I reached over and picked up a little glass jar. The matchsticks inside had a green tip, and I still remembered my father returning from Wales saying he’d found them in a seaside shop in Cardiff.
I smiled sadly, holding up the jar. “These are my favorite,” I told Michael, leaning over the table. “Listen to the sound.”
I jiggled the jar next to his ear, but then my face fell, hearing the heavy clumping instead of the light, familiar sound of the wooden sticks tapping the inside of the glass.
I lowered myself back down into my seat. “They don’t sound the same now, I guess.”
Michael stared at me, his huge frame and height damn-near taking up the whole bench on his side of the booth.
“They’re just matches, Rika.”
I cocked my head, my eyes narrowing with ire. “They’re just matches?” I sneered. “What do you treasure? Is anything precious to you?”
His expression turned impassive, and he remained silent.
“Yeah, they’re just matches,” I continued, my voice growing thick with tears. “And memories and smells and sounds and butterflies in my stomach every time I heard the car door slam outside, telling me that he was home. A thousand dreams of all the places I’d have adventures someday.” I took a deep breath, placing my hand on top of the box. “They’re hopes and wishes and reminders and all the times I smiled, knowing he’d remembered me while he was gone.”
And then I looked at him pointedly. “You have money and girls, cars and clothes, but I still have more than you in this little box.”
I turned my gaze out to the pool tables, seeing him watch me out of the corner of my eye. I knew he thought I was being silly. He probably wondered why he was still sitting here with me. I had my car. He could’ve just let me crash at his family’s house tonight and gone back to the city himself and to whatever date or function he was dressed up for.
But the truth was, I wasn’t being silly. Yeah, they were just matches, but they were also irreplaceable. And the things that were irreplaceable in life were the only things of value.
When I thought about it, there actually weren’t a lot of things or people in the world that I loved. Why had I left them here?
“They think the fire started near the stairs,” Michael said, taking a drink of his beer. “That’s how it traveled to the second floor so fast. We’ll know more tomorrow.”
I stayed silent, watching as the waitress set down two shots.
“You don’t care?” Michael broached when I didn’t say anything.
I shrugged, the anger numbing the sadness. “The house doesn’t mean anything,” I said in a low voice. “I was never happy there without my father anyway.”
“Were you happy at my house?”
I shot my eyes up, locking with his. Why was he asking that? Did he actually care? Or maybe he knew the answer.
No. No, I wasn’t happy at his house. Not without him there.
In middle school and high school, I’d loved it. Hearing the basketball bounce through the house as he walked around, feeling him in a room and not being able to concentrate on anything else, running into him in the hallway…
I loved the anticipation of just being around him.
But after he left for college and barely ever made it home, the Crist house became a cage. I was constantly circled by Trevor, and I missed Michael so much.
Being in his house when he wasn’t there was the loneliest I’d ever been.
I dropped the jar back into the box and snapped it shut, turning my head to the jukebox along the front windows.
“Can I have some money?” I asked, turning back to him.
I’d left my bag in my car.
He reached into his pocket, taking some bills off a clip. I reached over, without hesitation, and took the five I spotted, climbing out of the booth and carrying my beer with me.
Chills broke out down my arms, and I remembered that I was still in the jeans and white tank I’d changed into when I got home from school earlier. Having jumped into the car in such a hurry, I hadn’t grabbed a jacket.
Michael was in a black suit and a white shirt, open at the collar, and I wondered if he had been coming from somewhere or was going somewhere.
It didn’t matter. He could leave. I could take care of myself.
I took sips of my beer as I fed the machine the five dollars and began choosing music.
A girl’s laugh sounded behind me, and I twisted my head, recognizing Diana Forester.
She was hanging on our booth, with her hand on her hip and a coy smile on her lips as she talked to Michael.
Jesus.
They dated in high school, although I wouldn’t call it dating exactly. Kai and Michael shared her. And I only knew that because I’d seen them both kissing her in the media room one night. I’d bolted before I saw anything else, but I could definitely guess what went down.
Life past high school wasn’t so hot for her. Last I heard, she was helping her parents run the bed and breakfast they owned here in town.