Corrupt(69)

I flipped off the top of a box and dug in, my hand wrapping around another hard wooden box, this one smaller. I pulled it out.

Water immediately spilled out of its corner.

My heart broke. No.

Wrapping my arms around it, I hugged it to my chest and hunched over, sobbing. It was ruined.

“Stand up.”

I heard Michael’s voice behind me, but I didn’t want to move.

“Rika,” he urged again.

I raised my head again, trying to force in deep breaths, but all of a sudden dizziness wracked though me, and I couldn’t breathe. The air was too thick.

I should’ve taken the box with me. It was stupid to leave it here. I thought I was trying to be strong, letting the past go and leaving it behind. I should never have left without it.

I opened my eyes, barely seeing anything through the blur.

Why was Michael here? He’d been here when I got here, which meant he’d found out about the fire before I had.

Slowly, all the control I’d fought to assume over my life was getting taken away from me. Being duped into living at Delcour, finding Will and Damon in my class, the constant threat of his friends hanging over my head, and then there was Michael. I had no control around him.

And now my house?

A weight sat on my chest, and I drew in hard, shallow breaths as I looked up at him. “Where is my mother? Why can’t I reach her?”

Holding his eyes, I started coughing again, the air like poison every time I tried to take a breath.

“We need to get out of here.” He reached down and pulled me up, knowing that the smoke was getting to me. “We’ll come back tomorrow after the fire department’s assessed the damage and made sure it’s safe. We’ll stay at my parents’ house tonight.”

A lump stretched my throat, but I didn’t even have the energy to swallow it down. I squeezed the box to my chest, wanting to sink away.

I didn’t fight as we left the room. I didn’t fight when he put me in his car or when I saw him pass his parents’ house and take me into town.

I couldn’t fight him tonight.





“ARE THOSE THE MATCHES YOU TOLD ME ABOUT?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to the box on the table. “The ones your father collected from his trips?”

I dropped my eyes, seeing the damp wood of the cigar box and nodded. I was still too deflated to say anything.

After we’d left the firefighters to keep working at the house, he hadn’t taken us back to his parents’ place. He’d driven into town and stopped at Sticks, and even though I didn’t want to see anybody, I welcomed a drink.

I followed him in, and thankfully, he hid us in a booth and ordered us a couple of beers. The waitress gave me a quick glance, knowing I wasn’t twenty-one, but she wouldn’t argue with him.

No one ever did.

The bar was nearly empty, probably because it was a school night, as well as the college kids having all left town to go back to school by now. A few older patrons sat at the bar, some people played pool, and others loitered around, drinking, talking, and eating.

Slowly easing back into the chair, I touched the box with shaky hands and flipped the clasp on the front, lifting the lid.

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I looked away.

Ruined. Everything was ruined.

Most of the matchbooks and little boxes were made of paper, and even if the matches dried out, the containers were split, torn, and shriveled. The damp cardboard dripped with water, discolored and broken.

I reached over and picked up a little glass jar. The matchsticks inside had a green tip, and I still remembered my father returning from Wales saying he’d found them in a seaside shop in Cardiff.

I smiled sadly, holding up the jar. “These are my favorite,” I told Michael, leaning over the table. “Listen to the sound.”

I jiggled the jar next to his ear, but then my face fell, hearing the heavy clumping instead of the light, familiar sound of the wooden sticks tapping the inside of the glass.

I lowered myself back down into my seat. “They don’t sound the same now, I guess.”

Michael stared at me, his huge frame and height damn-near taking up the whole bench on his side of the booth.

“They’re just matches, Rika.”

I cocked my head, my eyes narrowing with ire. “They’re just matches?” I sneered. “What do you treasure? Is anything precious to you?”

His expression turned impassive, and he remained silent.

“Yeah, they’re just matches,” I continued, my voice growing thick with tears. “And memories and smells and sounds and butterflies in my stomach every time I heard the car door slam outside, telling me that he was home. A thousand dreams of all the places I’d have adventures someday.” I took a deep breath, placing my hand on top of the box. “They’re hopes and wishes and reminders and all the times I smiled, knowing he’d remembered me while he was gone.”

And then I looked at him pointedly. “You have money and girls, cars and clothes, but I still have more than you in this little box.”

I turned my gaze out to the pool tables, seeing him watch me out of the corner of my eye. I knew he thought I was being silly. He probably wondered why he was still sitting here with me. I had my car. He could’ve just let me crash at his family’s house tonight and gone back to the city himself and to whatever date or function he was dressed up for.