How? How, how, how,how?
That's all I can think of. All I can breathe as I get closer to the smoke. The flames that had seemed so daunting on the screen are down to embers now. Heat still radiates as black smoke fades to white. I shove past body after body, pushing my way to the front of the crowd. There are first responders everywhere I look. Men and women in blue, trying to control the chaos of the crowd and the fire. I reach the front of the crowd where multiple officers have ushered the townspeople back. I don’t hesitate to take the distraction of a fellow patron asking the closest officer a question to duck under the yellow caution tape. I get a sharp “Hey!” in return. I ignore them.
Two massive fire trucks are nose-to-nose, creating a V-shape directly in front of the coffee shop and my apartment.Firefighters move around the building like shadows through smoke. Ash litters the glossy red of the engines. Sirens pierce the still air, their lights flashing like a heartbeat against the scorched structure behind them. Some hoses lie limp, dripping onto the earth, while others spray against the lingering flames with a roaring hiss. A beast of a machine, built to fight, to save, to rush in when everything is falling apart.
But it had come too late.
I go to step between the two overly large red engines when a tall, broad man steps into view. He catches me by the arm. Not rough, but enough to make me pause. “Ma’am you can’t go in there.”
I pull against his grip, but the man doesn’t relent. Seeing the intent in my eyes, he reaches up, tugging at his helmet until it slides off. It takes me a second, but I recognize him. Brown hair, brown eyes. The slight accent that slips through when he speaks. I grit my teeth. “Get the hell out of my way, Eddie.”
His jaw visibly tightens as he looks me over, head to toe. “Whitney-”
I finally snap, cutting him off with a sharp tug. “No!” I jab my finger at the black-charred building behind us. “This ismine.My shop.Myhome.”
His face softens at my words and that’s the only thing that stops me from brushing past him. I know what bad news looks like, and something tells me he’s about to split my world in two. “There’s nothing you can do. You will only make things worse if you try to go in there.”
My stomach drops. “H-how bad is it?” Desperation rises in my throat like bile, every word I utter coming out a little more broken than the next. The firefighter, Eddie, shuffles, tucking the helmet underneath his arm as he stares down at me with furrowed brows. “Everything is…gone. Nothing was salvageable. I’m sorry.”
Everything is gone.Everything is…
God, those words. Those three words. They echo and bounce in every direction. The fire burning before me is nothing compared to the wave of nausea punching through my chest. My legs wobble, and the world tilts–sky, fire, and smoke all blurring at the edges of my vision.
Everything I’ve built for myself, for Brinley, is gone in an instant. My knees finally give out, and the ground rushes up to meet me, too fast and too hard for the man before me to try and catch me. But arms from behind do, and they fall with me, as if gravity decided we’d go down as one. And that smell–overpowering the fire and smoke–is a familiar one. Leather and wood. Whiskey and mint. Wyatt’s voice wraps around me at the same time his arms do. “Hey. Just breathe. Just breathe, okay?”
But how? How can I? I canfeelit. The smoke wraps around me like a vice. It clings to my hair, my skin, my lungs. It’s a never-ending swarm of smoke, and it feels like I’m in the thick of it. Too many things, too many feelings, too fast.
But I try. I hone in on his voice. His familiar, comforting voice full of midnight promises and silk-clad sheets. I blink a couple of times, finally locating his blue eyes in the chaos. “Good.” He nods, scanning my face. “That’s good. Eyes on me. Just keep those eyes on me.”
I nod along with him, trying to match my breathing to the rise and fall of his chest. It works. I know because I find myself breathing a little easier, and my surroundings don’t seem quite as hazy. Is this what a panic attack feels like?
When my chest slows, and my breaths even out enough for him, he pivots his head to look me over. “Are you okay? You hurt?”
“N-no.” I choke out, “I wasn’t here.”
“Brinley?”
“She’s with Viv.”
His shoulders dip in relief, and I glance over to find my car still in the same spot. He follows my gaze and doesn’t hesitate to adjust us so that one arm wraps around my back and the other under my knees. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I don’t protest as he picks me up like I’m a rag doll, because I’m not sure my legs are strong enough to carry myself out of here. I nuzzle my neck between his collar and jaw, reveling in the familiarity of him. His long strides get us back to the car in what feels like seconds. A panic attack. And shock. Thismustbe what shock feels like. Soon enough, I’m back in the seat that brought me here and securely buckled in. I wrap my arms around myself, as if holding my ribs could somehow keep me from falling apart.
A lullaby blares through the speakers while Brinley softly snores from the back seat. I think Vivienne asks me something, but I don’t hear anything other than Wyatt’s gruff, “Take them to the Ranch. I’ll be right behind you.”
I drymy hair with an overly fluffy white towel as I sit across from Wyatt on his couch, inhisliving room, which I’ve never seen before. I try not to gawk at the tidiness and layout of the house as Brinley plays with a TV remote on the carpet between us.
It’s massive. I’ve seen it from afar, but never up close like this.
The overly ornate outdoor fireplace instantly caught my eye as we walked up the long driveway. Nestled just a few feet from the front door, it’s composed of various colored stones that look like they've been there for decades and stacked high with freshly cut wood.
A rich walnut color consumes the porch. The floorboards, railings, and rocking chairs match the house's paneling perfectly.
Tall, wide windows encase the entire house, only interrupted here and there by slivers of wall space. A long porch swing, made to fit maybe three or four people, hangs just near the edge that faces the ranch. There’s no railing on that side, as if it were specifically structured so you’d have plenty of room to swing back and forth.
It’s a dream. The kind that screams family and endless backyard barbecues. I can practically see the steam rolling off a morning coffee pot and smell the freshly baked sourdough wafting from the kitchen window as the kids run around in the yard.
It's the kind of dream that I so desperately want for Brinley, but I’m so far from grasping. Especially now.
