by Paula Cox
Wait, I say. No, only think I say. I open my mouth to speak but it’s dry and my tongue doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. He’s just a creep. He’s not a bomb-maker. Sure, he’s weird. But that doesn’t mean he’s the one who planted the bomb! But all of this sounds only inside my own head.
“Let go of me,” Carl mutters, trying to pull his arm away.
“You’re living in a dreamland if you think that’s happening,” Brody grunts. “Who knows how many nights you’ve spent lurking outside her apartment building? And you were there when the Coffee Joint set on fire. Do you really think you’re not a suspect? You were at the sight of two fires.” Brody shakes his head. “It’s damn suspicious.”
“Why would I blow up my girlfriend’s apartment?”
I’m not your girlfriend . . .
But I’m floating, faraway, watching events as though through a telescope. My apartment is burning. I repeat it inside my head. My apartment is burning. But it still doesn’t seem real. I live a normal life. I work as a barista. Things like this don’t happen to baristas. They happen to secret agents and soldiers, but not to baristas. It doesn’t seem real, not in the least. The flames make loud hissing noises, but they might as well be the hissing from a TV set. This could all be a movie and it would seem as real as it does now.
“She’s not your girlfriend,” Brody says. “You’re psychotic. You’re deluded. You’re exactly the sort of guy who would become an arsonist for your own messed up reasons. And you’re not going anywhere.”
“Let me go!” Carl snarls, trying to yank his body away. Brody holds onto him without moving an inch, as though he is carved from steel. “Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!”
“It wasn’t him,” I say, but my voice comes out in a whisper. My body feels heavy, weighted down. Shock surges through every single one of my nerves, freezing me. I take a step back, leaning against the wall of the apartment complex opposite mine. “He’s just a creep . . . but he’s harmless . . . would never hurt anybody . . . just a creep . . .” My words come out quieter and quieter and I can’t do anything but watch the scene unfold in front of me.
“Let me go!” Carl screeches.
He throws his entire body, like a fish out of water, flopping wildly. Brody is taken by surprise and Carl manages to slip his hand free. He immediately ducks his head and begins sprinting down the street. With a snarl, Brody leaps after him. Carl is slow and Brody is lightning-quick. In three large bounds Brody catches up with him and tackles him to the floor, wrapping his arms around Carl’s waist and dragging him to the concrete.
“Don’t fuck with me, man,” Brody snaps, dragging Carl to his feet by the scruff of his coat. “Seriously. Darla could’ve been in there. She could’ve died. Now isn’t the time to fuck with me.”
“But it wasn’t him! I’m sure of it! He wouldn’t do that! He’s just a weirdo!”
But nobody listens to me. The crowd watches as Brody drags Carl back into the huddle. I speak again, try to tell everybody that Carl must be innocent. I have never seen anything that would make me think he’s capable of something like this. But my words come out soft, raspy, and before I know it ambulances, police cars, and a fire engine fill the street outside my apartment.
The firefighters take out their hoses and their suits and start fighting the fire. The police approach Brody and Carl. And a kind-faced grey-haired paramedic takes me by the elbow and leads me to the back of an ambulance. I sit on a soft cushion and look into the woman’s face.
“You’re not harmed physically, sweetheart,” the paramedic says, shining a small flashlight into my eyes. “But you are in shock. Was it your apartment? Yes, that and the noise and the surprise of it all has gotten to you, hasn’t it? Yes. I can imagine. It’s a horrid thing. Yes. Horrid indeed. Yes.”
“It wasn’t him,” I mutter.
She goes on as though I haven’t spoken.
“You’re in shock,” she says. “We don’t need to take you to the hospital, unless you want to go? The best thing for you to do would be to relax and calm down. I know that’s easier said than done under the circumstances . . . Do you have anybody you can stay with?”
“She can stay with me.” Brody appears at the paramedic’s shoulder.
All at once, I forget about Carl and the fire and I’m just glad that Brody is here.
I stand up on shaky legs and throw myself into Brody’s arms. He embraces me, holding me close.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, rubbing the back of my head softly. “It’s okay. I’ll take you home. I’ll take care of you. Hush, now. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Is this really Brody? I think, eyes heavy. Is this really the jerk who swaggered into the Coffee Joint and told me I needed to work on my appearance?
Chapter Twenty
Darla
Brody’s apartment is a large two-bedroom with a modern look about it. Sleek counters in the kitchen and a leather couch in the living room. There are few photographs on the wall, the only ones being group photos with his firefighter friends. A few items of clothes lay strewn on the floor, just like in my place, and the centerpiece of the living room is a large flat-screen TV. It’s a bachelor pad, I think.
Brody handles me more gently than I ever would’ve given him credit for. He leads me into the apartment by the elbow, his touch soft.
“I think you’re still in shock,” he says. He sits me on the couch and places his hand on my chest. “But your heartbeat is slowing down. You’ll be okay. The paramedic wouldn’t have sent you home if it was acute, or anything to get really worried about. You look tired.”
“I am tired,” I whisper. I hear sobs enter my voice and I fight them away. I don’t want to cry. I hate crying. But it’s like all the madness of my apartment becoming a ball of flame is hitting me now, in this moment. The aftermath was numbed, the journey here was numbed, but now the numbness is gone and I’m truly feeling it. I bow my head, trying to push the sobs away. But I lose the battle and they explode out of me in rasping coughs.
“It’s okay, Darla. Everything will be okay.”
Brody wraps his arms around me and pulls my face into his shirt. I cry without pause for what feels like an hour, but when I glance at the clock I see it’s only been ten minutes. The sun hasn’t set yet and I realize the whole ordeal has probably only taken around forty-five minutes. Strange how an entire life can be thrown into mayhem in forty-five minutes.
When the tears stop, Brody strokes my forehead with his hand. “You’re not too hot,” he says. “But you need to drink as much water as possible. Wait here.”
He goes into the kitchen and returns with a huge jug of water and a glass. He pours me a glass and hands it to me. I take it with a trembling hand and bring it to my lips. The water is like manna from heaven in my throat, cooling it, curing it. I lick my lips, only realizing now how dry they are. I drain the glass and hold it out to Brody for a refill. He fills it to the brim again and I take another long sip.
“What do you want?” he asks. “Anything I can do, Darla. Anything at all. Just let me know.”
“A bath,” I mutter. “I feel dirty. I feel like there’s smoke all over me, smoke and fire. Yes, a bath.”
He kisses me on the cheek. “Your wish is my command,” he grins.
A blanket is draped over the back of the couch. Brody leans over, takes it, and drapes it over my shoulders. “It might smell of me,” he warns.
I tug it tight around me, breathing in the scent of Brody, manly and rugged. I hug it even tighter until I feel as though I am cocooned. Cocooned and safe from the world. Hidden away with Brody to take care of me. I take deep, steady breaths, calming myself. Brody goes into the bathroom and I hear the bath running. I think of the warm water, desperate for it to wash away the dirt and the grime. Whether or not I am really coated in dirt and grime is of no concern to me. I feel as though I am, and that is enough.
A few minutes later, Brody returns, takes me by the hand, and leads me into the bathroom.
>
“I’ll sit with you,” he says. “Probably not a good idea to leave you on your own.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He helps me undress and lowers me into the bath. I lie down in it, letting the water wash over me, and then I hold my breath and dunk my head. When I emerge, I feel cleaner and more awake. I look across at Brody, who sits on the toilet seat, watching me. Is this really the same man? I think. I’m awed by this gentle side to him. I knew Brody wasn’t as cut-and-dry as he seemed, but this is something else. I feel as though I am in the presence of a different man entirely.
He must read my thoughts on my face. He winces, and then laughs softly. “I’m not going to worry about being the big bad firefighter when you need me, Darla,” he says. “Do you want me to help you wash?”
I nod. “Yes, please. My arms feel so weak.”
“You need sleep,” Brody says, kneeling down next to the bath tub. He takes a plastic cup, scoops up the water, and pours it over my head. I close my eyes and let the warm water drift down my cheeks. “Don’t forget. This happened at the end of the day. You were probably already wiped from looking for work all day.”
“That’s true,” I say. “I feel like I’m weighed down with chains or something. It’s strange.”
“Well, this has been a strange night. Don’t think about it too much. You’re safe now. I’m going to keep you that way.”
I wipe water from my eyes and turn to him. His face is still Brody’s face. His body is still Brody’s body. But there’s something different. It takes me a moment to put my finger on it, and then I realize.
He’s opening himself up to me more than he ever has before.
He’s showing me his gentle side.
He’s proving that he’s much more than the arrogant jerk fireman.
“Thank you,” I say.
He takes my hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses my palm.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Darla
Brody lifts me out of the bathtub and wraps a towel around my shoulders.
I stand on the tiles for a long time, staring at the steamed-up mirror and trying to sort the events in my mind. But they seem vague and disoriented, like they happened to someone else, someplace else, far away from here. Surely it couldn’t have happened to me. No way, my apartment didn’t explode. Someone didn’t plant a bomb at my place. That’s ridiculous! That’s the sort of thing that happens to women in moves, not in real life! And yet here I stand, naked and dripping, with Brody in front of me.
“It really happened, didn’t it?” I ask him.
He nods shortly. “Unfortunately, it did.”
I rub myself with the towel, drying myself off. “Since when did the world get so crazy?” I say.
Brody laughs darkly. “The world’s always been crazy, Darla. You see some crazy shit as a firefighter. Ex-boyfriends who go off the rails and decide to set fire to their ex-girlfriend’s house. Old women who you’d think are the picture of sweetness who suddenly get the urge to douse themselves in gasoline and . . .” He shakes his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t. The point is, the world is a crazy, fucked up place.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I can see that.”
“Wait here. I’ll get you some clothes. Don’t know how well they’ll fit, though.”
He leaves the room and straightaway my panicked, skittish mind goes into overdrive imagining that he’s going to bring me some woman’s clothes. That’s why he hasn’t wanted to see me this past week, my clawing mind reasons. He’s been with some woman and now he’s going to give me her clothes. He’s going to act like it’s no big deal as he walks in with her jeans and a t-shirt, maybe even some of her underwear. Don’t know how well they’ll fit . . . Because this girl is even skinnier than me, even shorter, even more petite; that’s the word men use, isn’t it? My heart pounds in my ears.
But when he walks into the room, I see he’s holding one of his shirts and a pair of sweatpants. Boxer briefs are thrown over his shoulder like a waiter’s dishcloth.
“What is it?” Brody says, stopping when he sees the expression on my face. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I say. I laugh, far more shrill than I mean to. When I hear the laugh, I think: That’s the laugh of an unhinged woman. That’s the laugh of somebody on the brink. “No,” I repeat, forcing some semblance of control into my voice. “No, everything’s alright.”
“Hmm.” Brody hands me the clothes.
I get dressed quickly. The clothes are baggy, but they’re warm and clean and dry. I feel as though I am swaddled in blankets.
“What was it?” Brody asks, as we walk into the living room.
I drop onto the couch. “Nothing,” I say.
“Darla, it wasn’t nothing,” he goes on, in a reasonable voice. “Maybe I haven’t known you for years. But in the time we’ve known each other, I feel like I’ve come to understand you pretty damn well. Maybe that’s my arrogance, eh?” He winks at me. I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, maybe that’s my arrogance, but I don’t think so. I really feel like I’ve gotten to know you. And when I walked into the bathroom just now, you looked like you’d just seen a ghost. Scratch that. You looked like you’d just seen the ghost of a rabid dog with knives for teeth. If there’s something wrong, you need to tell me. I might have to take you to the hospital.”
“No!” I say hurriedly. “No, it’s nothing to do with that.” I wince, let out a sigh. “It’ll make me sound crazy,” I admit.
“Crazier than I already think you are?” He nudges me playfully in the shoulder.
“Ha, ha,” I grunt, nudging him back.
“Tell me,” he says.
I roll my eyes. I tell him quickly, not pausing for breath.
When I’m done, I expect him to laugh. The old Brody would’ve laughed. He would’ve chuckled right in my face and told me that I had no right to question whether or not he’s had women in his apartment. He would’ve swaggered away from me and I never would’ve heard from him again. But this Brody—the Brody brought out by the fire and our closeness, the gentler Brody—doesn’t laugh. He takes my hand and looks into my eyes.
“There haven’t been any other women here since we started seeing each other,” he says.
I return his gaze. Look deep into his hazel eyes. I remember looking into these eyes before we knew more than each other’s name. I remember serving him coffee and sneaking a look and wondering what was behind them. Was it just arrogance? Was he a jerk down to his core? Or was there something else there? Looking into his eyes now, I’m sure there’s something else there. A bedrock of emotion from which the arrogance springs.
“And you’re telling the truth?” I ask.
He stokes his thumb along my knuckles. The sensation is sweet. It feels like safety. “Of course I’m telling the truth,” he says.
I swallow. He doesn’t sound like he’s lying. But he’s lied before, I think. Or was that a lie? He simply didn’t tell me. Does that count as a lie?
“What is it?” he says.
“I want to believe you,” I mutter.
“Then believe me,” he urges. “I’m telling the goddamn truth.”
“You’ve withheld something from me, Brody,” I say.
He flinches. “What?” he demands. “What have I withheld?”
“You were the one who saved me from the fire. You never told me.”
He winces, as though I’ve just struck him in the face, and then leans back on the couch. He withdraws his hand from mine and brings it to his face, massaging his eyes. Groaning, he shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter,” he says. “Why does it matter who got you out of there? You got out and that’s all that matters.”
“Of course it matters!” I cry, voice growing loud. “All this time we’ve been together, had sex, talked, watched movies, grown closer, and you never once told me that you were the one who saved me. How could that not matter?”
“You’re safe,” he says, ris
ing to his feet. He paces up and down in front of the couch. “That’s the most important thing.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say. “What possible reason could you have for not telling me?”
“Why would I tell you?” he counters. “If I told you, you might’ve started getting some hero-worshipping bullshit in your head. I didn’t plan on . . .” He swallows. “I didn’t plan on this being anything more than what I’m normally like with women, you know? I didn’t plan on being nice to you. I was going to be a jerk, through and through. And if I told you that I saved you like some goddamn Prince Charming, you might’ve started to see me differently. Gotten ideas into your head. But obviously that’s all changed now, anyway.”