Chapter 4
The Wildfire Thorn
If you ask my siblings what their earliest memory is, they’d probably say of our mother. Of her running around the house, probably tired but loving. Her waking up early to get to one of her jobs, kissing everyone goodbye.
My earliest memory, however, is of my father.
I know it’s strange and I’m the outlier among all the Thorne siblings, but it is what it is.
But when I was five, I remember waking up to his cries in the middle of the night. When I went to him and asked about it, he said he’d done something bad. And that he was sorry. When I asked what, he told me that he got angry. He told me that he got so fucking angry that he’d hit our mother. He couldn’t stop himself, he said. That it was as if he was outside his own body. As if someone else was doing those things, not him. And then he told me that it was because he’d had too much to drink and that it was okay because he was never going to do it again.
Of course he broke his promise.
Because he did both things.
Drink and hit.
I watched him drink himself into a stupor. I watched him lose his temper and then I watched him hit our mother. Sometimes he’d hit her even without the liquor. And the more I watched him do that, the more I remembered this earliest memory of mine. The more I remembered how I’d felt when he’d confessed his crime to me. I remembered that I felt frozen even though it was the middle of July. I felt afraid for my mother. I felt afraid of him.
I felt afraid of myself.
I’d felt afraid because of what he told me. After.
After he confessed that he’d done something bad, he told me that I’d done something bad too. He told me that he’d been watching me do bad things for quite some time. In fact, that very day, I’d done something similar. I’d had a fight with Shepard. He’d stolen one of my books and in my anger, I’d hit him. I’d hit him so badly that I think I broke a couple of his teeth. And he told me that the reason I did that—I fought so viciously and so brutally—was because I was like my father.
I had anger inside of me. I had fire. It made me do things without realizing that I was doing them. He told me that one day I was going to turn into him.
It scared me because he was right.
I did have anger inside of me. I did have this fire, this urge. This need that made me violent. That stole my thoughts and turned me into a monster who just wanted to roar and scream and destruct and destroy.
So that was the last time I fought with my brother.
Ever.
Because that night when our father was sobbing into the beer bottle and telling me I was like him, I made a silent promise to myself that I’d never ever hit Shepard again. I’d never ever lose my temper at him, or anyone, for that matter. Sitting next to my drunk father, I’d made a promise that I’d be good. I’d follow all the rules. I’d always be there for my family. I’d make peace rather than waves. I’d be in control rather than lose it.
And as I watched my father break his promises over and over, I became determined to keep mine. I became determined to win against this thing inside of me. This thing that lives deep inside and feels like fire. This thing that ticks like a bomb and can explode if I’m not careful.
It was hard.
But I did it.
I did it because I never wanted to be like my father. Because I could see how tempting it was to be like him. How tempting it was to lose control like Ledger and destroy things rather than build them. In fact, for the longest time, that was what he did, Ledger. He destroyed things, relationships, broke a girl’s heart because of his issues with his temper. He’s fine now, but it was hard to watch him spiral like that.
Which is why I still do it.
I take every precaution, every measure to keep myself in check. I do every fucking thing I can to protect my control, to protect this thick layer of ice around me. To not get angry or agitated. I do everything to keep people around me safe.
From me.
Although I have to say that I’m failing right now.
And my anger only grows the more I watch him.
My twin brother.
We’re in the locker room after the game. That we lost badly. This is only the fourth game of the season and we’ve lost three of them so far. Con’s not happy. Team’s not happy. The board is definitely not happy and the pressure from them has already been at an all-time high.
Conrad has just chewed them out, including laying down the rules for the next few days, and the mood’s somber. So laughing and joking around in the locker room is not really an appropriate thing to do. But of course, my twin brother has never cared about what’s appropriate or not.
I’m about to do what I always do, remove myself from the situation, when Ledger calls out, “Hey, Stellan, a bunch of us are going for a couple of drinks to get over the disappointment.” He raises his hands up before reassuring me, “Nothing crazy. We know the season’s on. We’ll just get Kombuchas, I promise. You wanna come?”
No is at the tip of my tongue.
I don’t like get-togethers—never allowed myself to like them; too many people and too much stress.
And stress is an obvious trigger.
Lots of things are a trigger for me and I’ve always tried to keep away from them. Things that threaten my control. Things that make me angry. Things that have the potential to turn me into a threat to my promise. I keep away from any excitement, any thrills. I keep my head down and stay away from everyone.
Growing up, I kept my head down and focused. On my studies. On my books. On soccer, on chores around the house. Besides, me doing my chores was the only way I could be there for my siblings. My entire energy, my entire attention was taken up by leashing this thing inside of me that I never had the time to be there for them any other way. Helping them with materialistic things was the only way I could contribute.
Not to mention, someone like me—a ticking time bomb—didn’t deserve any sort of comradery anyway.
All this to say, no I won’t be going out with them. I don’t like to drink even if it’s Kombucha. And at the end of a long, grueling day at a job I don’t like very much, I’d like to get back to the hotel and unwind. But before I can say it, someone else answers for me.
“Forget it, Ledge. He’s never going to say yes.”
As always, my twin’s voice has a provocative quality to it. It’s because he likes to provoke. And he likes to provoke me the most.
My twin brother is my biggest trigger. Probably because we’re as different as they come. He likes to be in the spotlight while I like the shadows. He likes to be loud and abrasive while I like to keep my head down. He likes to fight while I like to keep the peace.
In any case, I’ve learned to ignore him. I’ve learned to ignore our differences. I’ve learned to keep myself at a distance, withdraw into myself from time to time so I can be around him without posing a danger to him.
Although sometimes I do wonder.
What it’d be like to get to know him.
What it’d be like to have a real relationship with him.
But I don’t have the luxury for that.
“Thanks for answering for me, Shepard,” I say.
He shrugs. “You’re welcome, Stella. Thought I’d save you the trouble.”
Stella is a silly nickname from childhood. It’s Callie who coined it because when she was little, she couldn’t stay Stellan and so Stella it was. While she doesn’t call me that anymore—of course—my twin uses it to provoke me.
Ignoring it as always, I give him a short nod. “I appreciate that.”
Again, I try to leave, but he has more to say. “I mean, it’s not as if the head coach will ever fraternize with the lowly players.”
Head coach.
Yeah, that’s me.
I’ve recently been promoted. Actually, it came through at the beginning of the season a couple of weeks back. It’s not something I wanted and for the longest time, I kept turning it down. I was happy where I was. I didn’t want change. Change is not a good thing for a man like me. I need equilibrium. I need routine, structure. I need boundaries.
Besides, I would have liked someone else to get the job. Someone who was more passionate and driven. Passion and ambition are not the luxury I can afford. That’s why I’m in soccer in the first place. It’s safe. It’s predictable because I’ve played it all my life. And it comes to me easy.
But that’s not the reason I won’t hang out with them. And if I’m being honest, it’s not also because I don’t like to hang out all that much.
The reason is something else entirely.
Before I can answer, though, again Shepard gets there first. “But then again, you still act like you’re Con’s errand boy, so”—he shrugs—“what do you say, wanna hang out with us?”
Suddenly, the atmosphere gets tense.
It was somber to begin with, but now there are currents of discomfort.
As I said, Shepard likes to provoke and this isn’t the first time he has done it in front of the team. In fact, he’s been doing this a lot, especially over the last year.
Shepard has been poking me and prodding me and egging me on. And as dangerous as it is, as dangerous as I am, I’ve tried to do my best to let it go. To ride it out and let him off the hook.
But now I’m the head coach and shit like this can’t fly.
And I guess he knows that.
I guess he knows I can’t let him go this time.
This is exactly the kind of situation I try to avoid. Where I’m this close to losing it. I’ve imagined it a million times in my head, of course. A scenario where Shepard is provoking me and he thinks it’s all fun and games. But unbeknownst to him, I’m burning inside. I’m getting ready to explode. Where he’s the one who’s going to come out with third-degree burns.
I’m not sure how I do it, but I know I have to go really, really deep inside of me to find the strength to keep my voice even and my features made of ice as I say, “In my office.”
He watches me for a few seconds.
Then as if coming to a conclusion, he throws me a cocky smirk and a chin lift.
For his sake, I turn around and simply walk out of the room.
I head toward my office across the hall. It’s not my office, per se, because this isn’t our locker room. We have a few away games before we get to go back to our home base. So this is a temporary space, but it’s as good as any. When I hear him enter the room, I turn around to face him.
I ignore the little smile that’s still lingering on his face and say, “Close the door.”
He eyes me for a few seconds before doing as I say. Then he goes ahead and leans against it, folding his arms across his chest like everything is fucking fantastic and he isn’t summoned by one of his coaches.
“What was that?” I ask, standing by the desk.
“An invitation,” he says both casually and meaningfully.
“To get your ass kicked?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Are you going to kick my ass?”
Ignoring his jab, I announce, “I want you on that field an hour before everyone else tomorrow. Is that clear? And don’t make me wait or it’ll be two hours earlier the day after.”
Not that it affects him one bit because his cocky tone’s still in place. “That’s it?”
I jerk my chin up at the door. “You can leave now.”
“That’s all you’re gonna do?” he goes as if he can’t believe me.
He better thank God that that’s all I am going to do. But I don’t say it like I don’t say or do a million things on a daily basis. What I do do, though, is round the desk to go sit in my chair. “Close the door behind you.”
“Come on, Stella,” he keeps talking. “Give me something here. I fucking insulted you in front of the whole team.”
Ignoring his childish nickname for me as always, I stare at him impassively. “I’m waiting.”
“I’m waiting too,” he insists. “Be a man. Grow a pair.”
My knuckles tingle like they do a lot when he’s around. My teeth clench too and my skin feels heated. Still, I say, “You don’t want me to grow a pair. Now leave.”
He watches me for a few seconds, all earlier playfulness gone from his face. His eyes, so much like mine, are grave. Then, “Are you serious?”
“Leave,” I say, steel in my voice.
Maybe now he’ll get the message.
Now he’ll understand how much of a danger he’s in. How he needs to get away from me so I don’t hurt him.
His jaw clenches now. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re something, aren’t you?” Then, shaking his head and raking fingers through his hair, “Look, I’m not a very patient guy and last year has tested my fucking patience more than you can imagine. So I’m trying to live in my fuck it era, all right? Maybe you can take all this tension. Maybe you can thrive on sweeping things under the rug, but I’m not you, yeah? I’m not fucking you and I can’t take it. So we need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I tell him, my voice vibrating now with the strain of keeping it even.
“Yeah, that’s where you and me are different,” he says. “Because I think we should’ve had this conversation months ago.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t take my advice. “Do you remember Sarah Ann?”
My body tightens at that name.
I haven’t heard it in years now. Mostly because she was in my high school math class. And once upon a time, she used to be Shepard’s girlfriend. But only because I used to like her. I don’t even remember her face anymore, but back when I was fifteen, I do remember having a little crush on her.
Just for the record, I don’t do crushes. Girls have a knack for bringing out your emotions, your baser instincts, and when your baser instincts are black as the smoke I inhale, it’s better to keep them at an arm’s length. So that’s what I do. I use them when I need them, but I don’t keep them.
But Sarah Ann was different.
Not that I was going to do anything about it for obvious reasons.
But when Shepard came home with her one day, it pissed me off. It pissed me off to the point that I almost broke the coffee mug I’d been holding in my hand. And then I saw the smirk on his face, that cocky, irreverent smirk that let me know he was doing it to provoke me. He wanted to see me lose my cool for his amusement and I loosened my hold. I let the mug go, set it down on our old kitchen island, and went back to my room. Where I stayed for the entire night.
For the next six weeks, until Shepard broke up with her, I made sure to either stay late at the library or stay closeted in my room until she left. Because if I hadn’t, I would’ve broken my promise and become like my father.
Before I can protest again, he continues, “I can see that you do.”
“Don’t,” I say again, the same anger burning up inside of me.
At the fact that he used her to provoke me.
He used her to make me angry and for what? So he could watch me blow up, isn’t it? So he could play me like he plays his lackeys who worship at his feet.
“We never talked about her either,” he says.
“There is nothing to talk about.” I keep my fingers laced even though it’s taking a great effort, but if I let go, I’m going to curl them into fists and put them through his fucking face.
He ignores me. “All you had to do was ask and I would’ve given her to you. All you had to do was talk to me.”
“I have no interest in talking to you,” I say.
Because if I talk to him, I’m going to hit him. I’m going to fucking destroy him right now. And that’s not something I want to do.
He scoffs. “Yeah, that has always been established. But that’s not the point.”
I know that’s not the point.
I know.
That’s why I’ve been avoiding this conversation. That’s why I’ve been avoiding him in general. That’s why I don’t hang out with the team. That’s why I turn down invitations, but since I always turn them down, people don’t notice. Which is how I want it to be.
“Shut,” I growl lowly, “your mouth and leave.”
“The point is that I’m not going to do it here,” he states. “I’m not going to do it with her.”
And I imagine my control dangling off a cliff then. In my head, I see it. I see that the only thing holding it in place is a thin thread that’s built out of years and years of practice.
Years and years of suppressing myself, holding myself back.
Years and fucking years of remembering and reliving that one moment. That one night with my father. Where he was sobbing while my mother slept upstairs with a black eye. That the next day she had explained it away as walking into a kitchen cabinet. Only I knew the truth. And probably Conrad. But none of them, none of my other siblings and that includes this reckless asshole in front of me, knew what had happened.
None of them knew that a time bomb lived among us.
Along with a time bomb in the making.
Me.
And that’s the only reason, the only fucking reason I stay sitting. Because if I unlace my fingers and spring up from my chair that ‘in the making’ will turn into ‘made’ and I won’t let that happen.
“I know you want her,” he says, his jaw clenched. “I know you watch her when you think no one’s looking. I know that’s why you’ve been keeping your distance from me for the past year. That’s why you don’t hang out. That’s why you avoid me. And while we’ve never been close and I’ve never been a huge fan of you and vice versa, this is different. She is different. She is not Sarah Ann.”
I’m mashing my teeth right now.
I’m on the verge of breaking my own fingers.
“I love her,” he declares. “Not that you’d know what it means, but I do.”
I know that.
I know he loves her.
I also know that I don’t know what it means. I don’t have the luxury to find out. And while it never bothered me before—love isn’t something that I remotely gave any thought to; most of my thoughts are occupied with how not to break someone’s teeth and shove them down their throat—it bothers me now.
It bothers me.
Not because he’s in love but because he’s in love with her.
It makes me want to roar. It makes me want to pick up this chair and throw it through the door that he’s so casually standing against.
But all I do is say, “And?”
“And,” he bites out. “She’s mine. No matter how much you want her, how much you want to act pissy about it, she will stay mine.”
No, don’t do it.
Don’t do it.
Do not fucking kill your brother.
“And don’t get me wrong,” he goes on. “I feel bad for you. I do. I mean, we both know you’ve got”—he searches for a word—“a handicap, for lack of a better word. You have a… flaw, let’s say. A defect. You don’t know what to do with emotions. In fact, I don’t even think you have any.” He chuckles harshly. “People say a twin is your soulmate and well, I got stuck with you. So I know. I know that what they say is true. You’re cold. You’re fucking freezing. You’re dead inside. You have no feelings. No emotions. You have no ambition. You could’ve gone pro but chose to become a lowly assistant coach. And then they try to promote you and you keep turning them down. Well, until recently. When Con had to force it upon you.”
His words are like darts to me.
Stinging and burning.
But it’s fine.
It’s okay because he’s right.
He did get stuck with me. He did get stuck with a brother with a handicap, with issues, with baggage instead of a fully functioning twin.
So it’s fine if this is what he thinks of me.
It’s just that…
It hurts.
That this is what he thinks of me.
“So yeah, I feel bad for you,” Shepard continues. “But you have to understand that even if I gave her to you, you wouldn’t know what to do with her. She’s bright. She’s colorful. She deserves someone like me, not you. I’m the right guy for her and you know that. And that’s been your only saving grace. That’s why I haven’t come for you before today. The fact that you’re completely wrong for her and so far, you’ve kept your distance. But I saw the way you were watching her. At the charity event. I saw the way you followed her every move, and I didn’t like it. I have never liked it. I’ve never liked the way you watch my girl. And I’ve given you plenty of opportunities to come talk to me. But since you won’t, let me make it very clear to you that it won’t end well. If you come after her. If you keep watching her, if you keep wanting what’s mine, I’ll make you regret it. So I’m asking you to stop. I’m asking you, very nicely, to stop obsessing over my girl.”
He watches me for a few beats before pushing off the door and saying, “So don’t be pathetic, Stella. Not more than you already have been for the past year. Find your own girl and leave mine alone.”
Before he can walk out, though, I call out, “Or what?”
He turns around then. “Or I’ll fight you.”
“You’ll fight me.”
“I’ll go to war with you.”
I keep watching him, my fingers numb now. “First rule of a war: pick an opponent who’s equal to you. Or it wouldn’t be a fair fight.”
“Second rule of war,” he begins with a cocky smirk. “Don’t bait your opponent or you’ll lose your teeth.”
I have to smile at that.
I have to.
It’s a small smile, but it’s one of amusement. “Yeah, you’ve got no clue.”
His eyes narrow. “Why don’t you clue me in then?”
Mine remain the same, covered in ice and expressionless. “Nah, that’d be too easy. How about you think about it while you sit out the next game.”
It takes a second for him to get what I’m saying. “What?”
“You’re benched.”
His expression ripples with disbelief. “What the…”
“Third rule of war: don’t pick a fight with your coach or it’ll be for the rest of the season.”
Isadora.
Dora.
Do. Ra.
The misery of my life. The torment of my heart.
My crime. My corruption.
If I were a writer, say Nabokov, I’d describe her in such flowery terms. Since I’m not, I’d say that she’s a girl I find everywhere I go. At games, at team events, at parties. And no matter the occasion, she’s always laughing her throaty laugh. She’s always smiling with her bow-shaped lips that look perpetually stung. In a sea of pasty and dull bodies, she always shines with her honey-colored skin and jet-black hair. Her eyes—metallic gray and her most unique feature—have an impertinence and mischief to them that makes you think she’s perpetually up to no good.
And wherever she goes, she does it with my brother.
Because she’s my twin brother’s girlfriend.
But before she was his, she was the girl I’d met one night. A girl in a white dress and fake wings. A girl who saw me in the shadows. A girl who tested my control when it’s always been ironclad and legendary.
She was the girl who made my heart beat a certain way.
When you’ve lived your life by monitoring your heartbeats, keeping track of your pulse rate, you get familiar with it. You get familiar with how your heart beats, its cadence and its rhythm. Its triggers. Things that mess with your heart.
She’s one of them.
She messes with my heart.
She makes my heart race.
And I know what happens when I can’t control my heartbeats. The world starts to disappear. My vision gets blurry. The edges of my body start to strain, and it feels like I’ll burst out of my bones if I don’t find something to ground myself.
So I should stay away from her, shouldn’t I?
But it’s hard.
I thought my initial fascination with her would go away, but it hasn’t yet.
My brother was right.
I do want her.
To put it mildly.
To put it accurately: the want of her keeps me up every night and torments me every day. The want of her makes me feel like I have a thousand paper cuts all over my skin.
To put it even more accurately: It constantly makes me want to punch a hole in the wall. It makes me want to break my rule of one cigarette per day and smoke the whole pack away. The want of her keeps me on edge every second of every day, and I have to physically stop myself from hunting my twin down and hurting him.
And that’s why she’s dangerous; I knew that the first night.
Because she makes me dangerous.
Because if my twin brother is my biggest trigger, she’s my fucking kryptonite. Nothing, not one thing, has tempted me, threatened my control, fucking chipped away at my sanity, like she does.
So even though it’s hard, I’m not going to go after her.
She’s the very last girl on this planet I’d go after.
Instead, I’ll do what I’ve done for the past year: keep my distance, ignore all this, bury it somewhere deep, and go about my day. So I watch the games and prepare a strategy to discuss at tomorrow’s meeting. Once done, I go back to the hotel we’re staying at and spend an hour on the treadmill and then another hour with the weights like I do every night.
Structure is the key.
And if I hit the weights harder than usual and run at a higher speed than what I normally do, I don’t pay it any mind. Anything to put that conversation with my brother behind me. Anything to curb this want that seems to attack me the hardest at night.
When I go up to my room, I quickly shower and then do what I’ve been itching to do all day: grab a smoke and look for a book to read. I know I won’t be getting much sleep like I haven’t gotten any in the past year. I also know that I won’t be able to focus enough to make it past page one, but like always, I try.
Just as I’m settling down, though, I hear a chime.
It’s not my phone, it’s Shep’s.
In his usual fashion, he’d left it in the locker room. He has a habit of leaving things behind: his phone, his books, his soccer cleats. And since I always kept myself busy by doing chores, cleaning up after my siblings, I have a habit of picking up things he forgets. And so, in my usual fashion, I picked up his cell phone as I was leaving.
When I go to switch it off, though, I see the reason why it chimed up in the first place.
A text.
From her.
Isadora
Hey
And the anger that lives deep in me surges up.
The jealousy I’d felt the night she ran across the garden in a sheer white dress and fake wings only to end up in my brother’s arms rages in my veins.
It rages and rages.
To the point where the world starts to disappear.
Where it’s hard to remember things.
Remember who I am: the ice.
Or who she is: the fire.
It’s hard to remember that I have rules. That I need to stay away from her.
It’s hard.
So much so that before I know what I’m doing, I open the text message—we may not be similar in any way, but we do share a face and his password is facial recognition—and my fingers start typing.