CHAPTER 36: FLAMES
16 years old
Creamy mashed potatoes, beef that she’s pretty sure is actually mow and a green vegetable that looks like rubber. Summer’s plate of food is heavy and she knows it won’t all be eaten. The doors to the Outlander’s rooms all have locks, but no one has the keys so no one locks them—unless they know how to pick the lock, which she doesn’t. Unlocked doors always make her nervous. You wanted to be alone, she reminds herself as she walks down the lane between buildings D and E. She reaches room number twenty and hesitates before opening it. After a deep breath, she turns the handle and steps inside.
There are roses everywhere: tucked in nooks, crannies, and lain out and across every available space. It’s as if the room has caught flame with all the crimson. It’s so shocking that Summer almost drops her plate of food. Her back hits the wall, and she gasps for breath. What’s he trying to do to me? Doesn’t he know this only makes it hurt worse? She closes her eyes, hoping that when she opens them again the flowers will be gone. At the same time, she hopes they’ll still be there too. Stupid. Her eyes slide open slowly to see the rosy flames engulfing the room. The aroma is strong and wonderful—and she hates it. And loves it. For several moments she just sits there and stares, not really knowing what she should do or how she should feel. Then this morning replays in her head, Kayla leaning into Gage, one of his hands on her waist, the other around her, their eyes burning into each other’s.
She brushes her hand across the table, and roses tumble to the ground like dark rubies scattering. Like fallen angels descending, dropping away just like her tears as they burn her cheeks like they’re liquid fire. Searing, sparking, devouring. The plate clanks noisily against the wood as the food stares back at her in pity. Honestly? She’s tired of everyone’s pity! She doesn’t need someone to look after her or to protect her. She was alone for years before Landon came around. No more roses. No more pitying stares and ridiculous mutant beef mocking her next to the watery potatoes mixing with the plastic-like vegetables.
Summer violently rips roses from drawers, cabinets, and vases. With an arm full of the most beautiful flower—now ruined forever—she stomps to the door, flings it open and tosses the roses outside. “Whoa!” says Gage under the rain of crimson roses.
Her eyes go wide, and she quickly slams the door in his face. She gathers more roses in her arms, bundles and bundles of them, and opens the door again. He’s still standing there, his stupid, hypnotic green eyes pleading. “Summer,” he says, holding his hands up. She throws the roses at his face, spins around, and slams the door again.
“Please,” he pleads through the door.
There are flower petals everywhere; she’s swimming in them, along with stems and leaves. Still, she sweeps more and more into her arms. It’s no use, but she still does it. Opening the door for a third time, she tosses more roses, more petals . . . more of her anger out at him.
“Please,” he begs again, his eyes filling with tears. “Give me a chance to explain!”
She wants to scream and yell and tell him that she doesn’t want to hear his explanation—but she kind of does. She doesn’t even bother to close the door again as she rushes around the room and gathers even more roses into her arms, showering Gage in lustrous petals.
“That girl—I don’t even know who she is! She came on to me, and I told her no. She didn’t like that and threw herself onto me,” he cries out, and Summer pours more flowers, like a rainstorm of petals cascading down his blonde hair. “I was telling her I wasn’t interested—that there was someone else who held my heart and that she needed to get off me! I swear!”
Summer, her arms and hands punctured and scraped from the thorns, collects more. Tears are streaming down her face, and his words sink into her skin, consuming and dominating her body. She crumples against the bed, the petals like a fragrant blanket over her skin.
Gage steps past the threshold and kneels before her. He’s careful not to make any sudden movements, though she’s past that when it comes to him. “It’s you I want. It’s you I care for. Before this have I ever done anything that would make you think otherwise?” His voice is so sincere, imploring her to see reason.
She glances up into his eyes, seeing the tears drying on his cheeks, and knows he isn’t lying. It’s a gut feeling. She believes him, and it only makes her more upset. Her stomach drops at the realization. Not only did she cause herself all this unnecessary grief, she hurt him in the process. Today she’s the monster. Summer reaches up for him, and he engulfs her in a hug as he exhales a long breath in relief. “Thank you,” he breathes and pulls her closer.
Her body still aches from all the trauma she’s been through, mentally and physically, but she doesn’t care. Not anymore. They’re both on their knees in a storm of red, holding on to the one who cares about them. The solace she finds in his embrace is so exquisite it’s nearly painful; still, she bathes in his warmth and strength. He pulls away and holds her cheeks between his large palms as if she’s the most precious, most breakable object on the planet. His thumbs wipe away the residue of her tears as he half-smiles, still uncertain.
“You’re wonderful, you know that?” he whispers. “I’d be insane to do anything to lose you.” She returns his smile, and his grows in size before he leans forward and gently places a tender kiss on her lips. Summer’s heart gives an extra squeeze for him. When he pulls away he murmurs, “You taste like roses.”
Summer falls back on her feet and laughs aloud, her hand combing her hair, coming away with bits of petals and leaves. Gage stops her and begins to pick the debris from her hair. “We need to talk tonight. Something’s going on outside the camp, and I’m worried for your safety.”
Their eyes meet, and without a word, he can read her anxiety.
“I’ll stop by here, okay? The boys’ room is connected to yours, right?”
She nods, wondering what’s going on that would concern them.
“It’s almost time for your next class,” he reminds. “How about I clean up here so you don’t have to, okay?” When she doesn’t nod or move, he stops pulling things from her hair and looks into her eyes. “Flower?”
The nickname’s back, and her blood warms quickly. She sits up and wraps her arms around his neck, nods, and then goes in for the kiss, breathing him in. She’s more aggressive this time, more eager. But it doesn’t last—he pulls away and gently caresses her cheek. “Go to class,” he urges. “If you don’t you’ll be put on their radar, and right now you don’t want that.”
Who? she wonders.
Then he says, “Trust me.”
I do with my whole heart. Indeed, her life has turned into a roller coaster.