Playing with Fire

by L.J. Shen

She is the strange girl from the food truck.

Fire symbolized beauty, fury, and rebirth, she explained. Too bad in my case, it symbolized nothing but my demise.

Grams told me bedtime stories about phoenixes rising from their own ashes. She said that was what Momma wanted for herself—to rise above her circumstances and prevail.

Beauty was a seasonal friend; it always walked away from you eventually—and never returned when you truly needed it.

Grandmomma always said people were like tacos—the harder they were, the easier they broke. Being soft meant being adaptive, more flexible. “When you’re soft, you can contain more. And if you contain more, the world can’t break you.”

“Easton Braun and Reign De La Salle, man. I’d like to be the pastrami between their buns.” She fanned herself. “But West St. Claire was the cheddar on the taco. I think he fought today.”

We’re all categorized. Stereotyped by our flaws and weaknesses. Welcome to life. It’s a bitch and then you die.”

“Whatever your journey is, be certain you have someone to lean on when things get tough. Because they always do. Someone who is not your grandmother. Someone chosen, not a built-in family member. Someone who’d walk through fire for you.”

As I watched him there, I didn’t see the most popular guy in college. The sex god. The illegal fighter. I saw the loneliest boy I’d ever laid eyes on. Sweet, confused, and lost. And I thought, bitterly, he didn’t even know that across the parking lot sat a girl just like him.

“Is this an I-wanna-talk-about-it crisis or mind-your-own-fucking-business crisis?”

“Trust is putting your optimism in another person, the very definition of being dumb. You should believe me

Chevy,

“We’ll take the bike.” West reappeared in my periphery. “Since when are we a collective we?” I spun on my heel to face him, popping an eyebrow. “Do you know how to ride a motorcycle?” “No.” “That makes us a collective we. Geez, Tex, for a smart girl, you sure are kinda stupid.”

“I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.” “No, I’ve got things more fun to do with my time.” He tsked. “Nothing beats helping a friend in need.” A friend. Something about the way he said it completely undid me.

If his presence got her deliriously drunk with euphoria.

“My ass still makes more sense than your mouth,” I ground out. And just like that, he was back to laughing at my outrageousness. The fact I talked back to him. “Don’t know about that, sweetheart, but it’s a great ass, so I enjoy listening.”

“Because you’re my friend.” His eyes narrowed into two slits of grim resolution. That was it. I was his friend, and I didn’t have a say in this. “When someone disrespects my friends, they disrespect me. And nobody disrespects me. We clear about that?” I turned my head to the stage, but only because I didn’t trust myself not to launch at him with a hug. I’d never had anyone burst into my life, kicking the door down on their way in, and stick around after realizing how truly broken I was.

“If you think you’re going to come into my club and get fucked by anyone who is not me, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“I’m grateful that Tuesday went down the way it did.” His voice was scratchy. Thick. “Because the worst day of your life gave me the best version of you.”

“Listen to me carefully, Grace Shaw. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life. When I look at you, I see a fighter. I see resilience and strength and defiance that no one can touch. You take my breath away, and no one—and nothing—will change that.”

I’ll walk through fire for you. Love you. —Your old flame.

“Smart as a whip and beautiful as an angel. She’s been touched by God, this one.”