Sparking Sara (The Men on Fire Series)

by Samantha Christy

  “I’m not Oliver.”

  Her lips turn up into a smile. “No, you’re not. You make me do everything myself.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point of rehabilitation?”

  “Yes,” she says, looking off into the distance. “Some people get that more than others.”

  “He’s trying, Sara. Look at it from his standpoint. You’re not the same person you were before. He’s trying to get you to remember the pieces of your life together. He’s loved you for a year.”

  “I don’t know him,” she says, carefully putting the straw into her milkshake.

  I want to tell her she doesn’t know me, either, but I don’t. Because deep down, I feel like we do know each other.

  “Everyone is telling me about my life,” she says. “It’s like watching a movie or reading a book. I’m being told a story. Except that I’m being asked to believe that the person in the story is me. It’s all so unbelievable. My paintings. My apartment. My travels. My”—she looks away—“fiancé.”

  I nod encouragingly. I’ve never heard her speak so much. Donovan told me she’d talk when she had something to say. Apparently, she’s got a lot to say.

  “The last thing I remember is going on a road trip with my friend, Lydia. We were joined at the hip. She’s my best friend. Or was,” she says sadly. “Joelle told me we had a falling out.”

  I listen intently as she tells me about her friend. About her childhood. About her parents. It’s like a faucet has turned on and her life is pouring out of her.

  She picks at her food. “Why does nobody else come to visit me?” she asks. “Does the place forbid it?”

  “Lydia came to visit you in the hospital,” I tell her. “She’s the one who told me about your love of cheeseburgers. And the Beach Boys.”

  “Joelle told me that, too. She told me a lot of things. Like how you saved me.”

  “I’d say it was a collaborative effort from my whole company.”

  “I don’t remember it,” she says. “I don’t remember anything about the accident. My first memory is waking up here at the rehab center. Joelle told me I was awake before then. She even told me I said a few words. But I don’t remember.”

  “It’s probably for the best that you don’t remember the accident,” I say.

  She puts down her burger and places her hand on mine. “But then how do I remember you?”

  I shrug. “Your subconscious, maybe? I talked to you a lot when you were sleeping.”

  “Joelle told me that, too. She told me you sat with me every day, all day. Why? We didn’t know each other before, right? Why did you sit with me? And why are you here with me now?”

  “It’s a long story, Sara.”

  She finally removes her hand from on top of mine when she takes another bite of food. I think about how long I would have kept my hand under hers. I wouldn’t have moved. I would have kept it there forever. I try to ignore what it felt like to have her touch me. Because these feelings I’m having, they’re wrong.

  She nods to her wheelchair and then our surroundings. “I’ve got time, Denver. I may not have much else, but I have time.”

  I spend the next twenty minutes telling her about my parents. Their accident. My aversion to car crashes. It’s all the things I told her while she was sleeping. The things I haven’t told anyone else. Not even Reverend Feldworth.

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” she says.

  “I’m sorry about yours.”

  “We’re a lot alike, you and me. Except that you seem to have a lot of people in your life. Your sister. Your friends. Your coworkers. Why don’t I have any people, Denver? I guess I can understand why Lydia doesn’t visit me, but what about my other friends?”

  I look down at the table, not sure what to say.

  “Oh, my God. Do I not have any friends?”

  “You were different before, Sara.”

  “How was I different?”

  “I can only tell you what I’ve been told. Joelle and Lydia, they said that after your parents died, you had a tough time of it.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “They said you pushed everyone away. They said you poured yourself into your paintings. And eventually, when you started to paint for other people and become successful, you became … uh, you became …”

  I don’t have the courage to tell her.

  “I became a bitch,” she says.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She puts her face in her hands and shakes her head. “Why has nobody else bothered to tell me this? Joelle dances around the subject every time I ask. And Oliver, well, he doesn’t talk about our past that much. He shows me pictures and tells me about some of the places we’ve been, but he doesn’t get personal. I think he’s afraid he might scare me if he gets too personal.”

  She studies the remains of her cheeseburger. Then her eyes meet mine. “Do you like him?” she asks. “Do you trust him?”

  “I don’t know him any better than you do at this point,” I say. “I know it’s hard for you. It’s hard for both of you. But I think you need to give it a chance. I like Donovan’s suggestion that you see your apartment. I think it will help.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend, Denver?”

  “Girlfriend? No. I date sometimes. I took out a nurse from the hospital the other night.”

  She nods her head. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad you have people.”

  “You have people, too, Sara. We’re all pulling for you to make a full recovery. And you’re doing great.”

  “Full recovery,” she muses over the words. “The doctors don’t think I’ll ever get my memory back. Did you know that?”

  “Yes. And I’m sorry.”

  “But what if … what if I don’t want it back, Denver. What if everything I’ve found out about myself is not the person I want to be?”

  “Whether you get your memory back or not, it’s up to you to be the kind of person you want to be,” I say. “For the record, I don’t think you’re a bitch and I can’t imagine you ever being one.”

  She stares at me. She stares at me long and hard. She stares at me with those eyes I remember in the mirror. Those eyes that were scared and unsure.

  “For the record,” she says, “I’m happy it was you who saved me.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The two dead bodies in the front seat of the car have me thinking about my parents.

  “There’s a note,” Bass says from the other side of the garage that’s now been fully aired out of exhaust fumes.

  A few of us walk over and read it, knowing not to touch it or pick it up since the police will want it as evidence.

  “Damn,” Steve says. “She had stage four cancer.” He looks over at the car. “They wanted to go together. On their terms.”

  I can’t help but stare at the husband and wife. They’re holding hands and their heads are leaning against each other’s. They look older than my parents were. In their sixties, maybe. And they look completely at peace.

  I’ve often wondered if my parents were glad they both died in that accident. What if one of them had lived? Would they have been able to carry on? I guess they would have, for the sake of Aspen and me, but would their existence have been meaningful after losing the love of their life?

  It’s strange, the feeling I get looking at the bodies in the car. For the first time in almost six years, I feel a sense of relief that they were together when they died. That they have each other now—wherever they are.

  All the way back to the station, I think of Sara and what would have happened if she had died in her accident. How sad it would have been at her funeral with only a few people bothering to show up. Would Oliver have wished he had been in the car, too? Or would he have gotten over her and gotten on with his life?

  When I was younger, I thought I was in love with Kendall, and I was upset by our breakup, but now I realize that what really upset me is that she didn’t stick by my side. I wasn’t upset about losing the love of my life,
because that’s not what she was. Even after two years with her, I knew I could never have with her what my parents had with each other. But let’s face it—when I was labeled a criminal, not many women would give me the time of day, let alone go out with me. Staying with Kendall was the easy thing to do. And when she left, I had no one.

  I know all too well what it’s like not to have anyone. And I think Sara feels like that now. Yes, she has Joelle, but Joelle seems to visit her more out of obligation than anything else. Although I do sense a friendship budding between them, which makes me happy.

  She has Oliver, too. But at this point, she’s not sure she even wants him. I’m hoping when she sees her apartment later today, she will begin to accept her life with him.

  Four days ago, when Donovan first brought up going on a field trip to her apartment, I thought she’d be more excited. But the more we talked about it, the more she seemed scared at the thought of it.

  Something happened that day we ate lunch in the courtyard. Something that made me feel guilty.

  Oliver loves her. He may not be the most sentimental guy in the world, and he may not show up and sit with her as much as he should, but I can tell he’s trying. He’s trying hard to get her to fall in love with him.

  He even stopped bringing her that vegan crap. The night he showed up with a full steak dinner for her, was the night I decided he really does have her best interests at heart. Something shifted in him that day—the same day Sara and I sat in the courtyard. It’s like he sensed something had happened. Maybe he finally realized that Sara has choices, and that one of those choices is whether to be with him or not.

  During breakfast, an official-looking man carrying a briefcase walks through the bay doors at the firehouse. “Brett Cash?” he asks, glancing around at all of us.

  Brett stands up. “That’s me.”

  The man walks over to him and hands him an envelope. “You’ve been served,” he says before turning and walking out as quickly as he came in.

  Brett walks over to the couch and sits down, staring at the envelope as he turns it over and over in his hands.

  “Not opening it isn’t going to make it go away, brother,” Cameron says, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

  Brett just shakes his head, like he can’t believe it’s happening, even though he knew it was coming.

  “Come on, guys,” Bass says, standing up. “Let’s give Cash a minute.”

  We all go out into the garage and let Brett open the letter that we know means the demise of his marriage.

  “I just hope she doesn’t go after Leo,” J.D. says.

  “He claims she doesn’t want him,” Steve says.

  “That would kill him,” Bass says. “Especially since she’s in California now.”

  We busy ourselves with rig inspections for a while. Then Cameron looks at his watch. “How long do we have to give him?”

  Some of the guys from the next shift start to show up, so we take that as our cue to go back inside.

  Brett is no longer on the couch. We make our way to the officers’ quarters and see him sitting at his desk. Nobody says anything; we just stand outside his doorway to show our support.

  “I didn’t think she’d go through with it,” he says, looking up at us with bloodshot eyes. “She gave me everything. Including Leo. All she wants is visitation. Other than that, she wants nothing to do with me. Us. The eight fucking years we spent together.”

  He throws the papers across his desk. “All she wants is a few personal items and her clothes. Who does that? Who walks out on their life after having a kid? How did she turn into such a selfish bitch?”

  He looks at J.D., who he’s known since before he met Amanda. “Was I blind to it, man? Was she always that way?”

  J.D. sits on Brett’s cot. “No, she wasn’t. Before Leo, she was great. And you guys were the perfect couple. Everyone wanted to be Bramanda,” he says. “Becoming a mother changes every woman. It’s just that most of them change for the better. They become more compassionate. Stronger in a way. But it seemed to break Amanda for some reason. None of this is on you, brother. And we’re all here to help. They say it takes a village to raise a child.” He motions to everyone standing behind them. “We’re your village.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I’m not sure why I’m nervous as we take the elevator up to Oliver and Sara’s apartment.

  I’m not sure if I want her to love the place or hate it.

  I’m not even sure if I want her to remember her life with him.

  I’m not sure of anything anymore.

  Except that I’m an idiot.

  Donovan is here, too. It was a requirement that he come with us in case Sara were to fall or have any other issues. And Sara still has the belt thing around her waist—also a requirement in case she gets unsteady on her feet.

  When the elevator doors open, Oliver holds them, allowing Sara to exit first. But then she turns around, not knowing which direction to go.

  “Sorry, hun,” he says, grabbing her hand and leading her down the hallway.

  I can’t help but stare at their clasped hands. It’s the first real affection I’ve seen from him, other than the occasional chaste kisses he’s placed on her forehead.

  I can see Donovan eyeing me out of the corner of my eye, so I try not to react.

  Oliver gets out the key. Sara turns to me as he puts it in the lock. She swallows hard. She’s nervous, too, but probably not for the same reasons I am. I give her an encouraging smile.

  The door opens and Oliver walks through, pulling Sara behind him. Donovan’s eyes go wide when he sees the view out of the main windows.

  “Daaaaaaaamn, girl,” he says, walking over to take a look. “I knew you were successful, but this is filthy-rich territory here.”

  Oliver flashes Donovan an irritated look.

  “What?” Donovan says. “I call it like I see it.”

  “My parents were wealthy,” Sara says. “I can hardly take credit.”

  “You underestimate yourself, luv,” Oliver says.

  Sara shakes her head. “I … I just can’t believe I make money painting.”

  Oliver puts his arm around her. “You’re an amazing artist who can command any price for a painting and people will pay it. Gladly.”

  “Where is it?” she asks. “My studio.”

  Sara hardly pays notice to the rest of the apartment as we make our way to the back room. She walks through the door and stops quickly, her hand coming to her mouth to cover a sob.

  “Oh, my God, the door.”

  “Door?” Donovan asks.

  She walks over to the door that’s been put on its side on top of two decorative saw horses. It’s being used as a table for her paints. She runs her hand along the edge. “It was my parents’ front door from the house I grew up in. When they died, it’s the only thing I wanted from my childhood home other than all the photo albums.”

  She picks up one of the paint brushes and runs the bristles across the palm of her hand. “My father had an old door that he used as a workbench in our garage. When I was little, I used to help him with his woodworking projects. I told him that one day when I grew up, I was going to be a famous painter and I would have a door in my garage just like he did. And it would hold my paints. The last I remember of the door is having my Aunt Maria, Joelle’s mom, store it at her house for me after my parents died. I can’t believe I actually used it.”

  “What a lovely story,” Oliver says, walking up behind her and rubbing her shoulders. “How proud your parents would have been.”

  Sara’s eyes find mine. “I wish you could have met them,” she says.

  “I wish I could have met them too, luv,” Oliver says.

  Sara closes her eyes and she nods. Then she explores the paintings in the room. She stops and studies one that is only partially painted. She squints her eyes. “Are those … French fries?”

  I look at the pictures that are attached to the wall just behind the easel. “I know the couple in the p
icture. That’s Baylor and Gavin McBride. You’re doing a painting for them.”

  “People pay me to make paintings with French fries?”

  Oliver laughs. “You paint people’s memories, darling.”

  She cocks her head and furrows her brow. “I what?”

  Oliver spends the next few minutes explaining her paintings. Sara seems fascinated. She looks like she does when I read her book to her. And I remember what she said the other day about her life being like a story that other people tell her.

  She smiles at him. “Thanks, Oliver.”

  He grabs her hand. “Ollie,” he says. “You always call me Ollie.”

  “Okay, Ollie.”

  She smiles a second time, and I wonder if she’s beginning to accept her situation.

  But the smile fades when Oliver leads us back into the main room. Sara wanders around, picking things up and studying them. She looks through kitchen cabinets. She even looks in the refrigerator. Then she goes into the bedroom.

  She waves us along with her, almost like she’s scared to dive into her past without people there to rescue her should she need it.

  She sits on the side of the bed, running a hand over the duvet.

  Oliver sits down next to her. “Our favorite place,” he says, patting the bed.

  Sara flashes him an uncomfortable smile. “I’ll bet,” she says, playing along.

  “Don’t worry, hun. I won’t push you. I’ll even take the sofa after you come home if you like. Anything for you.”

  She looks relieved and more at ease after his offer.

  She leans over and opens the drawers of her side table. Her breath catches when she sees something in the lower drawer. She reaches in and pulls out a handful of pregnancy tests.

  “Oh, my God. Oliver … uh, Ollie—were we trying to have a baby?”

  Oliver laughs, almost doubling over on the bed. “Sara Francis—a mum? Not a chance. You hate kids. You call them all brats. But we did have a scare a few months ago. You went out and bought ten tests just to be sure. After the fourth one was negative, I told you to stash the rest.”