Ignite

Chapter 38

The next morning, I wake in my bed, sandwiched between a snoring Emmy and a bony-bottomed Aleisha. Sunlight streams through the window, straight into my eyes, and I wiggle my way to freedom — down the small sliver of mattress I've claimed as my own until I thunk to the floor.

The impact makes my head throb with tiredness and dehydration, and I rest it in my hands and try to erase last night from memory.

Emmy had ended up crying and confessing her forbidden love for Heather, which wasn't that unexpected, but still depressing to watch.

It'd started the moment we flopped Emmy onto my bed, and hadn't ended until Jake appeared two hours later, rushing into my room and letting Emmy sob against his shoulder until she'd drifted to sleep, pained murmurs still leaving her lips and tears running track down her cheeks.

I could still hear the hopelessness in her voice as she told us her parents would disown her if she ever acted on her feelings, could still feel the anger that built inside me, growing deeper and swifter with every tear Emmy shed. Because here, once again, were parents ruining their children's lives.

Whether it was mum with her cigarette, or the Chang's with their beliefs, it happened again and again, as inevitable as it was unstoppable.

I stand up and force myself into the shower, turning the nozzle to full and blasting cold water over my skin until shivers replace my thoughts. Only then do I get out and walk downstairs, shaking out my hair.

Jake is at the table when I reach the kitchen, his soccer kit on and a loaded plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. I glance at the clock and realise Sylvia and Peter must've already left for the markets.

"Hey," I say as I put the kettle on. "You got a game today?"

"Yeah. You were gonna come watch remember?"

My head throbs and I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Ah, right."

My voice sounds exhausted, and Jake glances at me, assessing.

"You could come next week instead?"

I turn to him and lean back against the counter, frowning at the leaves one of Sylvia's pot plants has shed on the drying rack.

"I'm sorry. Is that alright?"

"Yeah, no worries. Last night was intense, I wouldn't go either if I didn't have to."

"Thanks, Jake."

I pass him a tea, giving his shoulder a grateful squeeze, but he jumps, letting out a hiss and I pull back fast, staring at him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sorry, I fell over last night. Landed on my shoulder."

I frown at him. "Are you alright to play?"

"Yeah, yeah, nothing to worry about. How's Emmy?"

I stare at him for a moment longer, wondering whether to push it, and he sighs.

"I'll go to the doctor's after the game, Claude. Don't stress. I was just drunk."

His words release some tension and I sit, rubbing my eyes.

"Okay," I say. "And I dunno about Emmy, she's still asleep. I can't imagine she's feeling great, though."

Jake takes a fork-full of food and shoves it into his mouth.

"Yeah, that's not surprising, I'd probably have ended up crying if I was her too. Her fight with Heather looked intense."

I glance up at him. "What fight?"

"I dunno, just saw them yelling at each other in the corner of the dance floor. Heather was saying something about how she wouldn't wait forever."

I frown, biting my nails.

"Well, I guess that explains why she got so drunk."

And why she jumped Harper.

I don't voice this to Jake though, unsure if either of them would want it to become public knowledge.

The step creaks and Jake and I look up to see Aleisha coming downstairs. She falters when she spots Jake, foot hovering mid-air, but then she continues towards us, avoiding the creaky stair with easy familiarity.

"Morning," she says.

Her voice is relaxed, but from the way her eyes are moving to anything and everything in the room that isn't Jake, I have a feeling the rest of her isn't.

"How are you, Aleisha?" Jake asks.

She blinks, as if the fact that he'd speak to her is surprising.

"Yeah, fine."

"Did you have fun last night?"

"Kinda."

Jake stares at her, and I can tell he's wracking his brains for something else to say, some way to engage her, some topic she'd like. But before he finds one, she pours herself an orange juice and moves into the front room, sliding onto the couch and turning on the TV, her back to us.

Jake watches her for a moment longer, like a drowning man looking at the liquid that's killing him, and then shakes his head.

"She hates me," he murmurs, loud enough for my ears, but masked by the TV for anyone further away.

"No, she doesn't. She just doesn't know where she stands with you."

Jake's expression is pained, and I'm not sure why his decision to stay away from her isn't as ridiculous to him as it is to me.

"You know, you could give it a go. It's not like she's expecting you to marry her."

Jake glances at me, his expression dry, and he stands.

"I've got to go. I'll see you after the game."

And then he grabs his bag and walks out the door, my frown following him the whole way.  

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- Skylar xx