Corrupt

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.

But the truth was, I wasn’t being silly. Yeah, they were just matches, but they were also irreplaceable. And the things that were irreplaceable in life were the only things of value.

When I thought about it, there actually weren’t a lot of things or people in the world that I loved. Why had I left them here?

“They think the fire started near the stairs,” Michael said, taking a drink of his beer. “That’s how it traveled to the second floor so fast. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

I stayed silent, watching as the waitress set down two shots.

“You don’t care?” Michael broached when I didn’t say anything.

I shrugged, the anger numbing the sadness. “The house doesn’t mean anything,” I said in a low voice. “I was never happy there without my father anyway.”

“Were you happy at my house?”

I shot my eyes up, locking with his. Why was he asking that? Did he actually care? Or maybe he knew the answer.

No. No, I wasn’t happy at his house. Not without him there.

In middle school and high school, I’d loved it. Hearing the basketball bounce through the house as he walked around, feeling him in a room and not being able to concentrate on anything else, running into him in the hallway…

I loved the anticipation of just being around him.

But after he left for college and barely ever made it home, the Crist house became a cage. I was constantly circled by Trevor, and I missed Michael so much.

Being in his house when he wasn’t there was the loneliest I’d ever been.

I dropped the jar back into the box and snapped it shut, turning my head to the jukebox along the front windows.

“Can I have some money?” I asked, turning back to him.

I’d left my bag in my car.

He reached into his pocket, taking some bills off a clip. I reached over, without hesitation, and took the five I spotted, climbing out of the booth and carrying my beer with me.

Chills broke out down my arms, and I remembered that I was still in the jeans and white tank I’d changed into when I got home from school earlier. Having jumped into the car in such a hurry, I hadn’t grabbed a jacket.