Caught in the Flames (27 page)

“What did you do?” I whisper and lean forward over the table.

“I slapped him!”

“What?”

“He was married,” she explains.

“But you loved him!”

“He wasn’t mine.” She glances out the window and I wonder what she sees. I imagine it’s more than just the burnt orange and red leaves that fall from the branches of the large oak. “He came over the next day. Refused to apologize. Proclaimed his love. Things had been bad between him and Sharon for years. He was in love with me. Said he was going to leave her. But we got in a big fight. I didn’t want to be the other woman, we hadn’t even slept together, but somehow I already was. I was angry, ashamed and scared things would never work between us anyway. I ended things. Everything. Our friendship. I couldn’t do it, wouldn’t be the cause for breaking up a marriage.

“We didn’t talk or see each other for months. I threw myself into my work. Creating. Painting. Writing. It helped with the pain. But when I ran into his wife, Sharon, at the market and she was noticeably pregnant, I lost my mind a little. I never intended to have him, but just knowing he had another child on the way, it solidified that I’d be alone, without my epic love, for the rest of time.” At that she stands and refills her cup.

“Kiki, this story sucks. Please tell me that’s not the end.”

“No, dear, that wouldn’t be much of a love story, now would it. More?” She nods to my cup and I push it forward, refraining from rolling my eyes. It’s as if she’s forgotten who I am. Always yes to coffee.

“Well, it turns out Sharon had been pretty miserable as well. They were young when they married, and the stress of the job, time, me, and everything brought to light how much they weren’t meant for each other. She was six months pregnant with their daughter when Phil caught her in bed with his best friend.”

“Oh, my God! Kiki, that’s horrible!”

“Yes, Phil was livid. He drove straight here. It was the first time we’d spoken in five months and he showed up at my door, angrier than I’d ever seen a man before. You see, he wasn’t mad Sharon cheated, but because of all the years he wasted with her. In love with me and denying himself a full, loving, honest relationship because of his obligation to someone who never valued him anyway.”

“So, what happened?” My heart hammers in my throat. I can taste the pain, the betrayal, but also the hope. I need to know Kiki got her happy ever after.

“They divorced, and as soon as it was finalized he married me. But you see, everyone already saw me as the other woman, and people believe what they want no matter the facts. He took a lot of grief, was passed up on promotions . . .

“I always suspected the child wasn’t his, at least the youngest, but my Phil was a good man, even after being treated so poorly. He supported them financially. He felt it the right thing to do. But their mother fed the children horrible lies, and they didn’t have much of a relationship with their father. Besides, she remarried right away—the best friend, actually—and they had a new dad.

“It tore me up, because as strong as he was, and as much as he and I were in love, I know he missed out. He would have been an incredible father had Sharon let him be involved in their lives. He never complained, though. Never displaced any resentment or bitterness toward me. Even on the day he passed on, we were more in love than the day we met.”

“You got your epic love.”

“I surely did.”

We sit in silence, the afternoon sun shining brightly through the big window, and finish our drinks.

“And you’ll have yours,” Kiki adds warmly.

“What’s that?”

“An epic love. Surely it’s coming for you, my sweet Callie, dear. You just don’t see it yet.” I want to laugh at her words but her tone, it catches the sound right from my throat and I want to believe her. She nods. “Now, when will you get started on painting the shed?” She raises her brows and tilts her head toward the door. I do laugh this time, a deep and solid guffaw from the pit of my belly.

God, I love this woman.

I love working from home.

No rush hour. No mileage on the car, money wasted on gas, travel time. And really, who needs to dress, put on makeup, and blow dry her hair every day? It’s all precious time that adds up. But I’m starting to wonder if it’s creating some bad habits.

For example, I can’t remember if I brushed my teeth today. And I know I never tamed my curls. An open cereal box lies on its side and I grab a handful of the sugar coated oats with my left hand to pop in my mouth. With my right I upload to our client’s server the web design my boss just approved.

It’s eleven in the morning on a Thursday and this is pretty much my life. I’ll work on projects my boss sends me until it gets dark. Then I’ll make dinner. Order out if I want to treat myself. Spend the rest of the evening streaming reruns of
Friends
. Fall asleep and do it over again. It’s a good life. It shouldn’t feel lacking. Maybe a little sad, okay. But why does it feel so incomplete? I refuse to ponder the question long enough to answer.

The only variation of the week happens on Saturdays and Sundays when I actually shower and put on a bra to work on Kiki Callahan’s yard. And thank God for that, otherwise I’m not sure I’d remember to shower once a week. I’m pathetic.

Ping.

I scan the new email from Jim. A thank you for the stellar job on my execution of design for our client. An assignment for branding on a new client. I click on the attachment and read up. I love this aspect of my job. The ability to create. The challenge to meet and exceed expectations. If the research is done correctly, I almost always exceed.

Halfway through the document I lean back in the chair and stretch my legs. I inhale and that’s when I catch the faint acrid odor of something burning. I sniff the air a few times. Yep. Definitely something. Maybe a neighbor? But who starts a bonfire mid-week and mid-morning. I stand and glance out the window off the kitchen table.

Oh shit!

Thick black smoke billows from the south corner of my house. Fire! Maybe it’s contained outside? My eyes dart around the room and when I look up I notice it’s a little hazy in here.
Fuck!
My house is on fire! I snap my laptop shut and grab my purse as I run outside.

Maybe it’s all those years of elementary school fire drills, but I don’t poke around to try and find the fire’s source. I just get out and toss my belongings in my Jeep. Cell in hand, I know what I have to do. God, I don’t want to call them.

I hate firemen.

I can’t stand their cocky as hell, arrogant, self-absorbed, oh-look-at-me I-can climb-ladders-and-play-with-my-hose Goddamn attitudes. As if putting your life on the line and saving people on a daily basis gives you the right to do whatever the hell you want?

Which is why I’m standing outside my home, clad in a pair of sweatpants and worn college T-shirt, debating whether I need to make this call. I
really
don’t want to make the call, but it seems the universe has other plans. Thick black smoke plumes from the back of my house.

Fuck!

I punch the dreaded numbers.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

“My house is on fire,” I say and rattle off the address.

“Ma’am, is anyone else inside the building? Any pets?”

“No, it’s just me.”
Thanks for the reminder.

“We have a truck on the way, just hang tight. We’ll have firefighters on the scene in five minutes,” the operator replies, and I groan at the thought.

Shit
. I look like shit. Because I work from home I didn’t feel the need to brush my hair, or teeth, or wear makeup, or get dressed today. I’m not even wearing a bra!
Oh, hell no.
I look down and yes, my nipples are clearly visible through the thin white fabric. The cool morning breeze has them fully erect.
Awesome.
A bang and clatter of wood pulls my gaze back to the house where flames lick through the rooftop.

“Shit!” I curse out loud.

“Ma’am, is everything okay?”

“No. It’s really not.” I need a bra. A sweatshirt would do. My bedroom is at the front of the house. If I run, I can be in and out in less than two minutes. I stomp up the short cement drive.

“Do you know which unit is on its way?”

“Uh . . .” There’s a brief silence and then her voice comes back on the line. “Looks like Station Ten, ma’am.”
Fuck!
Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? Fuck my life.

“I have to go back in the house. I’ll just be a second. I left something important inside.” I huff into the receiver and jog the rest of the way, then stop when I reach the door.

What? Giving the girls full support is important.

“Ma’am, do not go into the structure. I promise, the crew is on its way.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
I pull open the door and the acrid scent of smoke fills my nostrils. I choke and cough as the sensation burns my throat. Dry heat stings my eyes and I squint to relieve the pain.

I consider not going any further but I spot my dresser through the open bedroom doorway. It’s taunting me. A mere fifteen feet and my rack, along with my pride, will surely thank me. There’re no flames here. It’s not even that hot in the room. The shrill sounds of the approaching safety vehicle spur my steps forward.

“I have to,” I rasp into the phone line.

“Ma’am.” Her voice is angry now, demanding. “Do not. I repeat. Do not go into the home.”

“Too late.”

The sirens gain volume and I set my phone atop my dresser, slipping my arms out of my shirt and through the straps of my bra. Cups in place I sigh in relief and reach behind to clasp the hook in place.

Boom!

The force of an explosion throws me backward. I try to catch myself but my foot snags the corner of my dresser and I feel my body going down.

Bang.
The side of my head collides with the bed frame and my body crumples to the ground. My temple pulses and my view goes a little fuzzy. A haze of darkness blankets my mind.

Oh, shit
.

“Ma’am, please keep the mask over your face.” The medic with the sad mustache directs as the other EMT monitors my blood pressure. An occasional bump in the paved road jostles my body from where I’m strapped at the waist on the gurney. At least they’ve adjusted it so I can sit up for my ride to the hospital. Given me back a few ounces of my stolen pride. I’m fine. I’m lucky. I’ve been assured several times that my precautionary visit to the hospital is protocol for someone found unconscious in a burning home.

I hate firemen. More accurately I hate Chase. And for that cocksucker I stupidly put my life in danger. All for what? So I didn’t have my nipples shooting him down in my driveway! God help me, I look stupid as fuck now. I almost killed myself over the support of an underwire. What has my life come to?

I’m sad, pathetic, and now homeless.

There’s nothing more humiliating than waking up and gazing into the melted chocolate I love, only to remember he’s not mine when the corners of his lips pull into a frown. Disappointment was written across his beautiful scruffy face. He didn’t say a thing, just watched as Ash continued to monitor my pulse, ask how I felt, and offered me water until the ambulance arrived. All I could do was answer with a nod. I’m sure he assumed it was shock, but really my state of muddled reaction had everything to do with Chase’s disinterested glare. My eyes sting with the memory.

I used to be happy. I used to love firemen. Maybe I could transfer my appreciation to a new community helper. I glance up to find Mr. Pulse Reader checking out my rack. My eyes travel down his uniform and a frown pulls at my lips from beneath the oxygen mask.

Disappointing.

Even if I squint, the EMT uniform does nothing for me.
Fuck
. I don’t need a new obsession. I need to go home. If there’s even much of one left.

“My phone?” I croak from behind the clear plastic and the medic nods, pointing to a bag that must be filled with my personal effects.

“When we get checked in at the hospital I’ll hand it over. Almost there. Vitals are good and you probably won’t be there more than a few hours. Pretty standard with head injuries. You sure are lucky the truck arrived when it did.”