Sparking Sara (The Men on Fire Series)

by Samantha Christy

  “Where?”

  “An art gallery. The manager there is a huge fan of yours. Maybe he can help fill in some gaps.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Do you want to see if Oliver can come?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “He can’t. He said he wouldn’t be home until after dinner. Which is good. Because apparently I suck at dinner.”

  “What do you mean you suck at dinner?”

  “I was never much of a cook when Lydia and I lived together. If we couldn’t order it or put it in the microwave, we didn’t eat. But Oliver told me how much I enjoyed cooking, so I thought I’d try my hand at it.”

  “And?”

  “And do you know how hard it is to burn spaghetti?”

  Denver tries not to laugh, but he’s not doing a very good job. He finally lets it out. “Oh, my God, you didn’t.”

  I nod, trying not to laugh myself. “I did. It was horrible.”

  “I thought it smelled a little crispy when I walked in. I figured it was leftover soot in my nose from work.” He belts out another laugh. “You burned spaghetti? Really?”

  “Really. We ended up ordering Chinese.”

  I let out a big sigh.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll bet it will get easier.”

  I look at his FDNY t-shirt. “No, it’s not that. You said you thought you had soot in your nose. That means you were at a fire.”

  “Newsflash, Sara. It’s kind of my job. Oh, and I have good news. I got hired on permanently at Engine 319.”

  My excited eyes snap to his. I know how much he wanted to find a long-term placement. “You did?”

  He nods proudly.

  Without thinking, I throw my arms around him. “That’s fantastic, Denver. I can’t believe you waited twenty minutes to tell me. You should have led with that.”

  His arms wrap around me and hold me tight. It feels nice to have his arms around me. I feel protected. Safe.

  He clears his throat and pulls away. I realize it’s the second time he’s pulled away from me in the last few minutes. I should stop hugging him. It obviously makes him uncomfortable.

  “I’m glad you got the permanent position,” I say. “But I’ll always worry about you.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “You will?”

  “Of course I will. You run into burning buildings. You rescue women from cars hanging off bridges. Your job is dangerous.”

  His eyes soften. “Do you realize construction workers have a higher incidence of on-the-job injuries than firefighters?”

  “Yeah, but they probably take a nail gun in the foot or something. When you guys get injured, it’s much more serious.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Sara. I’m always prepared. And I’m good at what I do. Especially now. You’re part of the reason I got the full-time gig, you know.”

  “Me?”

  “Being in that car with you after your accident, it was one of the most intense moments of my life. And it proved to me that I could do it. After that day, I noticed it got easier for me to handle the MVA calls. I mean, I’m not sure I’ll ever be totally okay with them, but at least now I can be part of the team and know nobody will be able to call me out for not doing my part.”

  “That must have been very hard for you,” I say. “Not feeling like you belonged anywhere.”

  “It is what it is. But enough about me,” he says, checking the time on his phone. “Let’s get you to your first outpatient therapy session. Do you mind if I leave the painting here and pick it up when I drop you off later today?”

  “That would be fine.”

  I can’t help my smile, knowing he now has a reason to come back up to my place this afternoon. I know it’s not right, wanting him here as much as I do. But I can’t deny the fact that every time I look into his eyes, I feel like I’m home. More at home than when I’m standing in the middle of my own apartment.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I’m exhausted after my third day of PT. Donovan says I’m making great improvements. I reach down and rub my sore left leg, happy that he thinks I’m doing so well. But I still feel like a freak whenever I walk and my leg drags behind me.

  Seeing my so-called friends at the art gallery the other day didn’t help my confidence much. I know Denver meant well. He’s just doing what the doctor said and is trying to immerse me into my life. But I saw the stares and the whispers from the three women at the gallery who showed up to ‘support’ me. They all had excuses as to why they never visited me, and they turned up their noses when they saw me limp across the room. Their fake smiles and air kisses had me loathing the fact that I had become one of them.

  Davis was kind to me, although it looked like he just felt sorry for me.

  I think back to when I was living at the rehab center. People didn’t feel sorry for me there. They pushed me. I was surrounded by people who were uplifting and encouraging. Now I’m encountering lots of people who treat me like I’m the stray dog with the gimpy leg.

  Donovan encouraged me to take the subway home today, but I wasn’t up for the stares I knew I’d get when I’d have trouble getting on and off the train or standing up from my seat. After all, I was going solo today. With Denver on a shift, I was left to make my way to and from rehab by myself. Not that it was difficult or anything, it’s just that without him there as a buffer, the world seems too focused on me and what I can’t do.

  When Denver is with me, the focus is always on what I can do. He’s good like that. Never dwelling on the negative. And while I can tell Oliver is trying to do the same, I see the way he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking.

  But just like Denver said he would, Oliver is growing on me. He slept on the couch for the third time last night without a single complaint. And we cooked dinner together, not burning a single thing. I even found myself laughing at some of his tales of our adventures. Still, sometimes I feel like our relationship is being forced. By him. By me. By circumstance.

  I walk into the bedroom, trying not to feel the loneliness that’s creeping up on me once again.

  I lie on the bed and turn on some music, one of the CDs Denver gave me. I feel my lips turn up into a smile when my mom’s favorite song comes on: “Kokomo.”

  I pull out my blank journal and write three words on the first page.

  I miss you.

  I stare at the words for a long time, trying to figure out the meaning. Who exactly do I miss? My parents? Denver? Me?

  When the intercom buzzes, announcing a visitor, I turn off the music and stash the journal in my nightstand.

  “A Ms. Walker to see you, ma’am,” the doorman says.

  Tears instantly flood my eyes before I answer. “Please send her up.”

  Two minutes later, I’m opening my door and pulling Lydia into a tight hug. She’s reluctant to hug me back, but I don’t let that stop me. Maybe Lydia is who I’ve been missing. My best friend. My confidant. My partner in crime.

  “Oh, Lydia. I don’t know what I did, but whatever it was, I’m so so sorry.”

  I can sense the tension in her body easing as she finally returns the hug. “I’ve missed you, Sara.”

  I feel the protrusion of her belly and step back to look between us. “You’re pregnant!” I tug on her hand, leading her inside. “Oh my gosh. I’ve missed so much. Tell me everything.”

  I fetch Lydia a bottle of water but opt for something a little stronger myself. Then over a glass of wine—from a regular glass, not that pretentious gold-rimmed one—Lydia fills me in on her life. By the time she’s finished, I feel like I have my friend back.

  “You have no idea how happy I am that you came over,” I say.

  “Me too,” she says, wiping another tear. Both of us have shed several over the past hour. “I almost didn’t.”

  “They tell me you came to the hospital once. I wanted you to come back, but I didn’t know how to ask after how I must have treated you. What made you
finally decide to reach out?”

  “Your friend Denver kept calling me,” she says.

  “He did?”

  She laughs. “He’s been badgering me for days. I figured I’d show up just to get him off my back.”

  “He is persistent,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Well, I’m glad he is or I wouldn’t be here.” She glances around my apartment. “So, tell me all about Oliver.”

  She waits for my reply, but when I don’t say anything, her hand covers her mouth. “Oh, Sara. I’m sorry. I forgot that you don’t even really know him.”

  “That’s okay,” I say, putting a hand on her arm. “Oliver is”—I try to come up with a way to describe him—“charming.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up and I can tell she’s not satisfied with my answer.

  “He’s nice,” I add. “He’s giving me space to acclimate back into my life. He’s not being too pushy. Then again, sometimes I don’t think he pushes me hard enough.”

  “How do you mean? Like, are you guys intimate and stuff?”

  I find it hard not to smile. I love how Lydia already feels comfortable enough to pry.

  “Not really. I mean he’s kissed me. But he’s sleeping on the couch for now. I guess I wish he’d treat me more like some of the others do. Like he understands my potential instead of focusing on my limitations.”

  “Why don’t you just tell him that?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. We’re more like two strangers trying to be polite to each other.”

  “And by ‘the others’ you mean …?”

  “You know, my therapists. Denver. And now, you.”

  “It’s got to be hard on Oliver,” she says. “You not remembering him. I can only imagine what it would be like if Dan didn’t remember me and our life together. He’s probably trying to find the balance between not pushing you hard enough and coming on too strong. Surely he must know you don’t have to be with him if you don’t want to. You could leave at any time. Or kick him out. I find it commendable that you’re giving him a chance.”

  I nod. “I’ve tried to put myself in his position. I thought it was only fair to give it a try.”

  “You said you lost a few years of memories. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  I smile. “Actually, it was our road trip.”

  “The one to Cape Cod?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God, that was epic!” she cries. But then her face turns sad. “It was the best and worst vacation of my life.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Do you remember why we went there?”

  “You wanted me to paint a picture of you and your dad. You gave me a photo of the two of you on the beach when you were very young. But it was old and weathered and there wasn’t much detail.”

  “You asked if we could go there, to the exact spot the photo was taken.”

  “Did I ever paint the picture for you?” I ask.

  She pulls out her phone and taps around on it before showing me the picture. It brings tears to my eyes because I know how much she missed her dad.

  “I love this painting,” she says. “But I also hate it because it was the beginning of the end for us.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You discovered you had a knack for painting people’s memories. Especially when you went on location to the spot of the memory. I was so proud of the painting, I showed it to everyone. I put pictures of it online. I showed it to gallery managers. I pimped you like there was no tomorrow.”

  I look up at her, and everything that people have told me about my career starts to make sense. I try to hold back the tears. “So you asked me to paint this and then I went and became some kind of diva artist who would leave her best friend at the first sight of fame.”

  She smiles at me sadly. “It all happened so fast. I think you just got caught up in the glitz and glamour.”

  “I’m such a bitch,” I say. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  Lydia studies me. “You’re not a bitch. Not anymore. You’re different,” she says.

  I laugh. “You’re different, too. What happened to us?”

  “Well, you got a good knock on the head and I found a man to knock sense into me.”

  “You look happy,” I tell her.

  “I am.” She grabs my hand and puts it on her belly. “Feel.”

  I rest my hand on her stomach as her baby kicks and squirms. Then I lean over and talk to her baby bump. “I hope you realize what a great mom you’re getting. I hope she’ll let me be a part of your life because she’s one amazing woman.”

  I look up at Lydia and she smiles. “I think that can be arranged.”

  “Really?” I say hopefully.

  She nods. “Dan and I don’t have any sisters, and this little one needs an aunt.”

  More tears prickle my eyes as I pull her in for a hug. And as we embrace, I can feel our friendship returning almost as if the past three years never happened. Which they didn’t—for me, at least.

  I escort Lydia to the lobby when she leaves.

  “Please thank your friend for bugging the hell out of me,” she says.

  “I will.”

  As Lydia gives me a parting hug, I wonder if Denver knows just how much he’s changed my life.

  “Your mail, Ms. Francis,” a woman says after Lydia leaves.

  “Thank you, uh … I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  She hands me a stack of letters. “You never knew it,” she says. “It’s Carrie. I work the front desk. I heard about what happened to you. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve lived here for years and never bothered to learn your name?” I ask, appalled at myself.

  She shrugs.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, Carrie. And please call me Sara.”

  She smiles. “Okay, Sara. Have a nice day.”

  “You too, Carrie.”

  I ride the elevator back up, wondering why Oliver would ever waste his time with me, knowing what a terrible person I was. He doesn’t seem to be a terrible person. You’d think that terrible people would attract each other. Then again, he told me I was different around him. I must have felt safe enough with him to pull down the façade. I must have felt with him back then the way I do with Denver now.

  And I close my eyes for the rest of the ride up, knowing that I really do owe it to Oliver to try to make things work between us.

  I decide to call out for groceries. I’ve learned that Oliver’s favorite meal is chicken parmesan. And although I have no idea how to make it, and it’s a struggle to read the recipe, like everything else in my life these days, I figure I need to learn.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The outpatient therapy room is like a cross between a gym and a kindergarten classroom. There are exercise machines, mats, pulleys, and bars, but there are also books, puzzles, Play-Doh, and shape-sorting containers.

  I’ve stopped complaining when Lisa, the cognitive therapist, asks me to perform simple tasks like putting various shapes into their proper slots. I get why I have to do it now and I can see the progress for myself. It’s gotten much easier over the past week. I didn’t realize I was having to think about it before. I didn’t get that people should just pick up a shape and know where it goes without having to analyze it. And since she always makes me do it with my left hand, it’s like two therapies in one.

  Denver looks over my shoulder as Lisa has me stacking pennies, playing dominoes, doing ‘easy’ Sudoku, and putting together jigsaw puzzles.

  “Now, I’d like you to start with the number twenty-one,” Lisa says. “I want you to add three to it three times and then take away seven from the last number.”

  It seems easy enough, but I find myself struggling to do it as quickly as I’d like.

  “That’s an interesting mental exercise,” Denver says.

  Lisa nods. “It helps with processing and organizing information because the brain must hold several details at once.”

  I
t’s amazing the things the therapists notice that others don’t. That I don’t. The physical things, like my left side not working as well as my right, are obvious. But when it comes to processing information, you don’t know what you don’t know.

  It’s a lot of work coming to the rehab facility every day. But I know it’s necessary. And it doesn’t seem as much like work on the days Denver is here with me.

  After my time with Lisa, Donovan puts me through my paces working my left leg harder than he ever has. When he’s done with me and I’m cooling down on the foot bike, Denver pulls up a chair. “I have a surprise for you if you can come back to my place after therapy today.”

  I find it hard not to smile. I love that after a few weeks of outpatient therapy, he still likes to come and keep me company sometimes.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Your place? Just what kind of surprise are we talking about?”

  He laughs. It’s a boisterous, friendly laugh. But the glance we shared for a millisecond before that is not lost on me. Did he have the same fleeting thought that I did?

  “Do you have the time?” he asks.

  “I’ve got nothing but.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you had plans with Oliver.”

  I shake my head and look at the ground. “He’s out of town until Saturday.”

  Denver studies me. “Sara, you looked upset just now when you said that.”

  “I did?”

  “You two are making progress, aren’t you?”

  I shrug. What am I supposed to say? That over the past week, I’ve become much more comfortable at home? That Oliver has been so kind and patient, giving me the time and space I need to accept my circumstances? That every night before bed, he kisses me and I’ve gotten more used to those kisses? That I think I do miss him now that he’s gone?

  But I don’t say any of it, because even though I know that’s what everyone wants for me, I can’t help feeling guilty. And I’m just not sure why.

  “So, how’s Nora? Are you two going out much?”

  He sucks his cheek into his mouth, making a popping noise. “We go out some. Caught a movie the other night and she cooked dinner for me on Sunday.”