don’t know how to make a fire because I’m a woman.”

He smirks at me. “I think it because you’re a Buchanan, not because you’re a woman.”

I roll my eyes.

“Just for the record,” he asks, “do you know how to make a fire?”

“No,” I concede. “I mean, I’d figure it out eventually.”

“So, you weren’t a Girl Scout, then?”

And I can’t not laugh. The idea that Ilias Buchanan would have allowed his only daughter to participate in an organization as common as the Girl Scouts is . . . comical.

“My condo has a fireplace and I love it, but it’s gas. Clean lines, modern. Just the flip of a switch and it’s roaring.”

“So if you had your way, you’d gut and replace all the old fireplaces in the house?” he asks in a tone dripping with disapproval.

“Actually, I wouldn’t.” I gesture to the detailed design etched on the mantel and the thick bricks that line the interior of the fireplace. “Look at that craftsmanship. Eighty years ago, those bricks were laid hand by hand by someone who knew what they were doing. Who built it to last forever. It’s a lot harder than just flipping a switch—but sometimes harder is better. It’s makes it worth it in the end.”

He nods slowly, his mouth a soft line that gives me the impression I’ve said something he didn’t expect.

“Though I do miss modern conveniences,” I sigh.

“Yeah,” he drawls. “I miss Sudoku.”

I laugh and Damon smiles. “It’s the only game I had on my phone. Didn’t feel like a total waste of time. I’m gonna have Ian bring me a few books on his next trip. Gotta keep the brain sharp.”

Suddenly, it strikes me that things feel different. Talking with him like this. Like, Damon could be a guy I met somewhere, instead of my sworn enemy. Learning things about him and sharing things about myself seems bizarrely natural.

Almost . . . easy.

And that’s how it is between us for several days. We’re mattress buddies, conversation partners. You could say . . . adversaries with benefits.

It’s not a truce, but a ceasefire born of necessity. Four hands are better than two, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and for the time being, like it or not . . . we need each other.

* * *

The cold snap breaks five days later. But even once the temperature range returns to normal, it’s still ten degrees colder than where we started, and without heat, the drafty house still hovers at refrigerator-lite. We stay put in the parlor, close to the fireplace, and at night—each other.

The days pass and start to bleed together, as if time becomes liquid and swirling, the hours mixing in an otherworldly stainless-steel blender. I might start some type of log just to keep track of time passing, like on Star Trek. “Jade’s log, day nineteen that feels like seven-thousand four hundred and ninety-two . . .”

Burke and I talk, even joke around at times. And the strange easiness of our conversation becomes not strange at all. Sometimes we just stare at the fire. Like cavemen.

Despite his best efforts, the television only plays VCR tapes. And the only VCR tapes Clara has are recorded episodes of Friends. So that’s what we watch . . . so many episodes of Friends. Which isn’t a bad show, but I can now officially report that even the Brad Pitt guest-starring Thanksgiving Day episode gets old if you watch it enough.

When the day comes that Piper and Ian walk through the front door—that’s how they find us: sitting on the couch, bundled in hoodies, staring stone-faced at the television as the ending credits of “The One with the Prom Video” roll.

“Hey!” Piper greets cheerfully.

“How’s it going, man?” Ian asks. “I brought the jugs of heating oil. You’ll be all set for the next four weeks.”

And they’re so frigging chipper. Gratingly gleeful. Strolling around, all ankle-monitorless and free. Bitterness and irrational testiness swamps me. The irritation and frustration that used to be reserved for Damon is transferred to Piper and Ian . . . because they get to leave.

Burke feels it too. He understands where I’m coming from—he’s the only person on earth who does. Annoyance rolls off him, tightening his jaw and setting his mouth in a sexy scowl.

When a new episode begins and the gruelingly upbeat theme song plays, Burke and I give five quick claps in unison at the appropriate interval. It started out as something funny, but it’s sort of compulsive now—Pavlovian.

Our friends’ smiles seem to hang forced on their faces as they look at us. Piper’s expression clouds with concern, and her tone is lilting, but hesitant. “Hey Jade, how you doing? Aren’t you so happy to see me again?”

Without even realizing it, I’ve started to think and speak in plurals—like Burke and I are a bonded unit, one synchronized crew. A squad.

Co-equal players on Team Want to Get the Hell Out of Here.

I lift my gaze to her and all I can say is, “We kind of hate you guys right now. No offense.”

* * *

After Ian and Piper’s supply visit, and after the boiler is functioning again, I don’t relocate to another room. Damon doesn’t either. We don’t mention it. We’ve come to an unspoken agreement: This is how we are now.

He goes for his run; then, with the supplies Ian brought for him, he fixes things around the house—cementing the perimeter wall, patching ceilings, tightening leaky pipes. When I ask him why he bothers, he says it’s to keep our living conditions minimally tolerable and to keep from losing his mind. I do yoga in Gunther’s old room. I visit the library. I work on my new crocheting hobby. Even though the second floor is definitely not structurally sound, I roll the dice and venture up to the attic to explore the moments of Clara’s life she carefully packed away—pictures and journals, her wedding dress and shoes, and her son’s baby blanket and crib.

But, inevitably, Damon and I both end up back in the parlor.

And at night, we gravitate to the mattress in front of the fireplace, the covers pulled up around us, falling against each other, wrapped snugly and holding on tight.

I don’t question it, don’t think too deeply about it.

Maybe it’s because we’ve weakened to the point that we just can’t stand being alone again.

Or maybe it’s . . . something else.