Page 131 of Honeyfires

Of course it was awkward. Because I'd brought this to her doorstep, to her safe, quiet workplace where she should have been cataloging books and helping patrons and planning children's reading hours. Instead, she was fielding questions from coworkers and dealing with reporters and having her personal life dissected by strangers who thought our relationship was somehow newsworthy.

"I'm so sorry," I said again, because what else was there to say? "This is all my fault."

"No, it's not." Her voice was firm. "It's their fault for being vultures. For turning a tragedy into entertainment. For deciding that our relationship is somehow relevant to what happened on that ridge."

She was right. But it didn't make me feel any less guilty.

"I'll be there at five to pick you up," I said. “Don’t carpool with Becca like you usually do. Stay inside until I’m there. Don't talk to anyone else."

"Petra...”

"Please. Just let me do this."

She must have heard something in my voice—the desperation, the need to do something, anything, to protect her—because she agreed without further argument.

"Okay. Five o'clock."

After we hung up, I made the mistake of Googling our names together. The results were exactly as horrific as I'd expected. The video of Vera being ambushed outside the library was everywhere, with cell phone footage captured by someone in the parking lot, uploaded to Twitter and YouTube and every social media platform imaginable.

I forced myself to watch it.

Vera was walking through the parking lot from Becca’s car, her messenger bag over her shoulder, looking tired but professional in a vintage-style dress and cardigan. She had maybe three steps of peace before the reporters descended—two of them with cameras, microphones thrust forward like weapons.

"Ms. Montgomery! Are you Perpetua Alves's partner?"

Vera stopped, her expression shifting from confused to guarded in the space of a heartbeat. "Excuse me?"

"We'd just like to ask a few questions about your relationship with the firefighter who—"

"I'm not answering questions." She tried to move past them, but they followed, cameras still rolling.

"Do you think she made the right call? Are you concerned about her judgment?"

That's when Vera turned, and even through the shaky cell phone footage, I could see the moment she decided she was done being polite. Her chin lifted, her shoulders squared, and when she spoke, her voice carried across the parking lot with absolute clarity.

"Petra saved lives that day. If you can't see that, you're not paying attention."

Then she walked away, refusing to engage further even as they called after her with more questions, more demands for her time and attention and explanations.

The clip was only forty-five seconds long. But it had been viewed over thirteen thousand times already. The comments were a warzone:

Good for her standing by her woman!

She's just as reckless as her girlfriend, defending property destruction

Lesbian firefighter drama lol

Why is this news? Who cares who she's dating?

She's cute. Shame she's wasting herself on a criminal.

Love seeing women support each other even when they're wrong

This is what happens when we let emotions override common sense

I read them until my vision blurred, until the words stopped making sense and just became a wall of noise and judgment and hatred. They were talking about Vera—my Vera, who'd never hurt anyone, who spent her days helping children learn to love to read and connecting people with stories that changed their lives—like she was a character in some drama, a supporting player in the tragedy of my life.

The guilt was suffocating. I'd done this. My decision on that ridge, my suspension, my face on the news. All of it had led to this moment where strangers felt entitled to comment on Vera's appearance, her choices, her worth. Where her quiet life had been invaded by cameras and questions and people who thought our love was somehow up for public debate.