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“Help yourself.”
He pushed his chair back and stood, taking longer than necessary to rinse his empty can and claim another Coke.
Hmm.
Was he reconsidering the wisdom of this step?
“In case you’re wondering, I’m not second-guessing this move. I’m organizing my thoughts.” He rejoined her and took his seat.
She stared at him. “Is mind reading one of your superpowers?”
He hitched up one side of his mouth. “That could come in handy, but no. I attribute my insight more to us being on the same wavelength. Another positive sign.” He opened his soda, the carbonation releasing with a quiet hiss. “I should warn you, though. My story isn’t pretty—and it’s not necessarily suitable for mealtime telling.”
“I’ve seen plenty of ugly, and I have a strong stomach. If you’re worried about shocking me, don’t be. Besides, I think we’re about finished with dinner.” She nodded toward the single piece of pizza left in the box.
“Okay. Then let’s give this a try.” He took another long swallow of his soda. “You’ve probably wondered how I ended up being raised by my grandparents.”
“Yes.”
“My parents were killed in a house fire in Chicago when I was ten.”
Bri’s throat contracted. “Oh, Marc! I’m so sorry. What a terrible tragedy for all of you.”
“Yes. It was. And it didn’t have to happen.”
At that unexpected comment, she frowned. “What do you mean?”
“This is the part I’ve never told anyone.” A muscle in his cheek spasmed, and the can crinkled beneath his fingers. “I may have been able to prevent their deaths.”
Her heart stammered.
What?
Linking her fingers, she studied the man across from her—the grim set of his mouth, the soul-deep torment in his eyes, the sudden collapse of his broad shoulders—as she scrambled to formulate a careful response that didn’t add to the burden of guilt weighing him down.
“Why don’t you tell me why you feel that way? Let me see if I come to the same conclusion.”
He lifted his hand again to take another sip of soda.
It was trembling.
Sweet mercy.
Seeing this rock-solid man get the shakes was Richter-scale jolting.
Just how bad was the story he was about to relate?
Bri braced as he continued.
“I’ll give you the condensed version of what happened.” While his voice was controlled, calm, and matter-of-fact, tremors continued to vibrate in his fingers. “My mom broke her leg a few days before the fire. I was supposed to go camping that weekend with a friend and his family, but Dad wanted me to stay home in case she needed help. He was an investigative reporter, and he was working on a hot story that was taking him away from the house on nights and weekends. But after I begged and pleaded ad nauseam, Dad gave in. Unfortunately.”
He scraped a dried speck of cheese off the table with his fingernail and deposited it in the pizza box. “I didn’t find out about the fire until I got home Sunday afternoon. It had started in the middle of Saturday night. Dad called 911 after the smoke alarms went off, then tried to help Mom out, but it was slow going with her cast. They both succumbed to smoke inhalation in the hallway and were gone before the firefighters got to them.”
Despite her strong stomach, Bri had to fight back a waveof queasiness as she forced her brain into gear—and came up with the obvious disconnect.
She leaned forward, keeping her manner gentle and empathetic. “As tragic as that story is, Marc, I don’t see how you could have stopped what happened.”
He gave her a bleak look. “I was strong for a ten-year-old. If I’d been there to help my dad, I think we could have gotten my mom out. And they both would have survived.”
