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The silence is a reminder that our connection was severed a long time ago, too. Owen and I were friends—good, albeit secret, friends—back then. But now? Now, we’re just two acquaintances who knew each other once upon a time.
Two acquaintances who have been thrust back together through tragedy and heroics. The two of us, with a connected past, broken apart by ill-fated relationships and poor timing.
Without warning, I get a flash of a book cover. Owen and me in each other’s arms, him wearing his fireman’s coat with no shirt, me with my hair askew, one arm draped around his neck and the other arm alluringly arched downward with a book in one hand, and we’re both set in the foreground of a house ablaze.
The title, in a script-y but readable font, reads Forge of the Heart.
I burst out laughing and clap my hands over my mouth. It’s a horrible title.
He looks over at me, completely confused. “You. . .okay?”
I try not to giggle. “Yeah, I’m just. . .it’s fine. I’m fine. Just remembered something funny.”
Forge of the Heart. Good grief, it may as well be called The Fireman’s Desire or Slow Burn.
Well, wait. Slow Burn actually isn’t terrible.
It’s good to know my status as a weirdo is still intact.
When we reach my street, my pulse quickens and my skin hurts at the sight of my little bungalow. The house is small—only two bedrooms—with a sage green exterior and white pillars along the front, making a little porch space that’s perfect for reading.
“Well, it’s still standing,” I try to cover how devastated and invaded I feel as Owen parks the truck in the driveway behind my black Sentra, which I left behind last night.
“I checked before I left the station, and it’s been cleared for you to go back, but only for a short period of time,” he says. “So, we can grab a few things, assess the damage, but we shouldn’t hang around.”
“It’s dangerous?”
“Could be. You’ll want to call your insurance company first, and then a restoration company, before you spend any amount of time inside. The smoke damage isn’t good for your lungs, even after the fire is out.” He opens the door of his truck and gets out. I do the same, then meet him on the sidewalk next to the driver’s side.
I pause. I’m new to trauma, and it’s making my feet not work and my hands ball into fists.
It’s foreign, and invading. I don’t like it.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“You’re a bad liar.”
I smile, in spite of the grip of sadness. To look at the house from here, it doesn’t even look like anything is wrong.
I know inside it’s a different story.
Owen opens the back door of the truck and pulls out a pair of boots. “Put these on.”
“You have women’s fire boots in your truck?”
He quirks a brow. “I grabbed them from the firehouse before I left. This too.” He pulls out a mask.
“Is it really that bad in there?”
He looks right in my eyes, and it feels like he can hear me thinking. “We aren’t taking any chances.”
His thoughtfulness makes my breath hitch, and I look away. If I keep staring at him the odds of getting completely lost in his blue eyes will increase exponentially.
He hasn’t changed. He’s always been this kind.
People just don’t bother to look long enough to see it.
