Things You Save in a Fire(73)

But I wouldn’t answer it.

He came anyway, though, and left tubs of scones and muffins and cookies for comfort.

We brought them in later and arranged them on the kitchen table. But I couldn’t eat.

Finally, on the last night before our next shift, he knocked—and kept knocking.

“Me again,” he said, when I finally opened the door.

He’d been texting me, too—to see how my mom was, and how my ankle was, and how I was doing about the brick. He’d left a few messages. But I hadn’t answered anything.

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.