I wasn’t ignoring him, exactly. I just had no idea what to say.
How could I put any of this into words?
The sight of him there, in the doorframe, felt like salvation. I wanted to grab onto him like a life preserver in an empty ocean.
Instead, I made myself keep treading water. If I stopped, I’d never start again.
“You can’t be here,” I said to him, like the threshold was some great barrier neither of us would ever cross.
“I need to talk to you.”
“I can’t. You know? It’s too much.”
“I know. You just got this stalker thing dealt with—I hope—and the last thing you need is me showing up like a pain in the ass.”
“It’s not that.”
“I just need to see you.”
I shook my head.
“Five minutes. Please.”
I’d been afraid to leave the house since finding out about my mom. Afraid she might … disappear, maybe. But she’d gone to bed for the night already—cranked up her white noise machine and closed her door. What was I going to do? Sit in the hallway and guard the stairs while she slept?
I could give Owen five minutes.
I hung the dish towel on the coat rack and stepped over the threshold.
Owen backed up less than he should have, and then there we were, standing way too close.
“What now?” I said.
“I just want to see you.”
I held my arms out like, Voilà.
“Can we just … talk? I have questions for you.”
“Fine,” I said, and started down the front walk. I didn’t even limp. I wondered if he’d forget about my ankle.
“How’s your ankle?” he asked then.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ve been off the crutches since yesterday.”
“Actually fine?” he asked. “Or firefighter fine?”
“Firefighter fine,” I conceded. “But it’s much better than it was. I’m being careful.”
“You’re limping a little.”
But I disagreed. “I’m not limping at all.”
“You’re walking gingerly, then.”
Funny to start with the ankle. It was the least of my worries now. “Next question.”
“Okay,” he said, following. “Tell me how your mom is.”
I took a deep breath. Then I just said it, fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “She has a brain tumor. That’s what caused the seizure. It’s a recurrence of melanoma. It’s malignant and very aggressive. She has a year to live at the most.”
The rookie had not been expecting that. He was quiet for a minute.
I intended to keep walking, but when I got to the garden gate, I slowed to a stop.
The rookie stopped beside me. “Did you know?” he asked, his voice softer.
“I didn’t know anything. She didn’t tell me. She actually told some fibs to throw me off. But I knew something wasn’t right.”
“How is she?”
“Weirdly, she’s okay most of the time.”
“How are you?”
My voice caught in my throat. I felt myself straighten and stiffen, like that might help. “I am struggling,” I said.
“Now you really need that hug,” Owen said.
Maybe I did. Somehow, though, it felt like that would make things worse. I shook my head at him. “Don’t hug me,” I said, and started walking again.
“Okay.”
We walked awhile without talking. Honestly, how could you follow that? Hell of a conversation killer.
So we didn’t talk, but Owen stayed right there with me. In this moment, given everything, it was better than talking.
After a good while, Owen asked, “Should I distract you? What can I do?”
“What were your other questions?”
“They all seem stupid now.”
“Ask me anyway.”
“Okay. Do you know how much you shocked the hell out of everybody on the course the other day?”
I smiled a little to myself. It seemed like a different life, but the memory of it felt strangely good. Like it broadened my perspective to remember other things that mattered.
“They can’t stop talking about it,” he said. “You’re a legend.”
“That works,” I said. “I’m good with ‘legend.’”
It felt like maybe that was it for his questions. We walked a little longer, until we made it out to the spot where the road ended and the rock jetty began, and then we sat on one of the benches there, at the turnaround at the end of the road, watching the evening sky over the water.
It did feel good to get out. The wind. The ocean. The stars. The universe. I was surprised how soothing it was to be in the presence of things greater than myself.
“I also wanted to tell you,” Owen said, after a while, “that I talked to my father. About the fire.”
I looked into his face for the first time since he’d arrived. “You did?”
He nodded. “We had a few beers first, but I told him everything.”
“I wasn’t pushing for that, you know.”
“I know. But it felt like the right thing to do.”
“How did he take it?”
“It was rough,” he said. “At first, he kept shaking his head and saying, ‘But there were only two boys.’ But I kept repeating that the witness had been wrong until it sank in. It stirred a lot up for him about my uncle. His voice got gruff, and his eyes got pretty red.”
“Was he angry?”
“I don’t think so. Though it can be kind of hard to tell with my dad.”
“What did he say?”
“Actually, I told him that I’d always worried I might have been the one who threw the matchbox. That I’d been trying to remember for twenty years if it was me or not. But he said no. He was there in the room when my friend Stevie gave his testimony, and Stevie described throwing the box. My dad remembered it specifically because what Stevie had said was so odd: He said that as soon as he lit it, he thought it looked like a flaming hedgehog. And then, the minute my dad said that, I remembered something: I saw a flash in my memory of Stevie throwing the box and shouting, ‘Hedgehog!’ It all came back.”
I let out a long sigh of relief. The rookie hadn’t thrown the box. He hadn’t started the fire—not directly, anyway. What inexpressible comfort he must have felt to know that.
“So now you know it wasn’t you,” I said.
He thought for a second. “I was still a part of the group. But it’s nice to know I didn’t actually throw the hedgehog.”
I pushed my hands down into my pockets and turned toward the water.
The rookie leaned toward me. “Anyway, thank you. I’ve done a lot of thinking about forgiveness since I talked to you that day. I’ve tried to come up with good things that came out of what happened, even as bad as it was.”
“And?”
“I’m starting to think maybe the aftermath of it all wound up shaping my life. In good ways, as well as bad. I couldn’t change the past, but with every choice going forward, I tried like hell to do the right thing.” He gave a little shrug. “It definitely forced me to define who I wanted to be.”
“And do you feel better?” I asked. “Since telling your dad?”
“I think so,” he said, nodding. “Although I still have one thing left I need to tell him.”
“What’s that?”
He hesitated a second, and then he said, “I’m quitting the fire department.”
Wait—what?
“I need to talk to my dad first, of course. He and my mom are down in Boston this week, but I’m planning to cook them dinner once they’re back and break the news. You know, delight them with some amazing meal, and then say, ‘That food in your belly? I want to do that all the time.’ Then I’ll make it official with the captain.”
I was still catching up. “Wait. You’re—what?”
He nodded. “You were right. I should be cooking.”
I was right? I didn’t want to be
right! That was the last thing I wanted—no matter how much I’d benefit. He was my favorite person in the firehouse. He might be my favorite person, period. Suddenly, words my captain in Austin had said to me flashed into my head: Find one person you can count on.
I took a step back. “Can’t you do both?” I asked. Most firefighters had two jobs. Some had three.
He shook his head.
I knew my reaction was totally irrational. We couldn’t both stay. If he stayed, if he fought for his position and won, then I would lose. Him leaving meant I could stay. It might well have been part of why he was doing it—to do something kind for me.
I knew all this in my head.
But, in the moment, given all the sadness that already surrounded me, all I could focus on was the leaving. My heart rate sped up. Was it panic? Was it anger? All I can say is, I just wasn’t sure I could take one more person leaving me.
Not today.
“I’m no good,” he said, giving me a look. “You know that.”
“You can practice!” I said. “You can work to get better!”
He shook his head. “I don’t think I want to get better.”
Really? He wasn’t even going to try? Hadn’t we become friends? Hadn’t we—I don’t know—come to matter to each other?
“Where will you go?” I asked. “Back to Boston?”
He gave a shrug, like he wasn’t sure.
I felt a sting in my chest, right behind my sternum. Owen was leaving. With the possible exception of the night I watched my mom drive off down our street, it was the sharpest feeling of abandonment I could ever remember.
But I’d never been comfortable with sorrow. I’d much rather be angry. So I just stood up and walked away, as fast as I could while still being careful of my ankle.
“Hey!” he said, following after me. “Where are you going?”
I kept walking. “It’s fine. Go to Boston.”
“I’m trying to help you!”
“I don’t need your help!”
“You of all people know I’m not right for this job,” he said, like there was some kind of logical argument to be made.
“That’s not a reason to quit. Is that who you want to be? A quitter? I’ve spent months trying to help you. I’ve got veins like Swiss cheese from all those sticks. I’ve taught you everything I know. But here’s something else I know. You can’t make people stay if they don’t want to. People leave all the time. They look around one day and say, ‘You know what? Never mind. I’m out.’ I certainly can’t stop you, and I’m sure as hell not going to try.”
“Hey,” Owen said, trying to grab my arm to turn me around.
I yanked my arm out of his grasp.
“Hey!” he said, trying again. “I’m not finished!”
I yanked away again. “I am.”
And then I took off running, ankle and all. He wanted to leave? Fine. I would leave harder.
But he took off running, too—right behind me. His feet smacked the pavement right behind mine. I sped up—or tried to, though I could tell my ankle wasn’t going to put up with it much longer. Was getting away worth reinjuring myself? Who cared? Good. Fine. Whatever.
That’s when Owen caught me. Reached out and grabbed the back of my T-shirt and broke my momentum—and as soon as he did, it was like snapping a rubber band. I stopped running altogether and turned to face him, right there in the middle of the road, panting.
“What?” I said, more like a yell.
“Cut it out! You’re going to sprain the other one.”
“I don’t care.”
He was panting, too. “Can I just talk to you?”
Here’s what I was doing: shutting down. When I watch that moment in my memory, knowing everything I know now, it seems so crazy to me how angry I was. He was trying to help me. He was making sure I could keep my job. He was giving me the thing I wanted most in the world.
Except the thing I really wanted most was him.
All I can say is, I wasn’t good at feelings. I’d spent my life carefully avoiding them. And now, since moving to Rockport, it had been one tidal wave of them after another—the crush, the kiss, the stalker, my mother … It’s easy to heckle the screen of my memory and say, Just let the man talk! But in the moment, I truly felt like I might drown in emotion—as all the feelings of loss and abandonment unleashed—and so I did the only thing I could think of to rescue myself, the thing I’d always done for all these years to stay safe …
I shut it down.
“No,” I said. “I have to go.”
“I just—”
“Nope,” I said, turning and striding back toward Diana’s front door. “I can’t.”
I expected him to follow me.
But he didn’t.
He let me go.
When I got to the door and pressed against it, gripping the handle, I turned halfway back, ready to tell him to leave again, and I was surprised to find myself all alone.
A second of relief—and then disappointment.
I turned farther, and I saw him walking away.
My shoulders sank.
I watched him unlock his truck and get in. I heard the ignition come on. And then he started driving off.
Good. Great.
But it didn’t feel better to be rid of him. It felt worse.
“Wait,” I whispered, staring after him, watching his taillights.
And then it was almost like he heard me.
His brake lights came on. And just stayed on.
I stepped away from the door to get a better look.
Then he was hooking a U-turn and driving back up the street toward me.
He stopped a few houses away and flipped off his lights, and before he’d even opened his door, I was moving through the garden and down the road to meet him. Ankle be damned.
I stopped when I got close.
He shut the truck door behind him, turned to face me, and then leaned back against it.
We faced off like that for a minute.
Finally, he said, “Did somebody hurt you, Cassie?”
I felt a flash of alarm, as if I’d been found out. “What?”
“The way you push me away,” he said, “it’s like you think other people are dangerous.”
“Other people are dangerous,” I said.
He waited for more, and when it didn’t come, he said, “So. Did somebody hurt you?”
My first idea was to say some tough-guy thing, like, “Please.” But that wasn’t going to work, because there were already tears on my face.
I’d already answered his question. There was no sense in pretending.
So, very slowly, I just nodded.
“Was it a guy?”
I nodded again.
“Was it bad?”
I nodded again.
And then he knew. All the pieces clicked into place for him, and he just knew.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“Good,” I said, wiping my cheeks with my palms.
In my whole life, there was nobody who knew, except maybe my old captain in Austin, and possibly—once they’d seen me beat the crap out of Heath Thompson—my old crew, and then, I guess, by extension, the entire ballroom of the city’s bravest who’d been in attendance that night.
Still, it felt like a milestone.
The rookie didn’t take his eyes off me. “Can I tell you something?”
“Okay.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Everybody hurts everybody,” I said, “eventually.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “I might do stupid things. I might forget to pick up milk at the grocery store, or step on your toe when I’m not looking, or do something I don’t even understand, like I just did tonight. But I’ll never be cruel to you. Not knowingly.”
No sense arguing. I knew that was true.
Then I did a crazy thing. I hugged him.
This wasn’t th
e first hug I’d initiated lately—I’d given quite a record number to Diana and Josie in the past few days—but it was the first hug I could remember in years that I wanted for myself. Something about the expanse of his chest, so close to where I was standing, looked so solid and reassuring—and like a place I just wanted to be. I leaned in to rest my head against it, and the rest of me just followed.
We leaned against the car like that for a good while. I listened to his heartbeat, and his breathing.
Then, through his chest, I heard his muffled voice. “And there’s one more thing.”
I lifted my head, stepped back a little to see his face.
He took a deep breath, like he wasn’t even sure where he was headed. Then he said, “I am in love with you.”
I don’t know what I was expecting—but I promise this wasn’t it.
He went on. “It’s bad. And that kiss that night—it only made things worse. That’s why I’m quitting—partly, anyway. It’s that bad. It’s made things kind of unbearable for me at the station. I suspect you’ve known all along. It must have made you so angry. You’re there to do a job—and you’ve got this house full of guys who underestimate you like every minute of the day—and the last thing you need is some rookie mooning over you.”
Now he was making me smile. “Mooning?”
“Pretty much.”
“Since when?”
He met my eyes. “Since the first day.”
“The first day?” I asked. “The first day at the station?”
He nodded.
“The day they sprayed you with the hose?”
He nodded again.
Holy shit.
He went on. “Nothing would ever happen. Of course. I wasn’t ever even going to tell you about it. Can you imagine the guys? If they even suspected—even if you didn’t condone it or even know—they’d give you endless shit about it. They’d make the firehouse a living hell. For both of us. Right?”
“Right,” I said.
“So I had to stamp it out. Or hide it so well nobody would ever guess.”
I kept my voice cool. “I did not guess.”
“I was doing okay,” he said. “I was really working on it.”
“Working on what?”
“Um,” he said. “On not letting myself talk to you except when absolutely necessary. Not touching you unless forced by the captain. Not following you around. Not asking for advice. Not, you know, staring at you longingly—or even stealing glances the way I might’ve if I were the only person at stake. And just basically trying not to even think about you.” He gave a little shrug. “Failing most of the time on that one, but genuinely trying.”
Things You Save in a Fire Page 22