All Fired Up

Chapter One

Nic

I have never wanted to set a fire so badly in my life.

The aggressively pink box sits on my doormat like a puddle of gasoline waiting for a match. It’s roughly the size of a fancy

artisan loaf of bread, made from glossy card stock, and marked with a white label on the side that faces the hallway. I can

see her name from ten paces away: Skylar Clark, written in perfect looping cursive on the top.

Who writes in cursive anymore?

I’ve been back in Seattle for less than a week, sporting a shiny new master’s degree in fire protection engineering and a

job offer from a local university to run trials in one of their labs. I moved back without telling the group exactly what

day I’d arrive, except for Willow, who was kind enough to let me crash for a few days until my lease started. As much as I

love the rest of my friend group, there are six of them, and that’s just... a lot all at once. Even though they’re the

whole reason I moved back, after two years away at grad school, I really need more than a week to jump back into... this .

The box eyes me judgmentally, seeing right through my bullshit.

Okay, fine, yes, I specifically need to work up to seeing Skylar in person again. Maybe after the stress acne from moving and starting a new job fades. I figured I’ll have coffee with some

of our group one-on-one first, feel things out, ease my way back in. One shouldn’t need to jump through so many hoops just

to see one’s best friend again.

When one is stupid enough to fall in love with said friend, a few hoops are necessary.

I could just walk around the box. Fumble with my brand-new key that only unlocks the door on thirty-three percent of attempts,

go inside my den of cardboard boxes, and leave the beast right where it sits on my welcome mat. Or I could move again. I only

moved into this apartment yesterday. I’m not attached, and the hallway does kind of smell like stale corn chips. Maybe I can

cancel my lease? Last I heard, Marco has an opening in his building. I could try there.

I tip my head back to look at the crack in the ceiling over my door and take a breath.

Okay. I will not be bested by a box. I joyfully set things on fire for a living. I clap my hands and shriek with pure delight

every time something explodes in my lab. And, okay, I also meticulously record the results of my very carefully controlled

experiments and spend days or weeks with my face pressed to a computer screen, crunching the data for my professors or employer.

But the point is, if I can face fires, I can face this.

Here we go.

Three, two, one...

I step forward and look down.

From: Skylar Clark ??

To: Nicole Wells (my dearest Nic Knack who is finally home again!)

No postage or address on it. Just her name and my name. She was here . What if I’d been home? What if I’d answered the door in my “Baking is science for hungry people” apron, covered in the proof

of how far I went down the Great British Bake Off rabbit hole while I was away? My stomach flutters at the near ambush. I haven’t even told her my new address yet. There’s

nothing on my door to distinguish it from every other slightly chipped door with too many layers of paint. Skylar must’ve

gotten it out of Willow, who is normally a trustworthy accomplice... unless they think it’s for my own good. Rude.

No—you know what? I don’t have to deal with this in the hallway of my new apartment building with Mr. Anderson watching from

the peephole across the hall. It’s way too much of a thing to have a breakdown outside your own apartment door, and I refuse

to capitulate to such a stereotype.

I let myself in with minimal fumbling and nudge the box over the threshold with the side of my foot, then promptly drop my

keys. When I bend down to get them, I get a good whiff of my clothes—ugh, you can still smell the accelerant from the burn

trials I ran at the lab today. Better change my shirt before lighting any candles tonight. As soon as I hook a pinky through

one of my key rings, the Super Mario Bros . theme starts playing from my back pocket. Willow calling. I hang there for a minute, looking between my ankles at the pink

box behind me with a growing sense of dread.

Why do I feel like there’s a meteor headed for Earth and everyone knows it but me? Am I in a disaster movie? Is this the phone

call the lovable but totally doomed side character gets right before they’re engulfed in lava/floodwaters/a tornado?

I backwards-kick the door closed, grab my phone from my pocket on the way up, and tap Accept before the theme music can start

over again.

“Hello?”

Willow’s voice is frantic. “Oh honey, are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” The dread doubles again. “Should I not be?”

“Didn’t you get Skylar’s package?”

The pink box glares at me from the corner.

“I did, yeah, but I haven’t opened it yet.”

A pause.

“Oh. Um. Hey, why don’t you pour a glass of wine and put me on speakerphone before you open it?”

Oh dear god.

“You give me way too much credit, thinking I have wine here. I’m pretty sure one of these boxes has a twelve-pack of ramen

and maybe an apple?” Though judging by the sickly sweet smell from the kitchen box, I’m pretty sure it’s an ex-apple at this

point. I also have plenty of baking supplies—flour, sugar, all that—but I have yet to produce anything edible from them.

“Nic,” Will says. “Just... open the box, okay?”

Damn it. They’ll absolutely stay on the phone until I do this. Mouth dry, I pull the phone away from my face and tap the speakerphone

icon, then grab the godforsaken box. It rustles threateningly.

“Okay. I’m doing this.”

I set both my phone and the box on the tiny kitchen island and give the box one last wary look. Its sharp corners and decorative

flaps culminate in four interlocking tabs that form a clover shape, which I struggle to undo neatly before finally tearing

one of the tabs off completely. The four flaps pop open to reveal...

Rainbow confetti. And glitter.

“Nic? You still there?” Will’s garbled voice asks from the counter. Damn my awful cell reception.

“Still here. All I see so far is confetti and glitter. This is the most Skylar thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You have no idea. Keep going.”

I sigh. Leave it to Skylar to require us all to plunge our hands into a box of glitter to unearth its contents. It’ll be days

before I’m rid of the craft herpes. It’ll probably end up contaminating my burns in the lab next week. With a scowl, I steel

myself and shove my hands into the box, riffling around for whatever is so earth-shattering. My left hand wraps around something

cool and glassy, while my right finds something cylindrical.

A tiny bottle of rosé champagne and a candle from one of my favorite Etsy shops. Toasted marshmallow scented.

“Nic?”

I clear my throat. “Champagne and a candle, so far.”

“Ooh, she does know you so well. Dare I even ask how many candles are in your collection now?”

I glance over at my dining table, where two empty moving boxes and a veritable hoard of candles sit proudly. The only two

boxes I’ve unpacked so far.

“A few,” I say, setting the gifts aside and diving back into the glitter bog. A caffeinated coffee-scented bath bomb (NO GLITTER!

says a handwritten sticker slapped on the side. Bit late for that, but bless her for trying), a handful of dark chocolates

wrapped in deep red foil, and a tinted Burt’s Bees lip balm in the exact color I wear.

Tears prick unexpectedly at the corners of my eyes. She really does still know me, even after two years of me trying my hardest

to get some distance.

Then my hands close around the envelope at the bottom.

The dread is back tenfold.

With shaking hands, I draw the heavy envelope out and brush the excess glitter and confetti from it, then slide my finger

under the shiny silver monogram sticker holding it closed. It gives way with a little pop, revealing a thick stack of card

stock. I already know what this is, and I know I can’t take it. It has to be a wedding invitation. I’m not ready, not even

close to able to deal with this, and—

“Nic, I can hear you panicking over there. Did you read it?”

I shake my head, then remember she can’t see me and force words out instead. “No. But I don’t have to. I already know what

this is. And I can’t do this right now.”

It could just be a party invitation. Skylar is drama personified. I wouldn’t put it past her. But my gut tells me that isn’t

what this is. How could she have met someone, fallen in love, and gotten engaged all without telling me? Without her mom blowing

up my phone about it? Without any of my friends warning me first?

Will’s voice goes soft. “I know, babe. But you need to rip this Band-Aid off, okay?”

“I’ll rip your Band-Aid off,” I grumble, which is incredibly second-grade of me, but I can’t bring myself to care. Will, Grace,

and I make up the Nerd Half of our friend group. They won’t judge me.

I blow out a breath, hold the envelope out in front of me, and rip the pages free.

Thick pearlescent card stock with embossed silver birds stares back at me. Across the top, the word “Farewell!” dances in

looping script.

You are cordially invited

to celebrate the beginning

of a grand new journey.

SKYLAR CLARK

is moving to Fiji!

The honor of your

presence is requested

for a farewell celebration at

seven o’clock in the evening

on Saturday, August thirtieth

in the year two thousand and twenty-five

at 10 Degrees in Capitol Hill.

Bring your dancing shoes!

My mind goes perfectly blank.

“Nic?”

“Will,” I reply automatically. “Will, what am I looking at?”

“Keep reading,” they say, their voice soothing, like they’re calming a frightened animal.

I set aside the first paper and read the next.

Skylar’s Grand Adventure FAQ

Q: Wait, you’re moving to Fiji? Like, permanently?

A: Yes, permanently! I have no plans to return to the States once I move this August, except for occasional holiday visits.

Q: What in the hell are you going to do there?

A: It’s a SURPRISE, to be revealed at my grand farewell party! But I can tell you that, in addition to The Surprise, I’ll be starting a little farm/short-term rental that is already so cute in my

mind, I can’t wait to send you pictures.

Q: What are you gonna farm?

A: Taro root to start, then coconuts once my trees mature!

Q: Don’t you need... visas and things? Permits? Written permission from the pope?

A: Already taken care of, my friends, but thanks for your concern. ??

Q: Why does this whole party thing sound like a wedding?

A: Who knows if I’ll ever get married, or if we’ll all be together for a big event ever again? So I may as well throw myself

a ridiculously huge, self-indulgent party now, while I’m still in the US and everyone can make it!

Q: Are you registering for gifts like this is a wedding?

A: Yes! I know that many people will feel moved to get a goodbye gift of some kind, but Fiji has super strict import laws, so

I’ve already registered for a variety of Fiji-approved necessities, to be sent directly to my new address.

Q: When are you leaving?

A: The day after the party. Think of it as the honeymoon after the wedding... but it’s forever! A forever honeymoon! Sounds

great, right?

Q: Will you have internet?

A: Not much! I’ll be living in a rural area with very poor internet access, though I’ll be able to go into town for better service,

so we’ll still be able to keep in touch!

Q: But... aren’t you literally a social media influencer? Isn’t that like... your whole job?

A: It is... FOR NOW. I will be deleting my accounts at my farewell party! And, if you’re reading this the day it was delivered,

I just put in my notice at my radio show gig earlier today! FREEDOM.

Q: Are you really serious?

A: Totally.

Special thanks to Ian for being my test audience for this news and inspiring the elegant wording of these questions.

This is... so much to unpack, and I can’t right now. I set the FAQ aside without a word and read the third and final card.

My people!

THIS IS A SECRET.

For now.

I plan to make an announcement—a grand announcement, you know me—to all my followers right before I delete my accounts. Since

I’m something of a public figure and all, I feel this is the best option for controlling the narrative. Besides, I have surprises

in store even for you on my party day. I have to maintain some mystery!

If you’re getting this package, it means you’re in my party fam! Kind of like a wedding party, to continue the metaphor. I

know I could have just put all of this in our group chat, but this is more fun, don’t you think?

I can’t wait to spend this whole summer planning and celebrating with you!

??? Skylar

More fun , she says.

More. Fun.

As if on cue, my phone chimes its group-chat notification. I glance at the banner on the lock screen.

Grace: Ahhhh skylar congrats!!!

Grace: I mean, obviously we’ll miss you, but I love this for you!

I let my head fall forward and thunk against the countertop. Grits of glitter embed themselves into the pores of my forehead,

but I can’t care right now.

“Nic?” Will says, shrill with worry. “Was that you fainting? Do I need to call 911?”

“I didn’t faint, asshole,” I say, my voice muffled by the counter. “I’m trying to meld with this kitchen island. Kitchen islands

don’t have to deal with shit like this. I hope you can accept my new lifestyle choice.”

Will makes a sad, sympathetic noise on the other end of the line. God, I regret ever telling them about my stupid feelings

because of stupid vodka. I will never vodka again. They didn’t even do me the courtesy of pretending they’d blacked out and

didn’t remember. What kind of friend is that?

My phone chimes again.

Willow: yassssssss you are going to be the MOST fabulous farmer/innkeeper!

Willow: Gandalf and I are so happy for you ?

Ugh, even as Willow’s on the phone with me, being all consoling, there they are in the group chat, happy and excited. Just

be mad with me, damn it . They follow their messages up with a photo of themself grinning next to their huge, droopy, wrinkled Neapolitan Mastiff,

the aforementioned Gandalf.

“Are you okay, Nic?” they have the gall to ask, just as the photo loads.

I dash off a brief “congrats” in the group chat and bark a disbelieving laugh. “No, no, I’m not okay. The girl I’ve been in

love with since freshman fucking year of college, whose family has basically adopted me, would rather move to Fiji forever

than be with me. My chance is completely gone, and her family will probably forget I exist without her here. How does that

even remotely fall into the realm of okay?”

I can’t admit it out loud, but half the reason I moved back was to take one last chance with Skylar. We texted constantly

while I was gone, and video-chatted a bunch, because even when I’m actively trying to get some space from her by moving across

the country, I still can’t stay away completely. I even came back for Christmas with her family in my last year of grad school

because Mama Clark was so furious at me for missing it the year before. I spent that whole long holiday break with Skylar

in what felt like a weird bubble outside of reality. She picked up me at the airport in Seattle, we grabbed lunch with Willow

since they were the only one still in town, and then Skylar drove me the hour and a half to her mom’s house in Ellensburg,

where I stayed for nine very surreal days. When I left for grad school, I had completely given up on anything ever happening

with Skylar. But that trip... I don’t know. It started to feel different, I thought. And when I flew back to school, our

conversations seemed different, too.

But maybe it was all on my end. Maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see, just like I did before. Because if there really was

something there and she knew I was coming back to Seattle, would she be moving to Fiji?

My phone chimes like eight more times with new chat messages, and I flip it face down without reading them. Will sighs.

“Have you reconsidered just telling her how you feel? With words? Like an actual twenty-seven-year-old adult?”

The mere thought sends a jolt of adrenaline straight to my heart. I let out an involuntary squeak, then clear my throat.

“Yeah. Definitely. No, I’m totally gonna. It’s part of why I came back, right? So I will. You know.”

“Nic...”

“Once the time is right, of course,” I blather on. “Gonna let the wreckage of this whole Fiji thing settle first, but then,

yeah. Totally.”

“I know you can do it, honey,” they say, followed by an ominous beat of silence. “But if it’s not gonna be tonight, then you

might wanna take some deep, calming breaths and do a downward dog or something. Because we’re meeting everyone at the bar

in about... twenty minutes. I’m on my way to pick you up right now.”

“WHAT?” I shout, then wince when my new neighbor bangs on the wall in protest. “Wait, no—Willow, why ? I can’t—I’m not—I don’t—”

I don’t speak in sentences anymore, apparently.

I’m not ready to see her. I need more warning than this. Especially after this bombshell news. Can’t a girl have some time

to process?

I let my head drop back onto the countertop. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Willow sighs again. They’ll hyperventilate from sighing too much one day.

“At least take off your glasses so you don’t break them. I like those new frames. Maybe change into something that doesn’t

smell like kerosene before I get there.”

“Fine,” I say, my cheek mashed against the cool stone counter.

“See you in a minute, love.”

The phone beeps its call-end tone, and my microscopic new apartment falls silent once again.

I peel my face off the kitchen island and turn to the wall-mounted mirror in the living room. My cheek is red from where it

had stuck to the countertop, my forehead is crusted with rainbow glitter, and my mousy brown hair hangs over my pale face

in a tangled mess. At least the outside matches the inside. A rainbow disaster.

I take one long look around my mostly bare apartment, then shove the pile of clean laundry off the sofa, faceplant onto a

stale Goodwill pillow, and scream.