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Not that I can really blame her for getting as far away from me as she could, her explanation was painful but made perfect sense.
That night in the hospital room we talked for hours about everything and nothing. Under doctors' orders, I wasn't at liberty to tell her that Miss Merryweather hadn't made it. She was far too weak at that stage and without the support of a family member since her dad was out of town, so they feared the knowledge would set her back.
I put my phone in her hand, told her to give me her number.
She was a little out of it and her hands were shaking, so one digit was wrong.
It took me a couple of days to get my hands on her contact info. My EMT friends hadn't recorded it and I knew no one in the hospital staff.
I was about to pull my hair out when Eric called me out of the blue a week or so later to tell me all about tragedy striking in our hometown and to ask me if I was on call when that building in New Haven had gone up in flames.
Turns out both Aurora and her friend grew up in Briarsville just like me. They were attending Yale and that’s why they lived in New Haven.
It took some fair amount of begging and cajoling —and yes, all right also some downright threatening to kick his ass— to persuade Eric to give me her address but he finally relented.
It was all for nothing, though. When I got to her parents' place she wasn't at home.
Her mom told me Rory wasn't in Briarsville at all and not even in Connecticut anymore.
I asked for her cell number explaining the wrong digit thing to her, but she said she didn't feel comfortable in handing it over because her daughter had asked to be left alone while she dealt with her grief. She was out of town with her one surviving best friend and didn't want to talk with anyone else, especially not with someone who would directly remind her of the fire that had taken the life of Flora.
I gave Mrs. Roses my number and almost begged her on my knees with my heart in my fucking hands to give it to her daughter.
She said she would, but she told me she couldn't promise me Rory would contact me.
And then my princess did.
She sent me a text asking for space.
It was a hard blow, but I respected her wishes and kept my distance as much as possible.
I was completely obsessed with her and felt so damn possessive and protective of her I was worried out of my mind that she would do something that could put her life in danger while she dealt with her survivor guilt and the trauma of the fire away from me and without her parents nearby. So I couldn't completely restrain myself from reaching out and I would text her once a day asking her how she was feeling —but nothing more.
She only answered every couple of days or so and her replies were short and… well, curt.
It hurt, but I persevered: I needed to make sure she was okay at least, even if after a week or so it became clear to me that whatever I felt for her, whatever I thought it meant, the way we had met had just been too traumatic for her and not something she could overcome to give me, us, a chance.
A part of me still hoped she would reach out with more than one-word sentences at some point.
And then she did.
Her feelings, she told me, were just not that strong upon closer examination.
She wasn't in love, it was more that she felt grateful because I saved her life, and yeah, there was an attraction, but it wasn't worth pursuing when the very sight of me reminded her of that horrible traumatizing night and of the friend she lost to the fire. The one my former engine company couldn't save.
Shit, I shouldn't even be thinking about this stuff now. It's a guaranteed way I'll work myself up to an even grumpier mood before I reach the stupid party.
My phone buzzes with yet another text from Adam and I fairly growl at the thing, clutching it in my hand when I see his words.
Adam:"Bro, please, tell me you picked up a costume. My little beauty put her fucking heart and soul into throwing this party. I don't want you to mess it up for her."
Me:"How can she have your balls already if she's not even your girlfriend yet?"
Adam:"Fuck off! Wear. A. Damn. Costume."
Me:"Or I could stay at home…"
Adam:"I'll let you drive my favorite bike."
