Chapter Twenty-One
Nic
The lab is the only place I can set things on fire without hurting anyone or getting arrested, and so the lab is where I head
directly from Skylar’s not-a-bachelorette party.
I have a change of clothes stashed in my office, so I pull off the fancy outfit I wore half hoping it would make Kira want
to hook up in the club bathroom, and pull on my “in case of singed clothes or chemical spills” joggers and T-shirt.
Then, I set fires.
There are a few grad students and assistants still in the lab despite it being nearly midnight on a Friday, but they don’t
stick around long once I start burning things. Maybe it’s the dead look in my eyes, or my absolute silence, or the dried tears
on my face.
Whatever it is, they all flee, and I ignite.
I don’t even keep track of what I’m burning, what supplies I’m using, what the results are. What are they going to do—fire
me? It’s not like I’m going to try to burn the building down or anything. Besides, with the amount of fire suppression in
this lab, I’d just end up as a drowned, foamy, miserable rat with a lot of explaining to do.
Hours go by.
Skylar is pissed at me. Burn.
Kira hates me. Burn.
I’m stuck here for another three months. Burn.
Here I am, once again, right back where I started three years ago: desperate to get out of town because it’s too hard to face
everyone. It’s too hard to ask for what I want. It’s too hard to love someone.
Only this time, that someone is Kira.
Burn.
Times like this, I really wish my mom was alive to talk things out. I was so young when she died; I don’t even know what she
would be like in a situation like this, but in my memory, she was warm. Comforting. Always happy to see me, ready to give
hugs, excited to hear about my little kid treasures and experiences. It really sucks all the time, not having a mom anymore, but now more than ever, my heart aches for the empty space in my life where she should
be.
Then I remember... I do have a mom I could talk to. My adoptive mom. Skylar’s mom.
Assuming she doesn’t hate me now.
I pull out my phone and open our text thread, then pour the entire mess into it without a second’s hesitation. If she’s going
to stop talking to me, it’s better if I find out now. Rip all the bandages off at once, torch everything so at least in the
aftermath, it’ll be easy to see what, if anything, remains.
I sink into the chair at one of the low workbenches and flop forward, pressing my cheek into the cool stainless steel tabletop,
rambling at Mama Clark via talk-to-text and not even bothering to correct any of the errors. It’s 2:45 a.m. I’ve got nothing
left.
I fall into an exhausted sleep on the bench.
“Hey, Ms. Wells?”
I jerk awake, barely grabbing the edge of the workbench in time to keep myself from toppling off my stool. Jerry the security
guard stands at the other end of the bench, his fist still resting on the table from knocking on it.
I gasp, clutching a hand over my heart.
“Geez, Jerry, you scared the hell out of me!” My breath burns in my chest as I try to coax myself down off the ceiling from
the sudden flood of adrenaline. Jerry grimaces.
“Real sorry about that. Just came here to tell you, there’s someone out front asking to see you, said you weren’t answering
your phone. Skylar Clark?”
I sit up straighter, grabbing my phone to see the time (10:32 a.m., whoops) and the excessive number of notifications: fifteen
from Skylar, eleven from Mama Clark, four from Willow, two each from Ian and Grace, and one from Marco.
None from Kira.
Not surprising, I guess.
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll just, uh...” I glance around the lab; wow, I really made a mess in here last night. “I’ll be out in ten minutes. So sorry.”
“No worries. I’ll let her know,” Jerry says. “Hope everything’s okay.”
He leaves me standing in the wreckage of my terrible coping, frozen in place. No, Jerry, everything is not okay. But I need to at least get this lab in shape before I leave. As quickly as I can, I clear out the ignition chamber
of all remaining debris, return my personal protective equipment, and do a general tidy so the place looks halfway presentable.
Not as pristine as I’d normally like it, but also not out of line with what we typically see after someone pulls an all-nighter.
It’ll have to do.
I hang up my lab coat and safety goggles in my office, shove last night’s clothes in my bag, and run for the front door, giving
myself a subtle sniff along the way. Not the freshest. Some toxic cross between bar stink (must be my hair) and lab stink
(my clothes). But it is what it is at this point. I burst through the door with a wave of thanks for Jerry, then spot Skylar
leaning against a light pole right out front.
Skylar—and her mom.
Mama Clark is here.
My eyes fill with tears, and Mama Clark steps forward to wrap me in her arms, cooing comforting nonsense at me. Sobs wrack
my body as she holds me together at the seams, my brain screaming the same thing over and over again: I’m a mess, I’m a mess, I’m an absolute fucking mess and no one should have to put up with me .
Skylar attaches herself to us both, rocking with us in a big family hug until my sobs die down to sniffles. Mama Clark leans
back and wipes away my tears, then fixes my (probably disastrous) hair.
“Come on, lovey,” she says, guiding me into the parking lot. “We’ve moved brunch up to today. Thought you might need it.”
My stomach gives an audible growl. I haven’t eaten anything since before the party last night.
“I do,” I say, carefully watching Skylar from the corner of my eye. “Thank you. For, you know, coming out here.”
“Of course, Nic. This is what family does,” Mama Clark says.
That threatens to set me off all over again. I press my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth to keep myself from crying
all the way to the car, where I slide into the back seat for the ride to brunch. To my surprise, Skylar climbs in the back
with me instead of riding up front with her mom. She doesn’t say anything, just rides in silence by my side, staring out the
window until we arrive at our favorite brunch place. It’s a total dive, grimy enough that the food blogs haven’t managed to
find it yet, but the food is excellent. We grab a booth, Skylar and her mom on one side and me on the other, and a server
pops over before we’ve even gotten settled.
“Morning! Drinks?” she asks, brusque but not unkind, tucking her hands in the front pockets of her pale lavender apron.
“Mimosas for the two of us and a glass of orange juice for that one,” Mama Clark says. “And waters all around, please.”
“You got it,” the server says, then disappears into the back.
“No mimosa for me?” I ask, pouting.
“These are intervention mimosas,” Skylar says. “Drink your orange juice and prepare yourself. Once you have some food in your
stomach and sense in your skull, maybe we’ll get another round.”
I wince at the harsh (yet totally deserved) words. So much for a cozy family brunch to help me feel better.
Mama Clark watches me from across the table in that way moms do, scanning every inch of me that she can see to evaluate my
general health and sanity. I haven’t looked in a mirror since yesterday, but I have some idea of what she’s seeing, and it
isn’t good.
“I’m so sorry for all those texts last night. I hope they didn’t wake you up. I was deliriously tired and... clearly not
thinking straight. At least they filled you in on everything that happened? I guess?”
Mama Clark clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “What I could read of them. Half of it was nonsense. Skylar translated for me
this morning, so I think I’ve got everything now.”
Our mimosas arrive, and I give a half-hearted “cheers” when prompted, then slump back against the booth.
“Are... you angry with me?” I ask, sounding miserable and pathetic and childish. I hate this about myself, this horrible neediness that I’m sure is all about my dad, and that makes it even worse .
“Yes, sweetie,” Skylar says, reaching for my hand across the table. “I’m mad. You hurt my friend.”
I wince, looking away at the fading news articles and Polaroids haphazardly taped up around the bottom of the bar.
“I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt Kira. Things just got so confusing, and I was trying to do the right thing. But you’re right.
I hurt her in the process, and that’s on me.”
Skylar pokes my hand until I look back at her.
“Not just Kira, you goof. You ,” she says. “You hurt you, too. Yes, Kira is really hurting, and we’ll talk about that in a minute. But I want you to know that I care about you in this situation, too.”
She pauses, head cocked, then shrugs. “And hey, I care about me as well.I’m leaving in a week, and things are terrible. I
don’t want to be selfish, but it’d be really great if we could work all this out before the party. I want to leave knowing
everyone is in a good place. And you, my love, are not in a good place. Neither is Kira.”
“Yes, let’s not completely let Kira off the hook here,” Mama Clark says, bristling. “If I interpreted the text mishmash correctly,
Nic did offer for Kira to move to Maryland with her. That’s something.”
Skylar nods, conceding the point. “It’s true. Kira’s going through her own thing, and her life is burning down around her
just as much as yours is, which I’m sure you’ll find out about soon. She’s been clinging to her own toxic ideas about how things have to be. You two are awfully similar in that respect.”
We pause for a moment while our server reappears to take our orders. I let Skylar order me some kind of very sweet waffle
thing, since my brain is in no shape to make decisions. I study the lamp hanging over our table, an old, weathered thing that
looks like it was scavenged from a ’60s-era diner. Somehow it’s both meticulously clean and looking ready to break down at
any moment.
“Here’s the part that I don’t get,” Mama Clark says as soon as the server leaves, resting her elbows on the table and propping
her chin on her laced fingers. “Why wouldn’t you just let Kira tell you how she feels about you?”
I open my mouth to spout my automatic response, then catch myself, giving my brain a minute to sort through all my swirling
feelings and fears. Why wouldn’t I let her say it? There were so many moments we could have had a conversation—“Hey, I know this is supposed to be just sex,
but can we talk about that?”—but every time I caught the tiniest whiff of feelings talk approaching, I bolted like a frightened rabbit from a forest fire. I know the reason I’ve been telling myself, but is it the real one? How do I even know what’s true anymore when I’m so practiced at lying to myself?
“Skylar, you told me I needed to be my own anchor,” I say slowly, trying to parse as I go. “I was worried that if I let things
get serious too quickly, I’d just move from...”
I cut my eyes back over to Skylar’s mom, unsure if it’s awkward to talk about my decade-long fantasy of marrying into her
family.
“Well, I thought I’d be going from clinging to one person right into clinging to another,” I finish. “I was really trying
to follow the advice you gave me. You were right. I need to not define my entire life by other people and think about what
I want.”
“And... what do you want?”
Images from the past months flood through my brain. The tarot date. Those lazy weekend mornings in bed with Kira while living
at her place. Home-cooked dinners with her. Washing her hair for her and massaging her sore muscles after her long shifts.
Being comatose on the couch with her while we snacked on one of my baking fails. Hanging out together with all our friends,
hooking pinkies together when no one was looking.
“Do you think that maybe the thing you were clinging to was my advice?” Skylar says, eyebrow raised, as if I had spoken any
of those thoughts out loud. “Or your interpretation of what I wanted, or something?”
I grimace. “That’s what Kira said.”
Skylar’s mom reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine.
“My dear,” she says, “if you’ll permit me to steal the therapist hat from my sweet daughter for a moment here, I think the
overall problem is less any specific thing you’re clinging to and more this overall pattern of black-and-white, rigid thinking
you keep falling into.”
Skylar looks up at her mom with pure love in her eyes. “ Yes , Mom. Yes. That is fully it . Nic, it feels like you’re waiting for someone to pass down a rule book that will tell you how to structure your life. And
that makes sense, considering your past—you didn’t have a sturdy adult figure for most of your life to provide you with any
structure or teach you how to stand on your own. Not that it’s bad to rely on others or have a community to lean on when you
need it, of course, but you can’t just completely outsource your decision-making, either. There’s a balance to be had here.
I’m not gonna say you’re wrong about not jumping in too fast. It’s smart to be cautious after going through a massive paradigm
shift.”
Mama Clark holds up a finger to chime in. “ But , you shouldn’t say no to something you know, deep in your heart, is what you want. Definitely not for the sake of following what someone else told you is right. You’ve got to learn to trust yourself, my love. Trust
your heart and your instincts the way you trust your brain in the lab. You don’t second-guess yourself when you’re reacting
to a lab situation with all your fire and chemicals and stuff, right?”
I shake my head. “That’s how you lose your eyebrows or end up tripping the suppression system. Fire can be unpredictable,
and the situation can change in milliseconds.”
I aggressively do not think about how unsafe I was in the lab last night.
Mama Clark raises her mimosa to me and winks. “Well, then, you already know what it feels like to trust yourself. Can you
imagine what it would feel like to expand that to your personal life?”
I blink. The honest answer is... no. No, I can’t.
But I think I’d like to.
That’s what I’ve wanted all along, actually. Some stability and confidence. Some sense that the world won’t give way under
my feet like a collapsing platform in a Mario game. It’s sad that I’ve never even considered I could provide that feeling
for myself .
Our food arrives, giving me a little time to process as I scarf like a... well, like a person who hasn’t eaten in sixteen
hours. But Skylar doesn’t let me off the hook for long.
“So, here’s what it comes down to, friend,” she says, pointing at me with a piece of stabbed omelet on her fork. “It’s not
your fault that you have trauma. It makes sense. Your childhood was a mess. But it is your responsibility to take care of yourself and learn to work through your trauma, and to make sure you don’t hurt others
in the process. You need a therapist, Nic. Not me, obviously, but one of the ones I sent you the last time we had this talk. You have a lot to deal with, and you deserve to feel good about yourself and your life.”
My gut reaction to that is very telling. Something in me immediately questions: Do I deserve that? Is it possible for me?
But that’s just proving Skylar’s point, isn’t it?
“You’re right,” I say, staring down at the puddle of syrup on my plate. “If I’m going to be worthy of Kira—”
“Reframe that, please,” Mama Clark says with a tsk .
I pause, thinking through my words, then wince and nod.
“Right, sorry. What I mean is... if I’m going to show up in a relationship with Kira the way she and I both deserve, if
I’m going to be a good partner, then I need to work on all this. And it’s not fair or ethical of me to treat you like my therapist, Skylar, which I think I have at times. I’m really sorry about that.”
I hesitate before blurting out the next part, checking to make sure my words are coming from the right place.
“I don’t want pity,” I begin, speaking slowly and with care. “And I don’t want cheering or validation here. I’m just genuinely
wondering—do you think Kira and I are good together? How do I know if this thing between us is real?”
Skylar and her mom look at each other and bust out laughing.
“Oh, Nic. My sweet Nic. Let me put it this way,” Skylar says.She pushes her plate aside so she can rest both hands on the
tabletop.
“You’re free-flowing where Kira is rigid,” she says, slicing down on the table with her left hand for me and her right for
Kira, repeating the gesture for each point. “She’s organized where you’re chaotic. You bring out her goofy side. She brings
out your inner caretaker. She’s in awe of your brain and passion. You’re in awe of her bravery and determination.You make
each other better.”
At that,she clasps her two hands together and shakes them for emphasis.
“You take care of one another. You both want the same things long-term: marriage, kids, and careers you love. And —please cover your ears, Mom—there is absolutely blistering chemistry that we can all see, and I know you’ve slept together multiple times, so it must have been good. You literally fucked in the bridal shop the other day because
you’re so into each other.”
“How did you know about that?” I ask, horrified.
She waves the question away. “You’re fantastic together . So, like... what exactly is the problem here?”
I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out... because I don’t have a single thing to say. For so long, my whole
idea of love has just been “Skylar.” Not even specific traits or associated feelings or anything. Just... Skylar. But hearing
her list all those things about me and Kira makes me want to leap out of this booth and shout, Yes, that’s what I want!
Skylar, looking awfully smug, continues. “I feel like you keep trying to invent a problem, or some kind of reason to justify
not having to take a scary leap. You feel like you’re breaking a rule or something. But there’s no rule against being happy,
Nic.”
Even still, my mind tries to resist, tries to dredge up more reasons this can’t possibly work out. Finally I give voice to
the thing I’m truly, deeply afraid of.
“But will she forgive me?” I whisper, tears springing to the corners of my eyes. “Do I even have a chance?”
Skylar taps her bottom lip, thoughtful, not rushing to quick reassurance, which I appreciate. After a moment, she meets my
eyes, expression solemn.
“Kira is careful with her feelings. Once she gives them, she can’t easily take them back. You owe her one hell of an apology, but I think you have a solid chance. The question is, are you going to take it? Preferably in the next week,
before my goodbye party?”
I nearly laugh in her face, the question is so absurd. I didn’t realize how committed I was until this moment.
“Oh, I’m taking it,” I say, making an obligatory grab for the check before Mama Clark slaps my hand away. “Thank you for everything.
Both of you. I gotta go make some plans. I’ll let you know how it goes, okay?”
“You better!” Skylar calls, but I’m already out the door and dialing my phone. It only rings once before there’s an answer.
“Nic? You okay?”
“Will,” I say, “I need your help. Are you off in the woods somewhere, or can you come scheme with me?”