For the rest of the night, Leo doesn’t leave my side.
“He’s really taken to you,” Brett says. “I’m surprised. He’s usually wary of strangers, women especially. I think it’s because his mom was so … Well, never mind. Anyway, the only other woman he likes is his nanny.”
I feel like there’s a story there and I plan to ask Denver about it later.
“Well, you can bring him over anytime. He’s amazing.”
“We might just take you up on that,” Brett says, watching me play with his son.
You hate kids. I hear Oliver’s voice in my head.
I shake away the thought, knowing it’s just another one of his lies. “He’s wrong,” I whisper to Leo.
Leo puckers his mouth like he wants a kiss. I happily oblige.
~ ~ ~
Denver and I lie in bed in post-coital bliss, our bodies slick with sweat as we try to control our breathing.
He leans on an elbow, studying me. “Do you want kids?” he asks.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Two days together and you’re asking me this?”
“I … I …” He looks flustered.
“I’m kidding, Denver. You can ask me anything. Yes, someday I want kids. Lots of them.”
His lips curve up into a smile. “Now just how many are we talking about?”
I shrug. “I was an only child, and while my childhood was great, I always longed for siblings. So I’m thinking more than one, less than six. Does that scare you away?”
He pulls me closer. “Nothing could scare me away from you. I told you, you’re my future. And if you don’t believe me—I have video proof.”
“Thank you for what you did today. The studio.”
“You’re welcome.” He grabs my hands, bringing them to his lips. “These hands are talented. They shouldn’t have to go a day without painting.”
I wiggle out of the bed.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“To paint.”
Denver looks at the clock. “Now? It’s after midnight.”
“Something you need to learn about artists is that they paint when they are inspired.”
He sits up, a look of pride overtaking his features. “Inspired?” A smug smile creeps up his face. “Are you saying I inspire you, sweetheart?”
I throw my pillow at him. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Maybe it was my cock that inspired you.”
I laugh. “Oh, my God, you’re incorrigible.”
He lies down, still naked, and laces his hands behind his head. “I’ll be right here whenever you need more inspiration.”
I roll my eyes at him and then throw on some old clothes and walk down to the basement. I look around at all my creations. Denver doesn’t know how true his words were. He does inspire me. Everything I’ve painted since the accident is because of him. Thinking about him. Wanting him. Loving him.
I pick up my brush and get started.
Chapter Thirty-three
The past few weeks have been the best I’ve ever known. Lydia and I are like two peas in a pod, just as we were in high school, only better, because we’re acting like mature adults this time—well, most of the time, anyway. She came for a sleepover one night when Denver was working and her husband was out of town. We spent the entire night laughing and reminiscing.
Denver introduced me to his sister, Aspen, on a video chat, and she and I are becoming fast friends. She’s coming to town tomorrow with her husband’s baseball team. I’ve made sure the townhouse is spotless. I am still a guest here, after all.
I finished the painting for Baylor. She tried to pay me what she said she commissioned me for, but I wouldn’t allow it. We’ve become friends and I don’t take money from friends. At least not anymore. She argued, but I didn’t let up, telling her I’d rip up any check she gave me. Then, a few days ago, I got a notification that a rather large donation—in the sum of what the painting was worth—was made in my name to The Brain Trauma Foundation.
Something I’ve found myself dreading more and more is looking at new apartments while I try to sell the old one. To be honest, I’m not in any hurry to leave the townhouse. I love it here. And I’m beginning to understand that what I love about it isn’t necessarily the townhouse, it’s who’s in it.
Denver and I have only been a couple for a few weeks. Moving in together isn’t an option—is it? Then again, we’re basically living together now. We share a kitchen, a bathroom, a bed. Oh, the bed. My body tingles just thinking about how well we share the bed.
My phone rings and I put down my paintbrush, annoyed with the phone for the interruption. Then I see it’s Ivy calling, and I smile.
“Hey, girlfriend. What’s up?”
“Sara,” she says, followed by a long pause. “Something’s happened.”
The tone of her voice is utterly morose, and it makes my heart sink. Denver is at work today. I step over to the couch and sit down. “Is he okay? Is he …” I can’t even bring myself to say it. I’ve thought a lot about this over the past few months. I worry about him every time he goes to work. I’ve prayed I never get a phone call like this. I just never imagined it would happen so soon.
“He’s in the hospital. An apartment building collapsed during a fire.”
My hand covers my mouth as a sob bellows out of me. “Oh, my God. Is he badly hurt?”
“They haven’t fully assessed him yet. He just arrived at the hospital a few minutes ago. Bass called me from the scene and told me to call you and Aspen.”
“She’s arriving tomorrow,” I say. “Have you called her yet?”
“She’s my next call.”
“Did Bass give you any more information? Is he burned? Conscious?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know. But he sounded scared, Sara. I think you should get there right away.”
My stomach turns and I try to hold back the bile rising in my throat. Could it be that I’ve just found him, only to have him taken away?
“Where is he?” I ask, gathering myself together as I run up the stairs. I trip along the way, my left leg not able to keep up with my right. I yell out in pain when I hit my knee on the edge of a step.
“Sara, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m leaving now.”
Ivy gives me the directions as I grab my purse and head out to hail a cab. I look down at my paint-spattered clothes, knowing I should change, but that would take precious minutes. And what if all I have left with him is minutes?
“I’ll call Aspen and then meet you there,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say through my tears.
She doesn’t tell me he’ll be okay. She doesn’t tell me things will be alright. I wonder if she knows more than she’s letting on.
It takes twenty minutes to reach the hospital. Twenty excruciating, heart-pounding minutes.
When I walk through the emergency bay doors, Bass and Brett are waiting for me, still in their dirty uniforms. They look awful. The looks on their faces scare me to death. I fall into Bass’s arms. “What happened? Is he dead?”
“He’s alive,” Bass says. “Injured, but alive. A roof collapsed on him. He has a few second-degree burns, but it’s his head injury that worries the doctors the most.”
“Head injury?” I cry. “No!”
“He’s tough, Sara,” Brett says. “He’s one of the toughest sons of bitches I’ve ever known. If anyone can get through this, he can.”
“Will he wake up?” I ask. “Will he walk again?” I step back and let my body fall against the wall before I ask the question that terrifies me. “Will he remember me?”
Both of them know my story. And they know what I’m asking. And I know they don’t have answers.
Ivy runs up behind me. “Sara!”
“Ivy!”
She pulls me into a hug. “What do we know, guys?”
“He’s not awake yet,” Bass says. “He got hit on the head by falling debris from the ceiling. They’re monitoring him for brain swelling.�
�
“Can she see him?” Ivy asks.
“He’s up in the ICU. We can go up and see if they’ll let you in.”
On our way to the elevator, I see a toddler covered with soot. There are trails of tears blazing a clean path down his face as a hospital worker tries to soothe him.
“Was he in the fire?” I ask.
“Yes,” Bass says. Then he and Brett share a look. A devastated look.
“What is it?” I ask.
“His parents were in the fire, too. They didn’t survive.”
For the second time today, I feel like I’m going to be sick. Not only did this young child lose his parents, but I now understand how deadly the fire was. The fire Denver was injured in. I try like hell to hold in my sobs as we approach the boy. No matter what I’m going through, what he’s going through is worse.
As we walk past him—the boy whose whole world just crumbled—I feel the need to reach out to him. He’s alone and scared. I feel a kinship with him. I was younger than him when I was abandoned by my birth parents. It makes me wonder if I knew what had happened to me. Does he?
“Denver saved him,” Bass says, nodding to the dirty little boy.
I swallow hard. “He did?”
Bass nods. “And whatever happens, I guarantee you, he’d do it all over again.”
I look at the boy until we turn the corner. But even after he’s out of sight, his cries still linger. And I know I’m going to have one more thing haunting my dreams.
We go up the elevator and into a waiting area filled with firefighters. Brett motions to them. “They won’t leave until they find out about Denver.”
“But what if there’s another fire?” I ask.
“We took ourselves out of service. It’s customary when one of our own is severely injured.”
“Oh, God,” I cry. I look at all the faces of the uniformed guys in the waiting room. They are all dirty with soot. “Was anyone else hurt?”
“Just some minor scrapes and smoke inhalation,” Brett says. “The fire had gotten so bad the chief called for an evacuation of all the companies. Everyone was on their way out of the building when Denver heard the kid cry out. After the collapse, we found Denver on top of the child. He had thrown himself over him, protecting him from the fire and any falling debris.”
Tears stream down my face. “He’s a hero,” I say. I grab on to Bass’s arm. “I can’t be the woman at the funeral who gets handed a flag. Please, please don’t say that will be me.”
A doctor comes into the waiting room and looks around until he sees me; then he approaches. I wonder if he thinks I look like the saddest person here.
“Are you Mrs. Andrews?”
“I’m Denver’s girlfriend. He doesn’t have any family here. His sister is on the way.”
“Normally we only give information to immediate family,” the doctor says.
“We are his family, doc,” Bass says, motioning to the firefighters lining the walls.
The doctor looks at everyone in the room and nods. “He’s still unconscious but breathing on his own. He doesn’t seem to have any swelling of the brain, although we’ll have to monitor that since it usually gets worse in the first twenty-four hours. The MRI shows a moderate concussion. At this point, we just need to give him time. Brain injuries can be tricky.”
Ivy runs a hand up and down my back as the doctor explains everything. I imagine similar things were told to Denver when he came to the hospital after my accident. But this is different. He was checking on a victim, not the woman he loved. He wasn’t wondering if he was going to find out if his whole world just got turned upside down.
“Is he going to be okay?” someone behind me asks.
“Son, I just can’t say,” the doctor tells him. “We’re hopeful. I’ve seen people with far worse injuries make a full recovery, and I’ve also seen people with a seemingly minor bump on the head succumb to a brain bleed. Every person is different. Every brain injury is unique.”
“Can we see him?” I ask, not wanting to be the possessive girlfriend who insists on seeing him before his best friends.
“Only one person at a time,” the doctor says.
Bass touches my shoulder. “You go. He’d want you with him.”
“Thank you. I’ll try to be quick, I know you want to see him.”
“No, take all the time you need. We’ll be right out here.”
The doctor leads me down a hallway past several glass-walled rooms, and I wonder if this is what it looked like at the hospital I was in. He stops at the entrance to the room in the corner. “Here we are. Don’t be afraid to touch him. Fortunately, only his forearms were burned and they’ve been treated and covered with bandages.”
“Okay, thank you.”
I walk into the room, hearing some beeps come from a monitor next to his bed. I’m relieved that he’s breathing on his own. I reach up and touch the scar on my neck, a reminder that I couldn’t breathe after my accident.
Other than some bandages on his arms, he looks almost normal. At peace, even. He’s been cleaned up, but I can see traces of soot around one of his ears. I watch his chest rise and fall. I even place my hand on it.
“Denver, I’m here,” I say, a stream of tears dripping off my chin. “I’m not going to leave you.” I pick up his hand and hold it in mine. “I’m never going to leave you.” I wonder if Denver did the same when I was lying in the ICU. He didn’t know me at the time, but still, I imagine him holding my hand.
“It’s my turn to sit here and hold your hand. It’s my turn to take care of you like you did me. But you have to do your part, too. You have to wake up. You have to remember me. Please remember me, Denver. I can’t imagine loving anyone but you. And if you forget that you love me …” Sobs break up my words and I have to stop talking for a minute. “Please don’t forget. Please wake up.”
I remember the stupid videos we took that first night we were together. The declarations of our love. The promises of our future. I’m sure neither of us imagined one of us would need to be reminded—least of all him.
I carefully sit next to him on the bed, wanting to be as close to him as possible. I lean over and place my head on his heart. “Don’t make me bring in all my Beach Boys CDs. I’ll do it if I have to. You know I will.”
“Unnnngh,” I hear, causing me to sit up quickly.
“Denver?”
I see his eyes flutter open. He tries to gain focus. Then he reaches up and grabs his head. “Head hurts.”
“Denver …” I look into his eyes, trying to gauge if he remembers me. “Denver, do you know who I am?”
A nurse comes into the room. “Welcome back, Mr. Andrews,” she says.
I hop off the bed and let her tend to him. It’s like time stands still. He hasn’t answered my question and I can’t breathe until he does.
He looks around the room. Then he looks at me, terrified. “The boy,” he says.
“He’s okay,” I tell him. “You saved him.”
I’ve never seen a person look more relieved than he does right now. Except maybe me. Because if he remembers the boy, he remembers me. He remembers us.
“How long have I been here?” he asks.
“About two hours,” the nurse says. “You had us scared for a while. The doctor will be in to see you shortly.”
I sit down in the chair next to the bed and close my eyes, saying a silent prayer of thanks.
Denver reaches over and grabs my hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart.”
I smile through my tears. But I can’t get any words past the lump in my throat.
“Sara, it’s okay. I’m okay.”
I nod over and over. I want to tell him he’s okay this time, but what about next time? I want to ask him how I’m supposed to deal with him going back to work when I know this could happen again. I want to tell him he can’t go back to work—that I forbid it.
But I don’t say a word. I can’t.
Denver would never tell me I couldn’
t paint again. Because he knows that’s what I love. Being a firefighter is who he is, and according to his friends, he’s quickly becoming one of the best ones in the city. What kind of person would I be if I asked him to give that up? Or if I gave him an ultimatum?
No, I can’t say anything. We’re together because he’s a firefighter. And there is a little boy who’s alive because of him. If Denver hadn’t been there, that boy might have died. How many other people will die if Denver isn’t around to save them?
“Sara, sweetheart, are you okay?”
I crawl up on the bed and lie next to him. “I’m okay. As long as you’re with me, I’m okay.”
He wipes my tears away. “I love you.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and hit record. “I’m going to need you to say that again.”
Chapter Thirty-four
“As you know, Mr. Andrews, you have a concussion,” the doctor says. “I’m benching you for four weeks minimum. After two weeks’ rest, you’re free to do desk duty, but you’ll have to be cleared by me or another physician before you can go back on the truck.”
“Got it,” Denver says, shaking the doctor’s hand.
The doctor looks at him strangely. “What? No argument? Usually, I’m met with tons of flak when I bench firefighters.”
Denver looks at me and then back at the doctor. “You won’t get any arguments here,” he says. “I know things could have been a lot worse. Plus, you’ve just told me I need to spend the next two weeks in bed.” He winks at me.
“Resting,” the doctor says, laughing. “The nurse will be in to discharge you shortly.”
“Thank you,” Denver says.
After the doctor leaves, I help Denver get dressed in the fresh clothes I brought him this morning when I went home to take a quick shower.
“You look exhausted,” he says. “I wish you would have gone home last night.”
“Denver, you are in the hospital with a head injury. Staying one night with you was the least I could do after everything you did for me.”
“Were you able to find out more information on the boy?”
Sparking Sara (The Men on Fire Series) Page 27