Nothing Burns as Bright as You

by Ashley Woodfolk

Genres: YA LGBT & Pride; YA Contemporary; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Nothing Burns As Bright As You has descriptive copy which is not yet available from the Publisher.

Release date: April 5, 2022

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 288

Sample

After the Fire

I’d been running away from everything for years,

my body like the flame of a lit match,

tip touched to a line of gasoline.

But this was the first time I’d turned to look back.

You were right where I’d left you,

stooped and steadfast,

at the opposite end of the bridge between us:

as lovely and as luminous as you’d ever been.

You still seemed desperate and devoted too,

but you were not coming after me.

You were not even looking in my direction.

And I wondered at this change in you.

Had you broken an unspoken promise between us?

(That where I went, you would follow.)

Or had I finally shattered something that had been cracked

and slowly splintering since the day we met?

I was used to absence. I was used to being alone.

But I’d also grown too used to you.

I wept as I waited for you to glance up.

Struggled to catch my breath as I silently urged

those dark eyes of yours to find me in the early morning light.

I clung to my own fingers, hoping you’d say something,

anything,

that would make me turn around and come back.

You never looked for me.

(Or maybe you were tired of always looking for me.)

You didn’t fight for me this time.

You let me go.

So I went.

I love you. I think you know I will always love you.

But maybe I’ll let you start

from the beginning.

867 Days Before the Fire

You ordered the same drink as me

and you used the same fake name.

Grande skinny caramel macchiato Frappuccino,

for Alex?

And our soft brown hands collided

like stars.

1. Opposites

You think it’ll be funny

to start a fire.

You always thought starting fires was funny.

Whether they were real, like the way you’d write down wishes

and set the pages ablaze in your backyard,

or less than real, like the endless fights you started with me

(only with me).

Fire was always a joke.

And matches burned holes in your pockets

the way money burned through mine.

You’d started fires on street corners and under bridges.

In empty alleyways and at the ends of joints lifted and held steady,

our eyes locked and loaded before we smoked.

This time, though, feels different.

Dangerous.

This time, you want flames to fill the dumpster in the school’s back lot.

The joke, you say the night before we do it,

is that this whole year has been a dumpster fire.

And what better way to celebrate it ending

than with a literal dumpster that’s literally on fire?

I thought it would be better

to flood the back lot instead.

Less obvious, I insist.

Easier to get away with.

Because water could be accidental

in a way arson could not.

Pipes burst.

Tides ebb.

Sewers get blocked by fallen leaves.

Things leak and overflow sometimes

just because it’s a thing things do.

(But combustion is only very rarely spontaneous.)

I could imagine the miniature disasters that might follow a flood—

Ant-sized tsunamis.

Tiny tidal waves.

A slippery, perilous surface to cross

if it was cold enough.

It’s a metaphor, I say. Because we’re all under water.

Either swimming

or drowning.

But you aren’t into it.

And this

is a perfect metaphor

for us:

Fire and water. Flames and frost.

Hot and cold, burning and freezing.

Opposites.

You never could get the heat of your body

(your temper like tinder,

your being wanting to burn)

under control.

But I like it when you are in control.

I always want to be close to the inferno of you,

even if it kills me.

A lie:

“Opposites attract.”

The truth?

Magnets attract.

Opposites fit together like (fucked up) puzzle pieces.

And when you’re fucked up, there are more important things than attraction.

Like distraction. Like destruction.

Opposites distract.

Opposites destroy.

Opposites decimate.

Opposites detonate.

Opposites are fun as hell,

until they aren’t.

703 Days Before the Fire

You took me to your basement room.

It was filled with mismatched furniture:

wrought iron chairs and

two cushy couches and

a four-poster bed with a princess canopy.

Nothing went together.

So everything did.

You sleep down here? I asked.

Yessss, you said, teeth hissing like burning paper.

There were patchwork quilts and

concert posters.

Christmas lights and

an aquarium shimmering with fish.

Sunshine-yellow sheets and

piles of books and

so many candles.

There was a rainbow painted across the floor instead of a carpet.

Gay, I whispered, looking down at all the colors we stood atop.

You laughed.

Yep, you said, lips popping like firecrackers.

I could see you in that bed,

under the low ceiling covered in glow-in-the-dark stars,

lying awake above the rainbow.

Making wishes. Setting tiny fires.

Reading poetry and texting me back with your dark hair

bleeding across your bright pillow.

It looked like a dream, your basement.

It looked like the best kind of secret.

It looked like home.

And I imagined it was what your brain might look like

if I could see inside you the way I wanted.

2. The best fire starters

The forecast is ice cold the next day

and you have a theory that things burn hotter,

longer,

brighter,

in this kind of weather.

I don’t question you

(I rarely ever question you),

so we decide to do it.

It is also the winter solstice, I realize

when my alarm goes off in the deep morning dark,

and something about setting a fire

before the sun rises

on the shortest day

and longest night of the year

feels holy.

Or blasphemous.

Or maybe a bit of both.

I leave my house without making a sound

to collect dozens of city papers from doorsteps

and front lawns while the sun is still deciding to show up.

When I have enough, I head to school.

And once I’m standing in front of the dumpster,

I pull apart the sections,

layering them inside

like the colors in the early morning sky.

You meet me there, in the back lot,

and when I see you coming

I yank my hat lower to hide more of my eyes.

I thought if I saw less of you, you’d see less of me.

(Less of how I ache to touch you.)

(Less of how badly I need you close.)

But you’re too difficult to look away from.

Your wild hair is pulled back

in a way that makes me want to set it free.

Your hands are stuffed into your pockets,

your face half-hidden inside a big scarf.

You hate the cold and I love it,

but I love you more.

So always, even in winter, I pray for heat.

I want to reach for your hair and your hands and your face.

I want to shield you from the bitter wind

and everything else.

To look at you for hours or days or as long as you’d allow. ...