Smoke Signals at the Quarry

A distant explosion pulls Jeff into the muddy dark of the quarry, where he finds Simon destroying something he can't identify. In the heat of the fire, accusations fly, and the silence between them finally breaks.

The sound wasn't thunder. Thunder rolled; it had a bass that rattled your ribs. This was a crack, sharp and high, like a dry branch snapping under a boot, but amplified until it shook the window panes in Jeff’s bedroom. Then came the flash—not the strobe-light flicker of lightning, but a sustained, dirty orange pulse that stained the low-hanging clouds over the ridge.

Jeff didn't think. He didn't grab a jacket. He shoved his feet into his unlaced boots, grabbed his keys, and was out the back door before the dogs in the valley started barking. The air was cold, the kind of damp spring chill that sinks right through a t-shirt and settles in the marrow. He slipped in the mud by the driveway, catching himself on the hood of his Civic. His breath came in short, white puffs. He knew that direction. He knew exactly what was over that ridge.

The quarry.

Specifically, the north drop. Their spot.

The drive was a blur of high beams cutting through mist and gravel pinging against the undercarriage. Jeff’s hands were slick on the wheel. His heart was doing something painful against his sternum, a frantic, hummingbird beat that made him feel sick. Simon had been weird all week. Not the usual Simon-weird, which was quiet and broody, but something else. Avoidant. He’d stopped answering texts. He’d stopped showing up at the diner after his shift at the garage. And now, a fire at the one place where they usually went to hide from the rest of the town.

When Jeff killed the engine at the chained-off entrance, the silence was heavy. The orange glow flickered above the treeline, violent and erratic. He ducked under the rusted chain, ignoring the 'NO TRESPASSING' sign that had been used for target practice so many times it was barely legible, and ran.

The mud sucked at his boots. Briars snagged his jeans. He could smell it now—not woodsmoke. Chemical. Plastic. Burning rubber. It smelled like an electrical fire, sharp and toxic. It stung his nose.

He crested the ridge and skidded to a stop.

Down in the bowl of the quarry, near the black water that filled the excavation pit, a bonfire raged. But it wasn't a party. There were no kegs, no trucks with tailgates down, no music. Just one figure standing silhouetted against the inferno, holding a long iron pipe, poking at the center of the flames.

Simon.

He looked terrifying. The firelight threw the angles of his face into harsh relief—the sharp jaw, the brow heavy with shadow. He was wearing his work coveralls, the top half tied around his waist, a grey thermal shirt stained with grease clinging to his shoulders. He looked like he was fighting the fire, or maybe feeding it. He moved with a kind of violent efficiency, shoving something deeper into the heat.

"Simon!" Jeff’s voice cracked. He sounded small against the vastness of the rock walls.

The figure down below froze. Simon didn't turn around immediately. He lowered the pipe, his shoulders tensing up, that familiar defensive line of his back that Jeff had memorized over three years of stolen glances and silent car rides. Slowly, Simon turned. Even from fifty yards away, Jeff could feel the weight of that stare.

Jeff scrambled down the scree slope, sliding half the way on his heels. Stones clattered into the dark water with hollow splashes. He landed hard at the bottom, stumbling toward the fire. The heat was intense, drying the sweat on his forehead instantly.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jeff yelled, breathless. "I heard… I thought you blew up the truck."

Simon stood his ground. He wiped a hand across his face, leaving a streak of soot and sweat. "Go home, Jeff."

His voice was low, graveled with smoke. It wasn't a request.

"Go home?" Jeff laughed, a jagged, hysterical sound. "I see a bomb go off in the woods, I come running, and you tell me to go home? You haven't answered your phone in three days, Si. Three days."

"Phone's dead," Simon said. He turned back to the fire, stabbing at a melting lump of blue plastic with the pipe. Sparks swirled up into the dark, angry fireflies dying in the cold air.

"Bullshit. Your phone is never dead. You keep a charger in your pocket." Jeff stepped closer, the heat searing his shins. He looked into the fire. It was a pile of… things. Boxes. heavy cardboard boxes, half-consumed. And something else. Fabric? "What is that? What are you burning?"

"Trash," Simon grunted. "Clearing out the shed."

"At midnight? With gasoline?" Jeff moved to get a better angle, to see past Simon’s wide frame. "That looks like… is that the tent? The nylon tent?"

Simon side-stepped, blocking Jeff’s view. It was a subtle movement, but effective. He was a wall. Six-foot-two of stubborn, impenetrable mechanic. "Don't worry about it. It’s moldy. Had to go."

Jeff’s stomach dropped. The tent. The blue Coleman tent they’d bought at the surplus store two summers ago. The one they’d set up in the back of Simon’s truck when they drove out to the coast. The one where Jeff had first laid his head on Simon’s chest and realized that the steady thump of that heart was the only sound he ever wanted to hear.

"You're burning the tent," Jeff said, his voice quiet now. The anger was leaking out, replaced by a cold, hollow dread. "Why?"

"I told you. Mold."

"Liar." Jeff tried to shove past him. "Let me see."

Simon caught him. It was instinct—fast and hard. His hands clamped onto Jeff’s shoulders, halting him in his tracks. His grip was strong, calloused fingers digging into the soft cotton of Jeff’s t-shirt. For a second, just a split second, Jeff thought Simon might shake him. The air between them crackled, charged with three days of silence and a year of unspoken things.

"Stop," Simon said. He wasn't looking at Jeff. He was looking over Jeff’s head, at the ridge line. His jaw worked, a muscle feathering near his ear. "Just… stop pushing, Jules."

"You're leaving," Jeff whispered. The realization hit him like a stone to the gut. It made sense. The silence. The distance. Burning the gear. "That’s what this is. You’re clearing out. You’re selling the truck, aren't you? You got that job in Anchorage. The one your uncle talked about."

Simon flinched. It was microscopic, a tiny tightening of the eyes, but Jeff saw it. He knew every map line on Simon’s face.

"You were just going to go," Jeff said, the betrayal hot in his throat, burning worse than the smoke. "You weren't even going to tell me. You were just going to burn the evidence and drive off."

"It’s not like that," Simon rasped. He let go of Jeff abruptly, as if Jeff’s skin burned him. He turned away, kicking at the dirt.

"Then what is it like? Explain it to me, Simon! Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re erasing us."

"There is no 'us', Jeff!" Simon roared.

The sound echoed off the quarry walls, bouncing back at them, distorted and ugly. The fire popped, a loud crack that made Jeff jump.

Jeff took a step back. The words hung in the damp air. They were true, technically. They weren't a couple. They were 'best friends'. They were 'hanging out'. They were 'just messing around'. They had never put a label on it because labels in this town were dangerous, sticky things that followed you around until you died. But the denial, spoken out loud, sounded like a lie.

"Okay," Jeff said. His voice trembled. He hated that. He hated how easily he cried when he was angry. He dug his nails into his palms. "Okay. If there’s no us, then why are you burning the tent? Why does it matter? If it’s just trash, let me see it."

"Because I can't look at it anymore!" Simon threw the pipe down. It clanged against a rock. He ran his hands through his hair, gripping the strands, pulling tight. He looked like he was in pain. Physical pain. "I can't look at it, and I can't look at you looking at me like I’m supposed to… like I’m supposed to know what to do."

"I never asked you to know what to do," Jeff said softly.

"You didn't have to. It’s in your eyes. Every time we’re here. Every time you get in my truck. You’re waiting. You’re waiting for me to be… something I’m not. Someone good."

"You are good, Si."

"I'm not!" Simon spun around, gesturing to the fire. "Look at this! Look at me! I’m my old man, Jeff. I’m just him with a better truck. I get angry, I break things, I shut down. I’m burning this shit because… because I almost said yes."

Jeff blinked, confused. The smoke shifted, blowing into his face, making his eyes water. "Said yes to what? Anchorage?"

"No," Simon said. He looked defeated. His shoulders slumped. The aggression drained out of him, leaving him looking younger, tired. "To the recruiter. The Army recruiter. He was at the garage on Tuesday."

Jeff felt the blood drain from his face. "The Army?"

"Sign on bonus. Four years. Get out of this hole. See the world. Learn a trade that isn't fixing rusted-out Fords for people who can't pay." Simon laughed, a bitter, dry sound. "It sounded perfect. It sounded like a way to finally cut the cord. To stop being a deadbeat in a dead-end town."

"So… you’re going?" Jeff’s voice was barely a whisper. The fire roared, consuming the last of the blue nylon.

"I signed the papers," Simon said. He looked at the fire. "Tuesday afternoon. I signed them."

Jeff felt the world tilt. The ground under his boots felt insubstantial. Simon was leaving. It was done. The panic he’d felt driving over the ridge morphed into a dull, aching grief. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering despite the heat.

"Congratulations," Jeff said. It tasted like ash. "I guess… I guess you don't need the tent then."

"I went back today," Simon said. He wasn't looking at Jeff. He was watching the sparks die in the black sky. "I went back to the office in the strip mall."

Jeff waited. A log collapsed in the fire, sending a fresh wave of heat washing over them.

"I told him I made a mistake," Simon said quietly. "I told him to shred it. He said I was an idiot. Said I was throwing away a future. Said I’d be stuck here forever."

Jeff uncrossed his arms. "You… you took it back?"

Simon nodded. He finally looked at Jeff. His eyes were red-rimmed, dark and unguarded in a way Jeff had never seen. "I took the papers. The copies he gave me. And the brochures. And the card. And I brought them here."

He pointed a shaking finger at the fire. "That’s what’s burning, Jules. The paperwork. And the tent… the tent was just in the truck bed and I… I got mad. I got so mad at myself for even thinking I could leave. So I threw it in. Stupid. It was stupid."

Jeff looked at the fire. He could see it now—the white ash of paper flakes swirling among the melting plastic. It wasn't a shrine to their past. It was a funeral for an escape route.

"Why?" Jeff asked. He took a step closer. "Why didn't you go? You hate it here."

"Yeah," Simon said. "I hate the mud. I hate the town. I hate that my dad’s ghost is on every bar stool." He took a breath, ragged and deep. He looked at Jeff, really looked at him, scanning his face from the messy hair to the mud-splattered boots. "But I drove to the county line on Tuesday night. I was just driving. Thinking about leaving. And I realized I couldn't remember what the road looked like without you in the passenger seat."

Jeff’s breath hitched. He forgot about the cold. He forgot about the fire.

"I got to the sign," Simon continued, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. "The 'You Are Now Leaving' sign. And I felt sick. Like I was cutting off my own arm. Because if I go there, I go alone. And I don't…" He struggled with the words, chewing on his lip. "I don't know how to be a person without you, Jeff. Which is pathetic. It’s weak. But it’s the truth."

Simon looked down at his hands, blackened with soot. "I’m not good with the words. You know that. You’re the smart one. You’re the one who’s gonna go to college and write books and get out of here. And I was supposed to go first so I didn't hold you back. But I couldn't."

Jeff bridged the gap. He didn't run, he just walked, stepping over the hot stones. He reached out and took Simon’s hands. They were rough, greasy, and shaking. Jeff’s thumbs brushed over the knuckles.

"You’re an idiot," Jeff said, but there was no bite in it. Only relief, warm and flooding.

"Yeah," Simon agreed. He didn't pull away.

"You’re not holding me back," Jeff said fiercely, squeezing his hands. "You anchor me, Si. You’re the only thing that keeps me from floating away. I don't want to go anywhere if you’re not there."

Simon looked up. The firelight caught the wetness in his eyes. He looked vulnerable, stripped of all that mechanic-armor he wore like a second skin. "You could do better. You know that."

"I really couldn't," Jeff said. He stepped closer, right into Simon’s space, until the toes of their boots touched. He could smell the gasoline and the sweat, but under that, the scent of Simon—laundry detergent and sawdust. "I don't want better. I want you. I want the guy who drives forty minutes to get me the specific soda I like. I want the guy who listens to me ramble about constellations he doesn't care about."

Simon let out a shaky breath. He freed one hand and brought it up, awkwardly, hesitantly, to cup the side of Jeff’s neck. His thumb brushed Jeff’s jawline. His hand was warm, rough, and trembling slightly.

"I care about them," Simon whispered. "Because you like them."

It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to Jeff. It was better than poetry. It was solid. It was real.

Jeff leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. "Don't burn our stuff anymore, okay? That tent was expensive."

"I'll buy you a new one," Simon murmured. He stepped in, closing the remaining distance. His other arm wrapped around Jeff’s waist, pulling him flush against the dirty coveralls. "A better one. Waterproof."

"Deal," Jeff breathed.

Simon rested his forehead against Jeff’s. They stood there for a long time, the fire snapping and popping beside them, the heat battling the spring chill. There was no desperate kissing, no movie moment. Just the heavy, grounding weight of Simon against him, the steady rhythm of breathing, the tacit acknowledgment that the terrifying thing—the separation—had been averted.

"I thought you were with someone else," Jeff admitted into the small space between them. "When you didn't text back."

Simon pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. "There isn't anyone else. There never was. It’s just been me, fighting with myself, trying to figure out how to tell you…"

"Tell me what?"

Simon swallowed. He looked at Jeff’s lips, then back up to his eyes. "That I’m in love with you. And it scares the hell out of me."

The world stopped spinning. The fire seemed to dim. Jeff felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, a real one, unforced and bright.

"Yeah?" Jeff whispered.

"Yeah," Simon grunted, looking embarrassed now, the tips of his ears turning red under the soot. "Terrified."

"Me too," Jeff said. He reached up, threading his fingers into the hair at the nape of Simon’s neck. "But we’re pretty good at scary stuff. We swim in this quarry at night."

Simon huffed a small laugh, the vibration rumbling against Jeff’s chest. "That’s different. That’s just dark water. This is… life."

"We'll figure it out," Jeff promised. "We'll buy a new tent. We'll figure out the rest."

Simon nodded. He squeezed Jeff tighter, a silent vow. "Okay."

The fire was dying down now, turning into a heap of glowing embers that pulsed like a heartbeat. The smoke drifted up, thinning out, revealing the first few stars breaking through the cloud cover. They stood there in the mud, ruined boots and ash-stained clothes, holding onto each other like they were the only two solid things in a shifting world.

Simon shifted his weight. "My truck’s out of gas," he mumbled, ruining the moment perfectly. "That’s why I was burning the papers. To stay warm while I waited for… I don't know. You, I guess."

Jeff laughed, and this time it was genuine. He rested his head on Simon’s shoulder. "Come on. I'll drive you home. But you’re cleaning the upholstery if you get grease on my seats."

"Fair," Simon said.

They walked back up the scree slope together, Simon’s hand heavy and warm on the small of Jeff’s back. They didn't know what tomorrow looked like. They didn't know if they were staying in this town or eventually leaving it. But as they climbed out of the pit, away from the smoke and the shadows, the path ahead seemed a little less dark.