Page 79 of Play Nice

We start going at it once we’re across the bridge, after we’ve taken in the view of the river. We don’t come up for air at all down Flatbush Avenue. He’s not a good kisser, but it’s something for me to do.

He moves my hand over his jeans so I can feel that he’s hard.

It doesn’t turn me on. It makes me nauseated.

What am I doing?

“Here is fine,” I tell the cabdriver, fumbling for my wallet.

“I got it,” Ethan says.

I let him pay, even though I’m pretty sure I’m about to ditch him again.

I open the car door and stumble out onto the sidewalk. I smell smoke. Fire. Is it me? My imagination? The phantom scent of the book burning haunting my nostrils?

But then I feel heat.

“Shit,” Ethan says.

We turn the corner to flashing lights. Fire trucks. Flames—red and yellow, tall and reaching. Ruthless. Ravenous. The air is thick with ruin. It’s hell on my block.

My building is on fire.

24

It was the genius in 6B. He threw a party on the roof, and someone in his esteemed crew, probably high out of their mind, decided they wanted s’mores, so they constructed a makeshift firepit, which wasn’t so much a firepit as it was just setting the roof on fire.

After two days, I was able to retrieve my laptop, my jewelry, my clothes, and my fire safe with all my paperwork—passport, tax records, et cetera. The fire safe was a gift from Dad when I moved in. He also insisted I get renter’s insurance, which I’m now grateful for. The damage to my unit was minimal, thankfully. The top units weren’t so lucky.

On the bright side, because of my fiery misfortune, my friends can’t be mad at me for what I said to Kiera. She’s forgiven me. Or has at least claimed to. They all took me out to lunch yesterday. Ethan got me a day pass at a spa. My sisters have been checking up on me. Aunt Helen sent me cash. Dad called. He offered to come get me, but I said no. He offered to put me up in a hotel in the city, and I said fine.

I’m coming up on a week in the hotel.

Everything I own—well, everything I could salvage—reeks of smoke.

This room now reeks of smoke.

I can’t stay here forever.

I can leave anytime I want. I don’t live here. If you want to play with me, you have to play nice.

That’s what I said before I left the house. Before I came back to the city and smoked on my roof to alleviate some stress. Before I offered words of encouragement to my idiot neighbor, inadvertently inspiring him to commit arson.

This isn’t the fault of whatever’s there at Edgewood. Not directly. It’s not a coincidence either. It’s cause and effect. It’s distress instigating poor judgment manifesting disaster. It’s how all bad situations get worse. Give in to despair, let your demons win, end up like my mother.

I know better.

“You’re welcome to stay with me,” Austin says. I have him on speaker while I soak in the tub. “Work on your house during the day. Crash here at night. There’s a guest room upstairs, too. If you’d rather.”

“A guest room?”

“I’m giving you options.”

“Interesting,” I say. “Don’t want to live in sin with me? You know, I never took you for old-fashioned.”

“No? What if I am? Let’s get married.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time.”