Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

Chapter 19

NINETEEN

WYATT

The logs in the bonfire pop, crackle, and hiss as the flames rise higher into the night.

Aside from the soft whistle of the occasional gust of autumn air, the voices of old friends—mostly acquaintances I’m stuck with for decades and have been since grade school—surround me, raucous laughter and the sounds of enjoying life everywhere I look. It’s a bit salt-in-the-wound if you ask me. The inescapable reminder that everyone else got to enjoy themselves beyond their early twenties. I’m the only sad sack who’s been walking around this town half-miserable since then.

Though, admittedly, a lot less miserable these past weeks. And, okay, this past week most of all. The sight of Rory Weiss, on her knees, my cum spraying all over the wall right next to her flawless face as she stroked and licked me … It’s helped a lot.

Except she hasn’t reached out to initiate another round, and call me idiotic, but I was convinced she would when I left her place that night. I know she felt better after what we did, even the tough talk after we got interrupted was a success.

With how high strung she is normally, how over-the-top stressed she’s been, I know she could use another release like that. One that she’s welcome to access any time she wants, thanks to our new pact.

Kind of surprised it’s been seven days of radio silence. I could understand during the week, between her mom’s appointments, their outings together, plus her workload. But I thought maybe Saturday might be our chance to get together, and I didn’t even hear from her yesterday. I’ve even been avoiding the bar a bit, trying to give her some space so I don’t come off like a needy fuck, but she’s holding out longer than I thought she would. If I wasn’t there, hadn’t seen how hard she came, I might get a complex wondering if she didn’t enjoy herself, but I know she did.

Bring my Solo cup up to my lips and take a deep pull of the borderline tepid liquid as I take in the turning treetops along the ridge of the Smokies. That vibrant green is already damn near gone, soon they’ll be nothing but yellow, orange, just a couple pops of red, and then brown. This view is the best part of these nights, especially as the seasons start to change. Sure beats the rest of the surroundings.

Man, are we really still drinking shitty beer on a weekend night in our thirties? I guess most of the married ones, those with kids, especially, aren’t here tonight. It’s mostly those of us who never settled down that are relegated to this tradition of meeting up for a bonfire whenever the weather permits. Bigger ones, like some Friday nights, most of our old crew shows up. But nights like tonight? Just makes me feel pathetic for not having anything else better to be doing with my life.

The conversation drifts in and out of my awareness.

“You think it’ll close?”

“Suds?”

“Yeah.”

“I fucking hope not.”

“Nah, no way ol’ Duke will give up. He’ll go out swinging before they take Suds away.”

Another voice pipes up, changing the subject. “Anyone heard from Lexi?” My ears perk up on anything Rory-adjacent, as usual, and my attention homes in on the guy who asked the question. I take a few paces in his direction, eyes on the distant tree line so as not to look interested or commit myself to engaging in their conversation.

“Yeah, she was at work today,” a girl we went to school with answers, sadly. “She’s a wreck, though. She wasn’t up for coming tonight.”

“You should’ve seen her at the hospital,” another guy we grew up with, Shawn, says, brows raised, the expression he pulls saying more than his words did before he lets out a long whistle. “Or seen her sister, yikes.”

I thought I’d be able to hear better over here, but now it feels like maybe there’s cotton in my ears? Some sort of ringing sound? And is the ground moving beneath me? We aren’t supposed to get earthquakes in the Smokies.

Hospital?

“Why was Rory at the hospital?” My voice is gruff and croaks a little on the question (from disuse, nothing else). A chill crosses my skin that has nothing to do with the dropping temperature that’s accompanying the way the leaves are more golden than green these days.

All the eyes around the fire shoot to me, some looking guilty, some alight with scandal, fresh gossip waiting to pour out, others are just interested, watching to see what happens next.

What’s gonna happen next is I’m gonna get violent if someone doesn’t start talking. Is Rory okay?

“I heard their mom slipped and fell.”

Fuck.

When I meet Shawn’s eyes, I know that’s not the real story. He might be able to tell I know too.

“When was this?” The words are more of a grunt than anything, but Sophia, who works as an administrator at the hospital, same as Shawn, speaks up. She can barely restrain the delight in her eyes at the focus from the entire group, being the center of attention, the one who gets to spill the tea. My stomach threatens to spill the half a cup of beer all over this grassy field if she doesn’t spit this out.

“She was admitted Friday.”

Two fucking days ago?

And Rory didn’t text me, didn’t tell me, didn’t ask for help? Jesus Christ, she’s probably a complete mess. Was this the thing that broke through her outer shell—those incredible defenses she has—cracked her and let that softness she works so hard to hide feel the damage for once?

Shawn pipes up again. Why, I have no clue. “She had no emotion, I’m telling you, it was like watching a mannequin controlled by AI sitting in that room. She’s so cold, it was creepy.”

Sophia joins in, and soon half of the people around the fire are talking out of their ass.

“I heard she wouldn’t even hold her mom’s hand.”

“She probably didn’t want to mess up her nails,” one girl scoffs.

“Or get hospital germs on her designer clothes,” another one cackles.

Sophia takes the lead again. “Why is she even back anyway? She clearly hates it here, she should just go back to wherever she’s been.” Like she doesn’t know where Rory’s been all these years. I think it was at the last bonfire of the summer two years ago when she gave an entire dissertation about how brave Rory was for going to New York, how that’s something she’s always wanted to do, but she could never.

These motherfuckers are treating her life like it’s their personal reality show to look in on, observe, and comment on, like she’s not a living person, like she doesn’t still have half my soul.

I toss my red plastic cup into the trash can to the side of one of the logs we use as benches and spit on the ground at the feet of those who are still running their mouths.

“Judgmental pricks,” I seethe. “No wonder she never comes back, when this is what’s waiting for her. None of you have even tried to talk to her, make her feel welcome for coming back home, you all just couldn’t wait for the chance to play Regina George—” Yeah, that’s right, Rory made me see that movie once upon a time. Got to second base during it, if I remember right. “—and talk shit about her. You have no clue what that girl’s life is like, the hardships she’s facing, and what even brought her back here. She’s a better person than anyone here, myself included. And fuck every one of you who knew what happened and didn’t think to check on her, or at least tell me so I could, and just sat here using it as fodder for your own fucking entertainment. You are the problem.”

Those same voices call my name, whimper and protest at my retreat, but they can talk to my ass for all the fucks I give. I throw a middle finger up over my shoulder, they can all sit and spin. It’s Rory they should be apologizing to, anyway, not me. Hop in my Ram and peel to her place, thankful I’d barely gotten any alcohol in me and didn’t have to wait for it to get out of my system first.

Jog straight into Suds, the Dodge still running in the parking lot one building over, only to find the place fairly empty. Dallas is restocking the bar, and he looks up as I run past.

Duke, however, sees me from his open office door. “She’s not here, son.” He looks haggard and weary, but I don’t have time to check on him. “She ain’t been here in days. At her mom’s, I reckon.”

That makes me stop in my tracks, turn around on a booted heel and bolt back the way I came. Not five minutes before I’m at her mom’s place, and this time I do take the second and a half to turn off my truck, and race up to the door. Get a brief flash of all the nights I snuck in and out through her window ages ago, but that’s not fast enough tonight, it’ll have to be the last resort if I can’t get in some other way. Knock quickly before opening it, thankful as fuck that our small town is still safe enough that the old-timers who grew up here don’t lock their doors.

“Laura Lee?” I call out, slowing down to a walk instead of a rampage. “Aurora?”

There’s some sort of noise from down in the hallway, and I follow it. “Rory?” I call again.

“Wyatt?” Her voice is thick, like her throat is obstructed. I’m back to a run again, checking every door I pass until I arrive at the bathroom and the scene there grasps my heart in its claws.

Rory is crumpled on the floor, on the bathmat in front of the tub. Her hair is a mess, it could be a bird’s nest at this point, and if I had to guess she’s been in those clothes for going on seventy-two hours now.

But none of that is what’s causing this sharpness in my ribs, this shortness of breath. It’s the look on her face. Defeat. Despair. Red-rimmed eyes, puffy skin underneath them, and that slumped posture, held up only by the ceramic bathtub and the wall behind her. Like even her will has left her.

Behind her, inside the tub, is … a chicken.

It looks almost as rough as she does. Hunkered down, neck pulled in, feathers limp, and eyes droopy. Clearly unwell.

But I’m only here for one of them.

I drop to my knees in front of her on the linoleum floor and put a hand to her face, cup her jaw in my palm. I want to ask how she is, I want to ask if she’s okay, but I know the answers to those already. If reading Rory Weiss was offered as a degree, maybe I woulda gone to college. Or maybe I could’ve tested out of it. So instead, I say, “I’m here.”

She slumps forward, head falling until her forehead lands on my shoulder, and her body wracks with sobs as soon as the contact is made.

My arms come around her back to hold her in place, taking more and more of her weight as she gives in. I’d be willing to bet she hasn’t as much as let someone else see her cry, much less lean on them throughout it, since we were together. My stubbled cheek is pressed to the top of her head, catching on her straggly strands, but neither of us moves to readjust. I sit there and take every ounce of pain she shares with me wordlessly.

After a while, her sobs quiet, her hiccupped breaths slowing back down to a calmer rhythm, one that matches mine. Our chests rise and fall together in the echoing silence of the small room. Just the occasional ruffle of the feathers we hear as the hen let us know she’s still disgruntled.

After another couple minutes, Aurora is collected enough to pull back from me and go back to leaning against the wall, with a tiny bit of backbone this time.

“You came,” she croaks out in what almost passes for a whisper.

“Of course I did. I just heard. I’m so sorry, Aurora.”

Her eyes well up newly, but she doesn’t let the tears spill this time, averts her eyes to the bathtub instead, the hen inside of it, some shred of determination in her gaze.

“She asked me to keep the chickens alive. I’m failing her, Wyatt. Lexi’s had work all weekend, it’s all on me, and I can’t even keep her fucking chicken alive when she’s dying. She’s dying , Wyatt. Nine months sounded so far away when I got that first call, but I’m watching it happen, and it’s way too soon, and I can’t even do this for her? I can’t let her down again, I can’t.”

A tear does break free at that, and Aurora covers her face with both hands, trying to get her composure back.

“Hey,” I try to soothe her. “This fluffy girl looks alive to me, unless you know something I don’t and she’s somehow dead and moving around at the same time. So you’re keeping your word to your mom. This girl isn’t going anywhere on our watch.”

She hiccups again, I think it might be a scoff, or maybe even a fraction of a laugh, and wipes her cheeks with her palms as she tosses her head back up again and I get to see that face I used to spend my life waiting to stare at. “Something was wrong with Henrietta the Eighth. I tried googling it, and chickenmama4lyfe on Reddit said it was heat stress, and to give her honey water and to keep her somewhere away from the rest of the flock and isolated. This was the only place I could think of.”

“How long have you and Henrietta been in here?” I ask gently. It’s not a setting that comes naturally for me, sounds a little rougher than I mean it to, but she’s never been one to flinch or recoil from the more callous parts of me, and she doesn’t now, either.

“Friday,” she says simply, numbly.

“Hellcat, it’s Sunday night.”

“Is it?”

“Have you slept?”

She wobbles her head side to side a bit in a noncommittal response.

“Have you eaten?”

She shakes her head, sullen.

“Have you left this room at all?”

“For the birds, yeah. Pellets. Water.”

Her hand kind of flops with the explanation. I can see the tiredness around her, like squiggles coming off of a cartoon character, but really fucking depressing ones. She must be beyond exhausted. I don’t know how she isn’t delirious at this point.

“Okay, new plan,” I tell her. “I’m on chicken duty.”

Aurora tries to argue, but she’s so tired, so emotionally and physically drained even her ability to perform her favorite pastime, verbal MMA, is hindered, which is really saying something.

I persist. “I’m going to make sure Henrietta gets her honey water, right after I get something to eat in you, and once you get some sleep, and I’ll stay up on chicken duty tonight.”

“You have work,” she grumbles, and it’s mostly to her own shoulder as her head lolls. She must be real exhausted if that’s all she’s got.

“Not anymore. I’m taking the day off. Gonzo doesn’t need me.” Not as much as you do, is the quiet part of that sentence. “Let me do this for you. For both of you.”

She gives in with a small nod, eyes closing already, and I take that as my cue to pick her up and carry her to the couch. She’s asleep before I’m back with a glass of water and some eggs to eat, so I wake her up with a gentle nudge to the shoulder.

“That’s cruel,” she says sleepily when she sees what I brought her.

“It’s all I could find that could be made quick, and it’s not like it’s a damn chicken breast. Henrietta won’t even hold it against you.”

I’m surprised she hasn’t accused me of having a feeding kink yet, but I know this girl. The way she gets consumed by her work, her thoughts, her stress. She hasn’t been taking care of herself, too focused on her mom and trying to keep up with her workload to boot. Can’t let anyone down, even if it means running herself into the ground.

Her lack of self-care is going to bite her in the ass sooner rather than later. Can’t run a car on no oil and no gas, and when this girl doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep enough, doesn’t get outside and touch grass once in a while, her battles get harder.

After the time we’ve spent together these past weeks, I can see it now. When she’s out of fuel, the way her temperament shifts. She starts to get cranky, annoyed at damn near everything, even if she tries to hide it with those masks she wears—the ones that say nothing gets to her. But every single time I’ve checked with her when she gets that shift, sure enough, she hasn’t eaten.

What she’s going through is hard enough. She barely sleeps as is, she never thinks to eat, or even drink her water. Of course she’s gonna be snappy and shit’s gonna suck even harder. You can take the sanest person alive, and if you deprive them of food, of sleep, they’re gonna turn into a goddamn psychopath on you. It happens to the best of us. Hell, it’s a torture technique they use on opposition for a reason.

If she doesn’t take care of herself, she has no chance at winning the battles she’s fighting. But I’m here not just to take care of her, but to give her every possible tool, build out her arsenal so she can win her own battles every fucking time.

And now that she’s passed out, fast asleep, stocking up on her other chief line of defense against her demons, I’m gonna go save a fucking chicken’s life.