Free Fiery Nights by Lisa Carlisle Page B

I don’t know your last name.”
    Our eyes locked for a moment. I tried to suppress the blush
creeping in my cheeks considering all the ways we explored each other, yet
failed to share something as simple and elementary as the initial formalities.
As if reading my thoughts, Tristan gave me a knowing smile.
    “Winters,” I said.
    Tristan’s father said, “Nice to meet you,” and excused
himself before he left.
    My question about how much Tristan had told his mother was
quickly answered.
    “Mom, I was telling you about Maya. When I look at her, I
see light. All the darkness disappears. I took her to the graveyard to see what
would happen, to see what she’d feel.”
    He caught my eye and I’m pretty sure we were both thinking
the same thing about how hot things almost got in there.
    “When she walked in, all the spirits disappeared from my
vision and I could only see her light. But she didn’t feel anything different.
What do you think that means?”
    “I don’t know, Tristan. Gifts are different for everyone.
Maybe she has an affinity with some type of good spirits. Or maybe her gift is
a connection with you. The light to your darkness.”
    She turned to me. “Tell me, dear. Have you ever felt you
were different from others?”
    “Well yes, but no, not really.”
    “How about your family? Anyone have any special abilities?”
    “No. But that’s natural.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “I was adopted. So there isn’t a biological connection
between my relatives and me.”
    She looked at me sympathetically, which people often did
when they found out. I hated that. As if I should be pitied. I know it wasn’t
intentional, but still. I love my adoptive parents. And they gave me so much
love and support that my biological parents probably weren’t able to give for
one reason or another.
    “I see,” she said. “Do you know your biological parents?”
    “No. I don’t know anything about them,” I said, lifting my
chin up.
    She opened her mouth as if she was going to ask a follow-up
question, but then changed her mind.
    We talked about my life for several minutes longer and this
conversation was turning out to be more like one between two women meeting for
the first time rather than one trying to figure out if the other had any
special gifts. Tristan sat quietly, his eyes focused on me. Isabella then
asked, “What do you do for a living?”
    “I’m a firefighter,” I said.
    “Interesting career choice. What drew you to that?”
    “I’ve always been fascinated by fire,” I said. The three of
us exchanged glances.
    His mother put her mug down. Tristan leaned forward.
    “Since when?”
    “Since always,” I said.
    “Please. Will you tell us more?” Isabella said.
    I had to think about that one. This was something about me that
nobody knew outside of my family. Our little secret. Not even my best friend
Nike. It’s not something you can just share with just anyone without them
wanting to commit you. They would think I’m nuts. But then again, Tristan
thought I’d think the same thing about him and run away. I had to give them the
benefit of the doubt.
    I took a deep breath. “Here goes.”
     
    Tristan
    Although I knew Maya was special, I didn’t realize the
magnitude of how deep it could be. When she began to speak again, I leaned
forward, enraptured by her story.
    “We had a fireplace in the living room of the house I grew
up in. My parents often had a fire on the colder nights. And I’d sit in front
of it in a little rocking chair my grandmother gave me and just watch the fire.
Over time, I realized I could do things with it—make it rise and fall, or make
it move toward a log to make it catch. I would try to get my parents’
attention, the way kids do—’Look at me!’ I’d say and show them how I could make
the fire move.
    “At first they didn’t believe me. But when they realized I
was telling the truth, they got scared. After I went the bed, I’d overhear them
arguing about it.