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“Happy?” I asked.
“You have no idea how happy I am,” he said. He pushed himself back up against the headboard and, reaching for another tissue, slid off the condom and wiped his penis, which was still pulsing. “And you? Are you happy?”
I leaned against his arm, pulling the sheets up over us. “So happy,” I said. I stretched as he got up and padded into the bathroom to pee. “You hungry? I want some juice.”
“I could go for some chips,” he said from the bathroom.
Sliding on my robe and slippers—the floors in Killian’s house were perpetually cold—I headed for the kitchen. I felt relaxed and at peace. While our sex life had taken a bit of a dip in frequency due to my headaches, it was still amazing.
I washed my hands at the kitchen sink and was about ready to head over to the fridge when I glanced out the window, toward my old house, and froze.
“Crap! Killian! My house is on fire!” I screamed, then raced back to the bedroom where my phone was. I dialed 911 as Killian raced out of the bathroom. He shoved his legs into his jeans and zipped, then pulled on his sweater and thrust his feet into his slippers.
“I need help,” I said as the operator came on the line and asked me what the problem was. “My house—my old house—is on fire!”
“What’s the address, ma’am?”
“702 Fern Street.”
“And are you in the house, ma’am?”
“No, I’m in my boyfriend’s house next door. Nobody’s living in the house right now.”
“We’re dispatching an engine, ma’am. Please do not enter the building.”
As I finished the call, I struggled out of my robe and frantically pulled on a skirt and top that were on top of the laundry basket. As Killian and I headed for the door, I called Ari.
“Hello?” she said after a few rings. “January? What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“The house is on fire,” I said. “I’ve called the fire department and they’re on the way.”
“Oh my gods! Are you and Killian all right? The cats—”
“No, notourhouse. My old house—your salon!” I followed Killian out into the freezing night. It was snowing hard, which I hoped would help contain the fire, but the flames were licking at the dining room windows.
We stood near the fence, watching helplessly as sirens blared, heading our way. In less than two minutes, the fire engine pulled in and the firemen scrambled off the truck. One of them headed over to us while the others began to hook up the hose to the fire hydrant down the street.
“Are you the neighbor who called?” the fireman asked me. He was wearing a nametag that read “Douglas Raredon.”
“Yes, and that’s my house. I moved here a month or so ago, and I’m leasing that to my friend, but she’s not in there. She’s turning it into a salon.” I wasn’t sure what information he needed, or whether it might be helpful.
“So nobody’s inside that you know of?”
I shook my head. “As far as I know, no—there shouldn’t be anybody in there.”
He paused, “You said she’s turning it into a salon? Do you know if there are flammable materials like paint or glue or anything like that in there?”
I shrugged. “I’m not positive but she was painting a day or so ago, and there’s also gas heat in there. So I’d say probably.”
“Thank you. Please, go back to your house. We’ll talk to you as soon as we can.” He headed over toward the truck and the other firefighters.
As the snow continued to fall—the flakes large as they kissed the frozen ground, building a blanket of white to shroud the land—Killian wrapped his arm around my shoulders. He turned me back toward his house. I didn’t want to go. Watching the flames licking from within my childhood home was excruciating, and I had never wished for the power to command water more than I did now.
As we started up the steps, Ari pulled into our driveway. She was driving Meagan’s Prius. As she hopped out, staring over at the house, I broke away from Killian. She slid her way across the snow to the porch. Killian opened the door and motioned us both in.
“I’ll stay out here and keep watch. You both go in and get warm,” he said.
Ari and I entered the house and went into the kitchen.
