Ablaze

Chapter 12

"Control is a delusion. Fire didn't change its nature from the dawn of time. It lays in wait. From a faulty wiring, from an aromatic candle, from a pile of hot laundry—it springs and spreads. It's prepared to take property and lives with speed that boggles the unprepared mind.

"You'd think that someone like me, someone who witnessed a fireball to devour her parents, would be prepared. Yet, I'm not. Fire caught me unprepared only a few days ago. Again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends of the Wisconsin and Milwaukee Fire departments! Be vigilant and provide as much support as you can give to those who put their life to fight raging fire."

Harris' mind barely registered Ablaze's speech until this moment. His attention isn't consumed by hovering over the ballroom full of bright people.

It's Ablaze. He can't process anything except her standing in the spot-light. Ablaze, all alone. The embroidered wings shine red-and-gold with her smallest movement. It's like silk is actually feathers, stirred by the wind current holding the firebird a-soaring. That's all he can see.

She takes a pause, then turns to him with a wide smile, hands outstretched in a call for everyone to notice him. He suspected that some sort of public acknowledgement was coming—otherwise why would she want him on the stage?—but he's still caught unaware.

It takes all of his fortitude not to crack up when she finishes by addressing herself to him, personally.

"Thank you, Harris Sarkisian, the firefighter of Truck Company 12, from your very own Milwaukee Fire Department, for not letting the tragedy of fire to play out to the end, taking my life."

An embarrassed smile curves his lips, yet he beats down the jolts of embarrassed, neurotic laughter. His head's swimming from this struggle. It's the same excitement as from too many glasses of Champagne on a prom night.

He has enough wits about him to figure out he must stand in response to the applause. He stands up. Even higher up now, he picks faces from the crowd.

Desiree, clapping enthusiastically. Jung, beaming with fake fatherly pride. Villarreal, wearing an expression too grave for the occasion.

And Oliver Appleby... the man's face is impenetrable. His hands go through the motion of clapping, but his gaze is fixed on Ablaze. No different than Harris' own... Very different, actually. His face is sharp, nostrils--wide. The figure loses the effortless grace of a socialite. He's coiled as if he wants to leap onto the stage and carry Ablaze away.

Harris tries to shake off the fantasy—it has to be a fantasy! They're not in the jungles, for Chris' sake!

Indeed, next time he glances at Oliver, the man's completely relaxed. So, Harris exhales slowly and watches Ablaze for a cue. What should he do? Walk off the stage with her? Sit the heck down?

She glides her way around the table. At the last moment, he remembers to pull out the chair next to him for her. She lowers herself gracefully into it and he follows her example, like a perfect gentleman he isn't.

The master of the ceremonies comes to the podium to thank Ablaze for rousing speech and make his closing remarks. They fly over Harris' head, though he makes an effort to laugh whenever the laughter ripples through the audience. Because, Ablaze.

She sits next to him, the embroidered shoulder mere inches from his face. Her perfume fills that tiny space with a teasing scent of jasmine. The long tablecloth hides it from the rest of the world, but Harris notices her legs cross at her ankles. Not like a stop sign, as a tribute to etiquette. She does so naturally. She has the effortless grace too, just like Oliver. They're a match. A perfect match, when he flushed as red as his tanned skin allowed during the public praise. And his hands still shake. He caps his knees with them to stop it. He squeezes hard, clenching his fingers, but really clenching jealousy and desire and exhilaration. Not a drop of effortless grace in him. Not a shred!