The Dating Charade

by Melissa Ferguson

  Nick immediately knelt down.

  Ferraro yelled to Jett as they heard the roof crush several more inches. He grabbed at Jett’s shirt. “It’s not going to hold, Bentley. Wait for the jaws!”

  But one glance over to the fire truck still five cars back was enough confirmation. Jett shook his head.

  Ferraro gripped his shirt harder, watching the roof with his calculating gaze. There was pain, but steadiness, in his words. “That’s an order, son.”

  Jett blinked. Shifted his gaze. Saw the window and the crumbling roof and the menacing cab overheard. Saw it for a split second as Ferraro did.

  And threw the arm of his captain off him.

  “That’s my family,” he said and squeezed his upper body through the window.

  His head pressed against the roof as he reached beyond the two car seats for Timothy. He reached blindly for the car-seat buckles.

  Felt one click.

  Then another.

  A second later he tore Timothy’s body out of the seat.

  He felt his own waist bending under the weight of another deadly creak. There was no room left between his body and the door, not an inch, not a millimeter. It was now, with everything he had, or never.

  Knifelike scrapes cut from his naval to his neck as he threw his body backward, not daring to stop, to slow down.

  And then he was free. He stumbled back, cracked the back of his head against the pavement.

  Silence.

  His hands shook as he sat up. As he pulled Timothy up to eye level.

  With relief beyond words, he watched Timothy open his mouth as the blood-curling screams began.

  People pulled him up, but Jett just fell to his knees beside Dakota. He searched Nick’s face for any clues, then dropped his head to Dakota’s chest, his ear pressed to her heart.

  He felt it.

  The quiet rise.

  The quiet fall.

  Sirens closed in on them as the minutes passed. But he just sat there on the ground, one arm wrapped around Timothy, the other hand clasped around Dakota’s small fingers.

  Watched as two stretchers made snaking paths through the crowd.

  As the boots of those in uniform circled Dakota and stopped.

  As they lifted her.

  The second stretcher passed carrying Trina. His eyes strained to take in his sister’s injuries, then ripped away, unable to bear the pain of seeing them all. Another man in uniform walked beside the limping truck driver clutching his arm. Two more covered the body of another with a white sheet.

  “Make way,” a woman said, gripping the stretcher with one hand and waving as it began to move.

  Holding tightly to Drew and Timothy, his own chest ripped and bleeding, he followed.

  23

  Cassie

  It was the most incredible thing she’d experienced in her life.

  Driving along the highway, mind halfway on the same muddled, melancholy thoughts she’d had the past month and a half since she’d walked away from Jett, since the girls had walked away from her, since everything she’d clung to collapsed. Brain suddenly snapping to attention as she noticed the car several vehicles ahead. The car swerving like an ice skater, gliding back and forth across white and yellow lines without regard. Swinging close, dangerously close, to the edge of the road. To the creek. Cassie had exhaled just about then, started to consider reaching for her phone to call the police.

  Her foot eased on the gas, giving space between herself and the cars ahead.

  She could recall holding the phone in her hand when she watched the car suddenly pass over the lines again, this time not stopping as it swerved into an oncoming truck.

  An echo of screeches followed down the highway as she and everyone else slammed on their brakes. She heard the unmistakable collision of cars around her. But none of it matched the terror of seeing the looming semi swerve, tilt, and, almost as if in slow motion, topple across the highway. She could never erase the sound of what must have been eighty thousand pounds crashing, skidding until its mighty wheels dug into the side of the mountain.

  Silence. Terrible silence followed.

  Her legs had begun to quake so much she threw her car into Park, unable to trust her foot on the brake. She pressed her hand to her mouth, eyes widening as she saw the small car being crushed underneath.

  She and everyone else, it seemed, waited. Motionless. Hearing the sirens growing in strength every moment.

  And then, quite out of nowhere, there he was. His jacket whacked against her window as he ran past.

  Without even realizing what she was doing, she gripped her steering wheel, watching him rip off his helmet. Saw the sweat of his forehead sparkle like crystal dewdrops. Heard the window cracking. And before her next breath he was pulling out a toddler, a little boy hardly more than two or three. The boy was thrown into the arms of another firefighter as Jett reached in again. She held her breath, eyes unblinking. The roof was crumbling before her very eyes as her grip on the steering wheel tightened like a python. The bloody little girl in her pajamas, her head against Jett’s chest, limp legs. Barefoot toes. And then, one more time, unbelievably, he dove inside.

  Her eyes jumped from the precariously perched cab to his legs, terrified, dreading every second he didn’t move. There was a flurry of activity all around them, the fire truck at her ears now screaming at her to move, and she threw her car into Drive. As she pushed her way to the embankment, her eyes never left the scene, bated breath starting to make her head swim.

  And then, with the shakiest intake of air, she saw Jett emerge. Watched feet so small they could fit in the palm of her hand kicking.

  One minute later, the cab crushed the backside of the car entirely.

  Jett was a hero.

  She’d known that every day since their argument that she hadn’t called him was a mistake, but the thing she didn’t realize until watching him firsthand was that he was a hero. A bona fide hero.

  And she couldn’t let him go.

  Pulling herself back to the present, Cassie shook out the pink tablecloth and threw it across the Ping-Pong table, shaking out her thoughts as she did so.

  Meanwhile, Bree, with crossed arms, stared at her as though she’d watched every bit of Cassie’s playback reel. “Listen, if you don’t call him, I’m going to. I’ll marry him myself, Cassandra Everson.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “With the story you’ve told me three hundred times? Oh, indeed I would. And make you my maid of honor. So call him. Now.” Bree turned back to the storage closet and threw the door open. When she emerged, she was carrying a stack of cups four feet high. “I’ll get the ice and tea while you call him.”

  Oh, she planned to.

  At the perfect moment.

  Cassie split the cups and arranged them on the table. Then gave a look around the game room of the Haven, which the Leadership Club was transforming in a matter of hours into the Valentine’s Dance venue of the century. Bailey and Keely were pushing the beanbags to the corner of the movie area. Savannah draped pink streamers across the line of computers. Caden stood in the corner, playing with Cassie’s phone—or rather, playlist—where it was hooked up to one of the large, borrowed speakers.

  Star, as she was always so keenly aware, was nowhere to be seen.

  For the past seven years she’d watched for the magic minute when the girls left their schools and made their way to the Haven. At the window, at 2:15 p.m. every day, she’d waited for them to come. Like the rumblings of thunder before a heavy storm, she and her staff would feel the anticipation, the shake, before the magic minute struck. The sudden rush at the computer to finish that report, to send that e-mail, to put the finishing touches on that flyer. The dash to the coffee station for a refill, because it very well could be the last calm moment for the rest of the day.

  Often Cassie couldn’t stand it any longer and would step out the front door with her fresh mug, beckoned by the distant sound of the final school bell.

  And oh
, how they came. To passing cars, the steady stream of kids walking along the sidewalk from the schools meant nothing more than keeping an eye out for flying skateboards and mischievously tossed cans. But to Cassie it was seeing the march of forty-eight flames, each licking the air with its own spectacularly colored blaze.

  Where was Star’s blaze at that minute?

  How bright was the light she was giving off somewhere in that town of Spartanburg, South Carolina?

  Did whoever saw it appreciate it? Did they care?

  Of everything that had happened that Christmas celebration morning, that was the most painful part of all.

  She hadn’t just lost the chance at being a mother. She’d lost a dear friend as well.

  Bree and her mother had been understanding the past couple of months. Bree, specifically, had eventually realized the depth of her grieving and dialed down her snarky charm, letting Cassie embrace the time of mourning she had needed. Calmly taking the pink bow from her hand when Cassie found it beneath the recliner. Dragging her out to dinner when the house was so quiet it threatened to swallow her whole.

  Cassie was grieving. Would grieve.

  But what Bree didn’t know was that Cassie was now ready. Not ready to move on from them, because she never would. But ready to make something else right in her life.

  Everybody paused, hearing the tires turn into the parking lot. Cassie moved up to the window, watched one of her staff slide open the van door.

  “It’s time, everyone!” Cassie called over the room, cutting the overhead lights. The disco ball spun as can lights spotlighted it. “Hit the music, Caden. Let’s go get them.”

  One by one, elderly men and women walked into the game room, each accompanied at the elbow by one of the girl leaders. Cassie stood at the door, greeting each one with a carnation corsage for the ladies and a boutonniere for the men. Meanwhile, she kept an eye on the parking lot.

  When she saw Edie and Donna Gene through the window, abandoning walkers to steal into the arms of helpful gentlemen, Cassie’s attention averted from the boutonniere she was pinning. A yelp brought her back.

  “So sorry, sir.” Cassie gave a distracted pat on the elderly gentleman’s shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” Bree peered out the window.

  Cassie’s lips drew up in a sly grin.

  Bree looked from her to the window to her again. Even with a pitcher of tea in her hand, she pumped the air. “At last! My scheming girl returns.”

  Donna Gene lifted the collar of a luxurious, plum-colored, floor-length evening coat, held onto the arm of her date, and winked at Cassie as she passed. Edie threw the head of one of the poor minks, strung together in a stole, over her shoulder.

  “Ah. Bringing in the big guns,” Bree said, watching them pass. “I already like this plan.”

  Music quieted while the teens gave a welcome speech, then came on again for the few willing to brave the pink glow of the dance floor.

  And, then, while everyone mingled around tables, Donna Gene and Edie stole the floor.

  Seniors bobbed their heads to “The Twist” while Donna Gene grabbed the hand of her date and twisted her way onto the floor. The girls especially cheered, several lifting their arms and clapping while Donna Gene swung her knees back and forth to the rock song. A moment later and she was unbuttoning her coat, dropping it beside her. One girl went to pick it up, but Donna Gene dropped a foot on it, continuing to twist.

  And here we go . . .

  Cassie felt herself clutching her hands together, hoping Donna could pull off her stunt as confidently as she claimed.

  Suddenly, one knee buckled against another and she rocked sideways. Slowly, slowly, slowly, she toppled to her side on the floor. And, most conveniently, onto a very comfortable coat.

  Everybody gasped. Caden cut the music.

  Cassie threw her hands into the air as she strode forward. “Oh no,” she said loudly and, to her own ears, a bit theatrically. “We’re going to have to call somebody.”

  “We can help her up,” someone said, and several teens and men gathered around.

  “No, I don’t think you’re supposed to touch her,” Cassie added swiftly, standing in front of the crowd. “I’m pretty sure there’s something about that in first aid . . . leave it to the medical professionals . . .”

  “Nonsense,” an elderly man replied, his smile friendly and dentures pearly white as he reached down for Donna’s elbow. “The things classes teach these days. You’d think they wanted us to believe we were as smart as a sack of potatoes. You’re alright, aren’t you, ma’am?”

  Donna looked into his eyes and faltered momentarily, a dazed smile spreading across her face. “Oh, yes . . .” Suddenly she was placing her elbow on the ground and resting her head on her hand like she was posing for some beach magazine. The woman practically started batting her eyelashes.

  Cassie coughed loudly.

  “You can always try with those nice strong arms of yours . . .” Donna was saying.

  Cassie coughed again, and Donna snapped back to attention.

  Several hands grabbed onto her arms and shoulders, simultaneously working to raise her up. She lifted several inches.

  “Oooh. It’s no use.” Donna fell back to her side.

  “No problem. Let’s try again,” the man soothed.

  They grabbed her again and began to lift. Cassie watched as Donna’s body tightened, her face puckering.

  “It feels almost like—you’re pulling against us,” someone commented between grunts.

  “Oooh.” Donna pulled her arm back and let herself fall to the ground. “Oh dear. I’m really, really stuck.”

  Cassie began pulling the hands off. “I think it’s time we call the professionals.”

  “Are you sure?” the man said. “I think if we just—”

  “No, it’s no use,” Cassie snapped back quickly. “No use at all. Isn’t that right, Ms. Donna?”

  “Absolutely.” Donna Gene turned deeper onto her side, hiding one of her arms beneath her while flailing the other like a shored-up fish.

  “Ma’am, if you could just—give us your arm . . .”

  Swiftly, Cassie dialed 911.

  “Nine-one-one operator. What is your emergency?”

  “Hi. We have an elderly woman here who has fallen down.”

  “We got her up, Miss C! We got her—” Caden called out. The floor shook. “Oh . . . no, wait.”

  “State your address, please.”

  “Girls Haven. 109 East Cedar Street.”

  Cassie rattled off the rest of the answers to the operator’s questions while Donna did everything she could to push the unruly, helpful citizens off and to stay down. By the time Cassie saw the fire station’s response vehicle slow to a stop on the side of the road, Edie was beating people off with the heads of her mink stole.

  “Go get ’em.” Bree slapped Cassie on the backside. Cassie stumbled in the pink stilettos that, in any other circumstance, she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.

  Well, well, well. How the tide had turned. Cassie worked to walk smoothly as she moved onto the same sidewalk Jett had met her on those months ago. Back then she had been the unknowing one, his offer of a night on the town received with as much gusto as if he was offering to pull a tooth. Tonight, Jett was the uninformed one. Tonight, it was her turn to ask for that chance.

  In a very convenient, roundabout way.

  Was she sweating?

  As inconspicuously as possible, she began flapping her pink cardigan.

  She closed in on the ambulance, the engine still humming. Rapped twice on the glass. Took a breath.

  She had this moment memorized. A startled look as she told him how surprised she was to see him. A light joke about how she guessed he couldn’t escape Donna Gene. It was good to see him. How had he been?

  Wait. Pray. Hope he turned the conversation into a tread upon fresh waters.

  Through the darkness of the interior cab she watched two people separate. A woman brushed
quickly at her bangs as the window went down.

  Cassie’s mouth opened. Shut. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

  The man, most definitely not Jett, waved her off quickly. “Oh, no, no, no. We were just . . . training.” He threw an arm back. “And you see, Sarah, in situations like this, you may need to use the head-immobilization device, for stabilizing the head—” He motioned to his own. “—and keeping the neck secure.” His hands went up and down his own neck as though she needed the visual. “We also might need an Entonox Analgesic Apparatus, or what I like to term happy gas.”

  Two seconds in she recognized his voice as the Haven’s very own Santa visitor. Sunny, Jett’s roommate. And just one of her many failed dates.

  “I think some of your trainee’s lip gloss got on your face there. Somehow. Accidentally.” Cassie rubbed at her own cheek.

  Sunny grinned, rubbing the shimmering red spot from his cheek.

  “So . . . Where’s Jett?”

  But Sunny just shrugged, a meaningful smile—of what, she didn’t know—rising. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Like everybody else around here, he’s got a date.”

  “Oh.” Cassie shifted her weight, suddenly very uncomfortable in her heels. “Okay, then. Thanks.”

  Sunny called after her. “Wait. You guys need me in there?”

  She waved him off. “No, we got it.”

  She turned her face back swiftly, unable to bear the pity in the other woman’s eyes.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Cassie,” Sunny called.

  So he remembered her after all.

  “You . . . too.”

  Crossing her arms tightly over her chest, she strode as quickly as she could across the sidewalk, averting her gaze from the sneaky, shadowy figures of Bree and several teens at her office window.

  Jett had moved on.

  Of course. What should she have expected?

  The helium in her balloon of enthusiasm had depleted almost entirely by the time she yanked open the front doors and let herself back inside.

  She shook her head to Donna Gene across the room.

  Donna Gene frowned. Gave a single, white-flag sort of nod.

  Then, to everyone’s amazement, she rolled onto her side and stood with the agility of a yoga instructor.