Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
ELLIS
“You both know this isn’t an open restaurant, right? We are literally not open for business yet,” Fisher says to Silas and me as we sit at one of the sample tables he picked up the day before. Starhopper’s coming together nicely. They’ve married the older-town feel with some modern designs—brick walls and metal trims. Behind a tall plexiglass wall sits an array of huge metal cylinder things where I gather beer is brewed. There’s a nice patio area, plus a deck up top, and a stargazing tower. Silas and I already snooped around the observatory while he brought me up to speed on our town’s self-appointed supreme leader (and trading goods store owner), Martha O’Doyle, hard-launching her relationship with local diner owner, Walter.
“We smelled food,” Silas says to Fisher, counting on a finger. “I found out last week that you already have beer”—he holds out his second and third finger—“and you’re dating our sister.” He makes dating sound like something more explicit.
Fisher gives me a flat look. “What would you like?” he asks.
I try for a smile and shrug. “Surprise us.”
“Any allergies?” he asks with a beleaguered sigh.
Silas rests his chin in his hand and beams at him. “Nope! Hey, did you hear about Walter and Martha?”
“Sage put you on speakerphone last night so you could treat us to a very colorful monologue on all of it, Silas, so yes,” says Fisher.
“Oh shit, that’s right.” Silas chuckles. He’s pretty proud of his gossip mongering, bouncing in his seat until the movement makes him hiss and wince.
“What hurts? You’re doing everything the doctors told you to, right?” I ask.
He stabs a withering glare at me just as Fisher brings us our beers. “He was in so much pain the other night that he sweated through dinner,” Fisher says. Silas turns the hard stare on him. “He barely ate any of his soup,” Fisher adds.
“Thank you for sharing that detail, Fisher,” says Silas.
“Payback for the many, many details you shared last night while I was trying to enjoy some pumpkin gnocchi with your sister,” Fisher says. He lifts a brow and waits for Silas’s rebuttal, then spins around and stalks toward the kitchen when it never comes.
“He’s gotten a little too comfortable too fast, hasn’t he?” Silas grumbles.
“Says the guy mooching free beers and lunch off him,” I say.
“I was planning on leaving a tip! Including an IOU to rescue him from any rogue mops.”
I snort. Early this past summer, a robot vacuum went off in the middle of the night at Fisher’s rental, and he called 911, thinking it was an intruder. We weren’t exactly gracious about it when we showed up on the scene. Sage eventually marched over from next door and shooed us out.
I study Silas again, just as he gives a mildly disgusted look at one of the burn scars on his hand. He’s always been restless, but there’s an edginess to him now that doesn’t sit right. Like he’s wearing a too-small jacket or something itchy.
“You sure you’re good?” I ask.
He heaves an exasperated sound. “You caught me, brother. I’m battling with jealousy over how nimble Martha O’Doyle is. When I try to get down on my knees like that, the skin on my right leg feels like Saran Wrap stretched over hot meat.”
“Jesus, Si.”
“Speaking of old people in love and lust,” he says. “You seeing someone? I’m still trying to suss out why you’ve been so—elusive.”
“I’m barely three years older than you, and once again, you asked me to back off.” I take a hearty gulp of beer.
“Yes, but you look, sound, and act ancient. And I noticed you didn’t answer me,” the little shit replies.
“I—”
Fisher slides a bowl in front of each of us, cutting me off before I have a chance to lie. I’m not sure what I want to divulge to Silas yet.
“Carrot jalapeno soup,” says Fisher. “To start.”
“Do you have salt, pepper, and hot sauce on hand?” Silas asks, and if looks could kill, Fisher would be leveling him. “ Damn , just kidding, Boyardee. I like your earring, by the way. Where’s the other one, though?” He swizzles his spoon around the soup. “Not gonna find it in my meal, am I?”
Fisher’s face turns smug. “Your sister’s wearing it,” he says. “She’s been wearing it since it fell out once at her house.” Silas’s lip curls. “As far as how that happened? I’ll let you use your imagination.” He pats Silas on the back and turns to me. “Sorry, Ellis.”
“It’s fine.” I laugh, and Silas frowns at Fisher’s retreating form.
“Serves you right. You’re being annoying,” I say.
He finishes his beer. “No, you’re annoying. Something is up with you, I know it,” he spits. “Sage isn’t the only one who gets weird, witchy feelings, all right? I can feel when something is off with you.” He moodily slurps his soup, his eyes narrowing in pain when he fidgets in his seat again.
His statement, though… it makes the beer turn bitter in my mouth. Like I’ve failed again if I can’t shield him from my pain, too.
“You don’t need to worry about me right now, Si. Worry about you and healing up.”
His spoon clatters against the porcelain bowl. “Dammit, Ellis. You’re not my parent anymore. Talk to me like your fucking brother.”
I lean back in my seat and search his stony face. He’s right; I do default to parenting him, and I could use someone to talk to. The problem is that I know he’d be caught in the middle of his friendship with Wren and his loyalty to me, so I’d have to be selective about what I told him. I clear my throat, train my gaze on the hand that’s wrapped around my beer glass, my thumb wiping circles in the condensation.
“I miss Wren,” I quietly admit. “I want her back.”
He’s silent for too long. When I look at him again, it’s clear I’ve surprised him. “Sorry,” he says. “I—that wasn’t what I was expecting.”
I shake my head irritably. “Still working out the kinks in your brotherly premonitions, I take it? What the hell were you expecting?”
Fisher appears again and unceremoniously plops a basket of bread on the table. “Bread,” he declares flatly. “With Calabrian chili butter, basil butter, and hot honey butter.” He spins away again.
I haul everything to my side before Silas can reach for it, and give him a pointed look. “Well?”
He sighs through his nose. “Honestly, I thought you were seeing someone, and it was turning serious or something and you were afraid to tell me because you know Wren and I are close.”
I let the bread go, pushing it to the middle of the table. “That is why I was hesitant to tell you, but… yeah. Wrong conclusion,” I say.
He crosses his arms, calculating. “Why now? Why, after four years?”
I can’t bring myself to tell him about the letters. How they unlocked something I’d barely kept at bay. It feels shameful, like I’ve stolen something. “I don’t know,” is what I say instead. It’s still the truth, even if it’s only part of it. “I’m still figuring it out.”
He grabs a piece of bread from the basket and angrily slathers the hot honey butter across it. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” he says, before he drops the knife and shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m grateful you’re opening up to me, all right? I don’t want to make you feel like you can’t. But your timing is fucking trash, Ellis.” He takes an oversized bite and continues to speak around it. “And I don’t think you’re in touch enough with your feelings to know what it is you want.”
“The fuck does that mean, Silas?”
“Think about it,” he says, swallowing forcefully. “This is just you wanting something— familiar , or something. You’re unmoored, and she’s the one familiar thing on the horizon or some shit.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” I seethe. “Don’t act like she’s some abstract thing or idea to me. She’s my wife.”
He tosses his bread down. “She’s not, though, Ellis. She hasn’t been for more than four years.”
The words slice through me faster than a knife through one of those fancy butters. I move my hands to my lap, worried I might crush the glass in my fist.
“I’m not trying to be a dick,” he says more softly, blowing out a long breath. “I just… I just think you try to fix everything. You can’t stand something broken, so you take shit on yourself to the point that it’s actually fucking selfish sometimes, and I think that too much is out of your control right now, or changing without you, and you can’t handle it. I know you, and I know that no matter how asinine it is, you blame yourself for what happened to me.”
“It is my fault,” I snap, and I’m mortified that a lump forms in my throat. I know how true everything else he’s said is, but I can’t pretend I don’t feel this way. “I just mean I should have been closer. I lost you somewhere, and that never happens. I always know where you’re at, no matter how chaotic it gets. But I couldn’t find you, and then I did and you—” I turn and close my eyes. Try to shut out the picture of the ground collapsing from under him, the fire billowing up in his place.
His tone is gentler but still stern when he says, “I don’t know how to help you realize that it was a freak accident, Ellis. I don’t know how to get it through your thick skull that this wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m not your responsibility, Silas. It happened to you, not me. You shouldn’t need to worry about me, too.”
“Man, fuck you,” he says, laughing in disbelief. I feel my chin rear back like he’s punched me. I’ve never seen Silas this angry, especially quiet like this. “You’re doing it again,” he says. “You’re taking it all on. I’m not your responsibility anymore, either, Ellis. I’m not something you take on while you fight a fire alone. I’m a capable fucking adult, and I am… I was competent— good at my job.” He rips into his bread again. “I know that a lot is changing, and I know it can’t be easy. I know that this shook you, and don’t fucking tell me not to worry about you again or I swear to god I’ll lose it.”
He gives me a long, considerate look before he presses on. “I know Sage is settling down and I know you’re happy for her like we all are, but I also know it’s a change . Micah being gone is nothing new, but I know you worry about him, too. And Sam being in his last year of school before he goes off to college is probably not an easy concept to grapple with. That’s probably the biggest one of all…
“But, brother, Wren finally seems like she’s ready to move on. She’s—”
I make a noise and hold up my hand, begging him to stop before he says anything I can’t unhear.
“No, Ell. I think it’s important.” His expression turns pained. “She’s just now talking to me about trying to date, yes, but it’s more than that. She’s actually hopeful again. She’s herself again. And yeah, you knew her differently, but we’ve all been friends for basically our whole lives, so I know what I’m talking about, too. So if she hasn’t given you any indication that she’d like to rekindle things with you… I don’t think it would be fair. I don’t think it’s fair for you to suddenly, miraculously come to this realization on your own and charge in to take care of it all on your own like you’d inevitably try to.”
“But what if I could?” I croak. “Fix it, I mean. Wouldn’t it be worth trying?” My chest is an empty, barren cavern without her. My heart took shape around hers, too, and it will never go back.
He finishes the bite he’s working on and calls over to Fisher for another beer before he looks at me again. “All the stretches and exercises”—he adds finger quotes to exercises —“they have me do in physical therapy? They’re all things I can do myself in the comfort of my own home. But I go to the experts and will continue going because they will catch it if I develop any bad habits and start doing things wrong. They’ll correct me. I am reliant on their expertise.” Fisher puts fresh beers down in front of us, hard enough that they slosh and spill before he marches off again. “I could technically fix this on my own,” Silas goes on, gesturing toward the half of his body that sustained the most burns. “I could get stronger on my own, but I run the risk of messing it up, healing improperly, inviting infection and a world of misery upon myself.” He pouts into his beer. “I’ll never have a nail on my pinkie toe again.”
I take a drink. “I’m sorry, brother. I know that one is your favorite.”
“I had nice man feet,” he grouses.
“I’m sure they’re great still.”
He shrugs, and I feel a strange, pulsing ache in my throat. “You’re wiser than you look, you know,” I tell him.
He squints out the window into the foggy day. “Had a good example,” he says, almost too low for me to catch. “And I’m still not as wise as the real experts,” he adds, looking at me again, his knee bouncing under the table. “On top of physical therapy, the union is paying for me to talk to a regular therapist, too. I’ve only been twice, but it helps, Ell. I know Fisher talks to someone, too.”
“Pork belly bánh mi sandwiches,” says the man in question, setting plates in front of us with a small flourish. “Can I get you boys anything else? I live to serve.” He spears us both with an impatient look.
“Oh my god, Ell, know what I just realized?” Silas says. “This guy’s cooking Thanksgiving for us.” He smiles and takes a bite of his sandwich, beaming up at Fisher as a shredded carrot falls out of his mouth.
Fisher crosses his arms behind his back. “I am. And you should know that green bean casserole will not be tolerated.”
“Duhh fuuuhhhg?!” Silas whines in outrage, mouth full. “That’s my favorite!”
Fisher’s expression twitches like he knew this. “It’s disgusting and it’s gluttonous on top of an already heavy meal. If you want it, make your own.”
Silas’s face is indignant. “I’m so not leaving a tip.”
“I don’t have a working cash register,” Fisher snaps back. “I’m not even the CDC here. We’re not open! ” He throws his hands up in exasperation.
“What Silas meant to say,” I offer, “is, ‘Thank you for lunch. And for the beer.’ Let us know what we should bring to Thanksgiving.” Another thought occurs to me. “But, hey—don’t… don’t do desserts, all right?”
Fisher’s head tilts, a mildly surprised furrow in his brow.
“Why?” Silas asks me suspiciously. “You don’t eat Wren’s desserts anymore, anyway.”
Fisher looks between us, and his features go smooth with understanding before they crinkle in pity at me.
“I’m going to this year,” I say. It’s time.
When Silas and I leave Starhopper a little while later and step into the misty fall air, my phone rings. I send it to voicemail when I see that it’s Lennon.
“I want to reiterate something,” Silas says as we reach the pathway that wraps around the expansive lawn on this chunk of a cliff. “It’s not that I don’t think you deserve to be happy again, or to be happy with Wren, Ellis. You guys had the thing everyone wants for themselves, I know that. And yeah, I’ve never seen two people more in love… But I’ve also never seen two people be so—so gone when they lost it.” He looks up from his feet. “You were haunted. The both of you were. Don’t dredge up old ghosts. Not now. Let that shit stay buried and find happiness for yourself somewhere else. Let her, too.”
I take in a breath that’s too cold, burning my lungs up from the inside. I merely nod. We hug, and I’m careful to avoid his burnt shoulder. “Love you,” I manage to say. “And… I won’t.” Not until I get myself to a place where I feel like I might deserve her again. Not unless she wants me again, too.
“Love you, too.”
I hang back and watch him walk away, then slip my phone out of my pocket and return Lennon’s call.
“Hey! You listen to my voicemail?” she says brightly.
“Not yet, sorry.” I sniff. “What’s up?”
“Guess you haven’t checked the weather, then, either?”
“Kirby, enough with the suspense.” I’m suddenly so exhausted I can barely see straight.
“Jeez, cranky. All right, well, the sad news is that you don’t get to see me again. I’ll pause to let you be adequately devastated.” She waits four seconds before she proceeds. “The good news is that the rain finally rolled in over here. Fire’s all but contained, so they’ll be calling off the extra crews.”
It’s illuminating how my first feeling in response to this isn’t pure relief but a tepid sort of panic instead. Nothing to distract myself with. No reason to continue with the letters. “That’s great,” I say weakly.
“The best news?” says Kirby. “The horses were found.”