She put her fingers to my lips. "I know. So let's make the most of the time we have, okay? I want to spend the night with you. Is that okay?"
"God, yes, of course. There's nothing I want more than that."
She took a deep, shuddery breath, seeming to compose herself. "Okay. Okay. So how about we go out on the deck?"
I smiled, feeling elated that she was going to stay. "I have s'mores," I said. "Up for roasting some marshmallows?"
She let out a breath and gave me the glimmer of a smile. "Definitely."
I walked back into the kitchen and grabbed the bag of marshmallows, a few bars of chocolate, and a box of graham crackers. We went out on the deck, and I pulled a couple chairs up to the fire pit. Lily was quiet as I lit the fire. When I looked over at her, she was gazing out to the forest where the sunset’s shafts of gold were streaming into the trees. In the woods, everything must have looked as if it were gilded.
I ran back in and got a plate and laid out the ingredients for the s'mores. Lily seemed to be deep in thought and I didn't interrupt. I was sure she was thinking about me being famous. Surely she hadn't expected that. I wondered if she thought it would impact her own life. I wanted it to, once I was better. The thought itself startled me, but not in a way that brought fear. Instead, in a way that brought . . . peace. It felt right. I wanted to take her out of these woods, to bring her home to my apartment . . . No, I didn't live there anymore. I massaged my temple. Back to the mansion I'd recently bought and hadn't even enjoyed. I wanted to bring her there, to learn her secrets, to take care of her, to make her mine.
Above us, the sky was turning a deep shade of indigo. The small fire crackled and jumped. "Do you want a blanket?" I asked.
Lily shook her head.
I felt nervous around her again, like I had the first few times we'd hung out. "I suppose you're going to mock my Boy Scout skills," I said, pointing to the small fire pit, the one I'd used matches to light. "Flint is generally my preferred method of fire lighting, of course, but it's scarce out here. The first rule of Boy Scouting is you have to make do with what you have." She laughed softly and raised her brows.
"Boy Scouting?"
"That's right."
"I thought the first rule of Boy Scouting was always be prepared."
"Right, but if you're not, figure it out anyway. Make it work. It's in the fine print. Sort of an amendment to the first rule."
"Ah, I see. Well you would know the rules of Boy Scouting better than I." She dragged her chair closer to mine, and I relaxed. Things seemed less awkward, less strained, than they had a few minutes before.
"I like two marshmallows on my s'more. How about you?"
She smiled over at me and nodded. I relaxed even more, my shoulders lowering. She stood up and grabbed the skewers sitting on the edge of the fire pit and stuck one marshmallow on the end of each, handing one to me. We sat in silence as the marshmallows sizzled and turned golden, the sweet, sugary smell rising in the air around us, mixing with the smoke from the fire. "Will you tell me about Ryan?" she asked softly.
I startled, glancing over at her. "Ryan?" I asked, my voice cracking.
She nodded, her eyes filled with something I was having a hard time interpreting. Sorrow? I inhaled a deep breath of smoky, sugary air, pulling my stick out of the fire when I realized my marshmallow was quickly blackening. She had already pulled her marshmallow from the fire and was gingerly pulling a piece off with her fingers. She put it in her mouth, but didn't appear to derive any pleasure from it. "How did he die?" she whispered after a minute.
I put the skewer and the inedible marshmallow aside, leaning my elbows on my knees and staring into the flames. Something about the jumping fire calmed me, was almost hypnotizing. "He fell. He fell to his death." I paused, still not looking at Lily, but I could feel her calming presence right beside me. "We were partying. Or . . . he was at least. They all were . . ." I grimaced, the foggy memory I'd tried to push aside spreading its spindly fingers over my brain, pushing into my flesh, causing my head to throb.
"He had been so damned unhappy in those months leading up to it." Was that right? Why did that feel wrong? I had pushed the memory away so harshly, covering it with drugs and alcohol. I needed to remember.