Ablaze

Chapter 16

Harris stares at Ablaze's text in a stupor.

That's the kind of text they sent as kids during the early brave years of messaging, before the mighty predictive texts algorithms took over. This isn't at all like Ablaze. Or she's in a terrible rush and really can't talk. He can imagine why—and doesn't want to—and then he does.

Oliver must hover over her, demanding, possessive, as befit a fresh fiancé. Oliver, with his blonde locks, smarmy manner and posh accent. He's probably--

Stop it. Harris slouches over the phone. Only his thumbs move for the next fifteen minutes. Then twenty. Half-an-hour. 

His day off is going to waste. His back grows numb, his neck aches from crouching. And he's frozen in this uncomfortable position until he checks all the sites he's avoided since he's left the ballroom. Instagram, Telegram, YouTube, Snapchat, TikTok, everywhere Ablaze trods digitally.

Her footprints disappear after the flurry of pictures from the gala with the close ups of that tacky ring. Even the recording of her speech to the friends of the Milwaukee Fire Department hasn't been uploaded yet. However, her feed is overflowing in thousands of congratulatory messages. 

There it is, his answer. The world doesn't suspect Oliver of being a villain. It's not Oliver, it's him being paranoid. If Dad's minority exists, it's truly tiny. Honestly, Sarkisian Senior probably invented it as a conversation starter. Or to make him rally. Like going mad alone is any worse than going mad together with random strangers on the Internet.

One thing is clear--he can't talk to her in this state or he'll just rave like a lunatic. So, he can't hear her voice. Can't even make her phone buzz with an incoming text. All these casual pleasures belong to Oliver now. 

And after his night with Desiree, Harris has no call to clench his fists till his nails hurt even through the callouses when he thinks of it.

Yet, no matter what Ablaze's doing with Oliver, no matter how he's spent the night of her engagement, she needs to know what Lonita found out. What she does with the info is her business, but she needs to know!

He sits on his bed staring at the open email app. What? Nothing to say? Him? Daaaamn. A shuddering sigh shakes his shoulders. Fine, he'll write something. Something is better than nothing.

'Here's something interesting, Agatha.'

Yeah, that's better than nothing. He attaches the screenshots from Lonita to it. He can't really mention the source, in case Oliver is reading her emails. Like this, it would sound like he's a desperate loser collecting gossip. Safer for her, but dammit! Why does he always have to wear a loser's mantle? Why can't Oliver try it on for once?

He pounds the bed with his fist, then turns off silent mode and places the phone on the bed stand. Maybe she'll call. Maybe he can explain. Maybe... nothing. He should be out like a light after all this, but his sleep is fitful. And it's not like he has anything to look forward to in the morning... but the crappy night goes on and on... until the phone's ring wakes him up.

He claws it, terrified that the caller would drop the call before he picks up. His tongue barely forms the name, it's so thick from sleep. "Agatha? Ablaze?"

"Not yet," his Dad's chirpy voice replies. "But you have a plane to catch."

Harris rubs his face so hard, he nearly peels the skin off his cheek, massages it over his teeth. Why did he think it was from her when the screen says dad in green letters. Also, the ring tone was his dad's. He never set a ringtone for Ablaze.

Jesus! He's acting like he's drunk. And the next words he blurts out only make it more like it. "Plane... what f— what plane?"

He unglues his eyelids as much as he can and looks wildly around the room. It's after dawn, but the light is still weak beyond the window. It's his second drowsy morning in a row. What he needs is a cup of coffee.