Boys with Matches, page 1
part #4 of Flint and Tinder Series
BOYS WITH MATCHES
SHORT STORIES FROM FLINT AND TINDER
GREGORY ASHE
H&B
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Boys with Matches
Copyright © 2023 Gregory Ashe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests and all other inquiries, contact: contact@hodgkinandblount.com
Published by Hodgkin & Blount
https://www.hodgkinandblount.com/
contact@hodgkinandblount.com
Published 2023
Printed in the United States of America
Version 1.03
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63621-055-1
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63621-054-4
HEAT
This story takes place before Ember Boys.
1 | EMMETT
“When’s your birthday?” I asked. We were walking outside because in San Elredo, even November is pleasant, and because the rehab facility had been landscaped to death. If it weren’t for the walls and the security cameras, you’d think it was a park.
“Not this again,” Jim said.
“I’m going to find out one way or another.”
“Great.”
“But you could save me some effort.”
“No thanks.”
I kicked an acorn, and it skittered up the path until it caught in a crack. It left a little scuff on the toe of my slipper.
“The month.”
“It’s somewhere between January and December.”
“Ha ha.”
When we reached the end of the path, Jim stretched. He’d always been lean with a nice gym body; now when his shirt and jacket rode up, he looked skinny. He went to the bench—our bench—and sat. After a minute, he said, “Well?”
“I want to like the beard.”
His fingers played with the red and gold scruff. “Today’s like your greatest hits day, huh?”
“It’s just so scraggly.”
“I’ll get out my checklist to make sure we cover everything.”
“Do you comb it?” I squinted; ever since he had come to California, his hair had looked like a haystack. “Do you own a comb?”
“Up next,” he said, pretending to read off his palm, “we’ll talk about my apartment, about my job, about—”
“You’re not as funny as you think.”
“—how stupid it is that you’re here. Hey, maybe you’ll really get on a tear and want to talk about Vie.”
“Fuck you.”
The old me would have turned and walked away. But the old me was losing ground to the new me, and I stayed there, hands in the loose flannel pajama bottoms.
“Sorry,” he said. “It sounded like a joke in my head.”
I dropped onto the end of the bench. He slid over, shrugged an arm around me. He smelled like laundry detergent and french fries. I pushed him away a few times, just for form’s sake, and then I let him give me that one-armed hug.
The old me wouldn’t have.
Our bench looked out over the end of what was politely called the garden. The ground sloped down, and a tiny pond butted up against the wall. Lily pads grew there, although these weren’t looking too sharp—any day now, the cold would drop, and they’d be dead.
“Can I see a picture of your apartment?”
He sighed. “I’m going to start coming up with topics in advance. Talk to me about your music.”
“Too late; you already made today’s list,” I said. “What about school?”
“School’s fine.”
“What about the staff directory?”
He side-eyed me. “What about it?”
“Why haven’t they listed your name? And your picture?”
“I don’t know, Emmett. It’s November. It hasn’t even been a semester.”
“It’s because of your hair.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my hair.”
“So this hypothetical apartment that I’ve never seen pictures of, it doesn’t have a mirror?”
He ran fingers through the strawberry-blond chaos. “It has a mirror. And it’s not hypothetical.”
“Ok. No comb, no mirror.”
“I have a mirror. And a comb.”
“Looks like you don’t,” I said, tugging on his scruff.
Swatting my hand away, he said, “Tell me about here. Are you making friends?”
“Oh, yeah. We play Twister and do the Chubby Checker until nine o’clock sharp. They promised if we’re good, they’re going to let us watch the moon landing.”
“Uh huh.”
“All the cool kids are getting their varsity jackets and their poodle skirts. We’re all going to the sock hop.”
“Sounds great.”
“Am I making friends? Am I fucking making friends? What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you even fucking think before you open your mouth?”
His hand came up; he stroked the back of my neck, still staring out at the pond, that fucking drop of water that was all I ever got to look at.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I know.”
“It’s this place. It’s being off that junk and having other junk in my body instead. It’s my face and . . .” I couldn’t finish.
“I know,” he said. “I still dream about it.”
I did too, but better call them nightmares. High in the mountains, fire everywhere, the throb of the motorcycle under my legs.
I started crying. He pulled me toward him, and I fought him again; gotta stay in practice. But eventually, he had my head cradled in the crook of his neck, and he didn’t do anything else, just held me with one arm and let me cry.
“I’m ok,” I said finally.
“I know you are.”
“God, I am such a fucking wreck.”
“No. You’re not. You’re here because you’re getting better. You won’t stay here forever.”
I knew what I was about to say. I had a wound that wouldn’t heal because I kept picking at it. I thought I wanted to be better, but some days, I wasn’t even sure about that.
“Can we?” I said.
“What?”
“Can we talk about him? Just for a little while?” But I was on familiar tracks; I was going to hit all the same stops. I knew it, and Jim knew it. “I just don’t know why he doesn’t email.”
“You know he cares about you,” Jim said, “but he’s been through a lot. Just like you.”
He was hitting his lines just right, which made sense. We’d done this scene before.
2 | EMMETT
“Something’s different about you.”
We were inside, near the windows; still November, still warm enough to be outside, although one of San Elredo’s rainy days kept us from taking advantage of it.
“Let’s play checkers,” Jim said.
“Sure, great. Then we can turn on the radio and listen to President Roosevelt’s fireside chat.”
“Well, how about chess?’
“Something is different. What is it?”
“Nothing’s different. I’ll set up the board.”
I caught his wrist. He was warmer than me—he always was—and I could feel every blond hair that dusted his arm. I’d never known wrists could be beautiful, but his were: wide and flat and a little knobby, kind of insanely masculine.
“Why are you looking at my arm?”
“I’m trying to figure out what’s different.”
“Ok,” he said, slipping his arm from my grip. “What gives?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“No, what’s going on with you? You’re acting squirrelly.”
I sat back. He had these incredible light blue eyes. They were like watercolors.
“Are you taking your medication?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a simple question,” Jim said. “Are you?”
“None of your business.”
He nodded slowly. Then he picked up one of the chess boards they kept lying around the rec room, opened it, and started lining up pieces.
“I like you coming here, ok?” I said.
He was grouping them first: pawns all together, then bishops, then rooks. I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t just put them in their places.
“I like seeing you,” I said. “It’s nice. I think, for the most part, you’re a pretty decent guy.”
“That’s swell,” he said, looking up just enough so I could see that he was making fun.
“It means a lot, actually. We went through some really bad stuff together. I’m still going through some really bad stuff. And you . . . you coming here, I think it’s helped. So I don’t want this next part to sound ungrateful.”
His eyes really did come up this time, calm, expectant.
“Stay the fuck out of my business.”
He held my gaze a moment longer and then bent over the chessboard again.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.
“So?”
“So I want to know if you’re taking your meds.”
“Oh my God.”
Jim shrugged. “I have a right—”
“Why? Because you were my fucking English teacher? Fuck off. Get out of here. I’m serious: I don’t want to see you today.”
“Everything ok?” one of the caretakers asked—Pete, a big Latino guy with arms the size of my thighs.
“We’re fine,” Jim said.
“No, we are not fine,” I said.
“Maybe now’s a good time to take a break,” Pete said.
Jim didn’t even look up; he just kept grouping the pieces.
“No,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “We’re fine. I’m just—we’re fine.”
Pete watched a moment longer and then retreated to his post.
“I have a right to know,” Jim said softly, still not looking up, his slender fingers setting a queen down gently, “because I care about you. And because we’ve been through a lot together.”
I huffed a breath and looked out the window; rain freckled the glass, and beyond the window, beyond the garden, beyond the high, white-washed walls, storm clouds rolled towards us like bowling balls.
I couldn’t look at him when I said, “Yes.”
A beat.
“Ok,” Jim said. “White or black?”
“I don’t want to play chess.”
“It’s a good game to learn.”
“Please don’t make me play chess.”
With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Jim began putting the pieces away.
“I got in a fight,” I said, my voice small. I was back to looking out the window. Those huge clouds just kept coming. “It wasn’t anything. Just shoving. This new kid, he’s a rich, entitled asshole—sound familiar?—got in front of me at the drinking fountain. And then I had to talk about it and talk about it and talk about it. And I feel shitty, just really shitty.”
“Ok.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Ok.”
“He just—he didn’t have to do that, right? Get in front of me. In front of all of us, I mean. And I don’t even know why it was such a big deal. I mean, I fucking faced down monsters, real living monsters. And now I’m losing my shit over a drinking fountain. And I know I said I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
Silence. When I finally looked away from the window, he was leaning back in his chair—thin, God, he really did look thin—and he had a little grin hiding behind that godawful beard.
After a minute, I grinned too. And then we both started to laugh.
I laughed for a long time; Jim too. I wasn’t even sure what we were laughing about, not really, but it felt good, like something had been building inside me and now I could breathe. When the laughter stopped, I sprawled in my chair and ran my hand through my hair.
Then I realized and sat up.
“Your hair.”
“Huh?”
“No. Don’t play dumb. Your hair. Your hair.”
He touched the red and gold fuzz on the side of his head. As long as I’d known him, he’d worn it in a traditional, conservative part. Now, he’d gotten an undercut. One side was buzzed down almost to nothing, while the rest was long and flowing, held airborne by some kind of clay or wax. Even thin, even with the beard, he looked so beautiful I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed when he walked into the rec room.
“Is it ok?” he said. “I have a—”
He stopped.
And he looked guilty.
“You have a date,” I said.
“I’m having drinks.”
“That’s a date.”
“No, it’s just meeting someone.”
“Oh my God.” I wanted to turn and look at the clouds again; I wanted to put my head through the glass, just one hard crash. “That’s great, that’s fucking awesome.” I pushed back my chair. “Holy shit, I just realized what time it is.”
“Emmett.”
“I know, I can’t believe it. I totally lost track of time.”
“Can you sit down for a second?”
“It’s just, you never told me you wanted to date someone. You never told me you were looking.”
“Come sit down and we’ll talk about this.”
“No, I’ve got to go.” I laughed. It sounded so fucking insane that I wanted someone to pull the plug on this shit show. “But, like, I am so happy for you. I cannot wait to hear about it. Cannot wait, seriously.”
“Emmett, you’re not being fair—”
“Can’t wait, Jim. Seriously. So fucking awesome.”
I backed up until my butt hit the door to the patients-only area, and Pete buzzed me through. I took off at a run, my slippers slapping the linoleum loud enough that I couldn’t hear my ragged breaths.
3 | JIM
I waited in the pick-up lane outside the rehab facility, expecting a surprise. Either a good one or a bad one. I’d had lots of surprises over the last few days. Most of them bad, so I was hoping, really hoping, for a good one. I checked the back seat one last time; nothing to give me away. I had stowed the water jug, the protein bars, the sleeping bag, and the pillow in the trunk.
Emmett came out of the rehab facility, his dark-hair tousled in a way that had probably taken him fifteen minutes, his long, lean frame moving across the sidewalk like it was a runway. He’d been beautiful before the scars, beautiful in a way maybe a handful of people ever were. Now, keloid tissue marked half of his body. Half exactly. Not burns. No, these had been done with a knife. Slowly. Carefully. Intricate whorls and lines carved into his flesh. One of the caretakers, a guy I’d seen rabbit whenever there was work to be done, glanced away as Emmett approached. It wasn’t easy for a lot of people to look into a face like that. It wasn’t easy for me, either, but not for the same reasons.
“Hi,” he said, chafing his arms as he dropped into the seat. He wore a denim jacket, but he already looked cold.
“Do you want something heavier?”
“What? No. I’m fine.”
“We’re going for a hike.”
“Yeah,” he said in that way teenagers had perfected to mean you are too fucking old to realize how fucking stupid you are and this is also a clarifying question to give you one chance to redeem yourself.
“You might get cold.”
“No; I told you, I’m fine.”
“I just don’t want you to get cold.”
He didn’t roll his eyes; he was eighteen, and he’d transcended eyerolling to body language: the casual sprawl of his body, the way he held his head, even the way he breathed, all transmitting the same message: you are too fucking old and too fucking stupid.
“Oh,” he said, bending to unzip a bag at his feet. The smell of something warm and buttery floated up. “I brought food for us.”
My stomach growled.
Laughing, Emmett pushed one of the bags at me. “They don’t normally do take out, so I packed it up myself. Lunch, too, in case we stay out long enough.”
“You’re sure this is ok?”
“Absolutely not. I’m planning a huge axe-killing spree as soon as we drive away from here. You’d better hurry because I’m in the middle of a high-pursuit escape.” He gestured to the empty waiting area in front of the rehab facility. “They’re hot on my trail.”
Sighing, I shifted the old Impala into gear, and it creaked and groaned forward. “This is why I like teaching freshmen better,” I said. “They just roll their eyes.”
I ate as we drove; I hadn’t had anything since lunch the day before, and nothing since lunch the day before that. Sleeping in the car had let me stretch my budget, but I didn’t have unlimited funds. The opposite, in fact. Very, very limited. And the breakfast sandwich was good: hot, eggy, the sausage the tiniest bit burnt to give it a crispy edge. Before I realized it, the sandwich was gone.
Emmett was staring at me.
“Here,” he said, shoving another bag into my lap.
“That’s yours.”
“No, I brought three.”
I wanted to believe the lie, so I did; the sandwich was gone almost as quick as the first one.
We drove north, passing through San Francisco, where morning traffic held us up almost an hour.
“This is making us late,” I said, checking the clock in the dash which had been broken when I bought the car and flashed 12:00 no matter how many times I set it. “When do you need to get back?”
