“How old are you?” I asked.
“Eighteen,” he said, spraying a shit-ton of lighter fluid on the wood. “Nineteen in March. I got held back in Manitowoc.”
Eighteen. Dude looked like he was twenty-four, at least. As if life were beating down like a fist, forcing out everything that was young about him.
“Did you get all that ink in one year, or did your parents give you permission?”
“No,” he said and struck a match. He tossed it on the wood, which flared into a roaring fire immediately.
I leaned back, shielding my eyes with my beer. “Jesus…”
Ronan stared into the flames, watching the wood burn. When the inferno subsided to a normal campfire level, he sat back down.
“No…what?” I asked. “No permission or—”
“No parents,” Ronan said. He took a long pull off his beer. “Mom died when I was a kid. Dad died in prison.”
“Shit,” I breathed. “Sorry, man. Why was your dad in jail?”
Ronan turned his dark eyes to me, gray and flat, like the rounded stones at our feet. “For killing my mom.”
“Holy fuck…” I took a sip of beer since my throat had gone dry. “Who do you live with now?”
“Uncle.”
Before I could say another word, Ronan aimed the lighter fluid at the fire. It arched like piss, and the fire flared, hot and bright. Soon, there wouldn’t be any wood left to burn.
Another silence fell, this one completely fucking uncomfortable since I had no idea what I should say. But that feeling came over me again—the voiceless knowing that had bonded me to Ronan in the first place. He didn’t need or want me to say anything, so I didn’t. Pretty soon, the silence felt good again.
The sun began to sink into the ocean, setting it on fire, while the sky turned as deep a blue as Violet’s eyes. When Ronan went foraging for more wood, I got out my guitar and plucked a few chords.
Ronan came back with his arms full of kindling. “It’s about time.”
Self-consciously, I messed with the frets, tuning it. “I don’t play much for people.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. Besides, you don’t want to hear the shit I’ve been writing.”
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“What kind of music do you listen to?”
“Heavy stuff. Melvins. Tool.”
“Yeah, what I play is not that. Mostly, I’ve been writing songs for a girl.”
“A girl.” Ronan popped another beer and handed it to me. “Now I really feel bad that you can’t get drunk.”
“Amen.”
We clinked beer bottles.
“What’s the story?”
I peered suspiciously at him. “You’ll just call me a pussy, tell me to fuck someone else and get over it.”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” he said with a faint grin.