Fire Burning

Maredith

"I can't believe you're leaving tomorrow,” Maredith sniffed, wiping under one eye. “It only feels like yesterday when you told me.”

Her voice had that soft edge it always got when she was trying not to cry.

Maredith—Mare to almost everyone but me—was probably the only real friend I had. Her father worked alongside mine at the station. Their lives had been entwined for years, but they couldn’t have been more different.

Maredith had it all.

Long, caramel-highlighted waves that looked like they belonged in a shampoo commercial. Clear, glowing skin, full lips always coated in just the right shade of gloss. Her baby blue eyes shimmered like glass, and boys noticed—all the boys noticed.

She dressed like she lived in a catalog. High-end denim, matching bags, manicured nails that never chipped. Her family had money. Real money. The kind that dripped off her in designer perfume and limited-edition heels.

But the thing about Maredith?

She never made me feel small.
Not once.

When my mom died, I started having dinner at her house every night. Her mom set a plate for me like I belonged there. Her dad called me “kiddo” and tried to make me laugh. Sometimes, I’d pretend I really was part of their family. That I was theirs.

Because they had what I didn’t.

Love. Stability. Safety.

"I know,” I murmured. “I guess I'm not surprised my dad doesn't want me."

I kicked a small black stone off the sidewalk, watching it tumble into a pile of leaves.

"Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if he never started drinking. If the fire never got to him."

We were walking up to my house now. Maredith had insisted on helping me pack. I think she wanted to spend every second with me before I left.

“Sarah bought me a plane ticket,” I said quietly, pulling the door open. “First class.”

“She better,” Maredith muttered. “You’re not flying Spirit with trauma.”

I let out a small laugh as she followed behind me quickly, her steps light and fast. She was hoping to avoid my dad. Same as always.

"Em, that you?" he called from the dining room.

I froze.

My throat tightened the way it always did when he spoke. I turned to Maredith and gave her a small nod—go. She understood. She crept upstairs like a shadow, vanishing before he could see her.

I walked into the dining room slowly.

He was at the table, finishing a bagel, eyes hollow. The bags under them looked more like bruises. His skin was paler than usual. His shirt was wrinkled. He looked like a man who’d been empty for years and just learned to live that way.

“There you are,” he said flatly. “Just wanted to tell you—I’ll be gone ‘til Tuesday.”

“Alright,” I said, voice calm. “Can Maredith stay over?”

He glanced up at me briefly. Something in his eyes flickered, like a ghost of guilt trying to crawl out. But it vanished.

“Yeah. Your flight leaves at six. Don’t be late.”

That was it.
No hug.
No warmth.
Just logistics.

He grabbed his phone off the counter and walked out of the room.