Love Songs & Other Lies(65)

“Shhh. It’s okay … just breathe. You’re okay … just breathe. Just breathe … you’ll be okay. Just breathe.” I mutter the words over and over until they don’t sound like words anymore. Until I start to believe it. Start to believe maybe it will be okay. Maybe she’s just panicking, she’s not hurt as badly as she seems. I hear a crash. Another chunk of the roof is falling in on itself. The first-story corner of the house where my room is—where my room used to be—is completely engulfed. If Sienna hadn’t come over, I would have been in that room. The house looks like a giant bonfire, so bright it’s hard to look at for long. We’re on the opposite side of the river, docked in front of the Andersons’ twin house. This is what mine used to look like, I think. I can see the spray of water coming from the other side of what used to be my home.

At the river’s edge, three firemen are dragging a hose with a piece of machinery attached, and push it into the water. A pump of some sort. They run away from us, in their heavy equipment, and two more streams of water join the effort. I’m still idly stroking Sienna’s hair. Everything looks fake, like I’m watching a news special. Maybe it’s all just a dream. Mr. Anderson’s voice is faint in the background.

“Yes, I called in a house fire. 2241 Sunset … yes … yes, I’m on the other side of the river. I have two of the victims with me.”

Victims. It takes me a second to register that he’s talking about me.

“Yes … two teenagers. Cameron Fuller and…” Mr. Anderson is looking at me. “Cameron?”

“Sienna. Sienna Walsh.”

“Anyone else in the house?” He’s hesitant, quiet, and the question doesn’t register. I’m mesmerized as I watch the streams of water make impact. Everything I’ve ever owned is engulfed in a giant, flaming water fountain of destruction. “Cameron?”

“My parents are out of town,” I say. “Maggie’s at school.”

“Yes, just the two,” he repeats, visibly sighing in relief.

“Sienna’s phone number, son?”

I have no idea. Her cell’s in the house and I don’t even know if she has a house line. If she does, I’ve sure as hell never called it. We’re more texters.

“I don’t—” I look to Sienna, who is still sobbing, her head slumped down onto the seat.

She rattles off ten digits that are barely recognizable between her sobs, and Mr. Anderson relays them to the dispatcher.

“They’re both injured … yes … third-story jump.” He shakes his head. “One seems to be worse. Broken bones … yes … yes, I’ll meet them. I’ve got them in a boat. I can dock a ways down … one can’t walk. Okay … thank you.”

Mr. Anderson presses buttons and the phone is back at his ear. There’s a long moment of silence. “Trevor, it’s Mike Anderson. Listen, there’s been a fire. Cameron’s fine, he’s with me. Fire department’s on the scene, but it’s bad. You’ll want to head home as soon as you can. I’ll leave my phone with Cameron so you can reach him. Give him a call when you get this.” Then he hangs up. I guess it’s not a “talk to you later” kind of phone call.

Mr. Anderson hands me the phone and backs the boat away from the dock once again. We make our way down the river, pulling along the bank a safe distance from the fire. The boat is close to the bank, and I take the wheel while he fishes under the cushions, pulling a large metal anchor out. Thrusting it onto shore, he pulls it until it digs into the soft grass. Moving to the back of the boat, he does the same, the boat now pinned parallel to the shore. The water is choppier here, and as we crest each wave and slam against the shore, Sienna lets out breathy grunts.

I see the lights of an ambulance cutting across the grassy yard, closing the distance. The flames are smaller now, and from this side, I can see that most of the top level of the house has collapsed. I can see the charred stone shell of the house, the melted strips of siding along one side that used to be a dark red, and there, in the driveway—illuminated by the fire trucks—my parents’ red BMW.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

NOW





CAM


The bus is always a million degrees, especially at night. Most mornings when I wake up covered in sweat, I’m not sure if it’s just the sweltering heat, or if the nightmares are back. I’m not sure if they ever stopped. So when I wake up with something hot coiled against my legs and chest, I’m even more confused than usual. And my confusion turns to shock as I open my eyes and realize the coils of heat wrapped around me are Vee’s arms and legs. She has one arm slung over my stomach, a leg across mine. Her head is resting in the crook of my shoulder. What the hell. I must be dead, because no way is this my life.

When I brought her onstage to sing with me last night, at the very least I wanted to give her some sort of positive memory of the tour. Of our time together. I wanted to give her the push she needed to pursue her music. And I wanted her thinking about me when she left in a few days to go back to Riverton. Vee in my bed? That’s not at all what I expected.

The bus is still quiet, and no one else seems to be awake yet. I reach for the curtain, pulling it closed slowly, careful not to move her. Whatever has come over her, I know she’ll be mortified if someone finds her this way. I don’t want this moment to end with an obnoxious comment from Anders. Or with another scandalous video clip. I don’t want this moment to end at all. Even though it’s barely six and we didn’t go to bed until well after two, I can’t bring myself to go back to sleep. I don’t want to waste a single second of having her with me like this. A million reasons run through my head, explaining why she would end up in my bed: Was there some sort of family emergency? Maybe she and Logan had a falling out. Or she found a pair of Reese’s old boxers in her bed, and mine is a last resort? I can think of a thousand reasons she would end up in my bed. Not one of them has anything to do with me.