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I frown inside the mask. “Do what?”
“Downplay this. It’s a huge thing.”
I shrug. “I’m not downplaying it. I really will be okay.” And I will be. Someday. But I can’t talk about it right now. I can’t process it. I still can’t even believe that this disaster zone is my house.
Owen pulls open the door to the basement, and I see a coating from the smoke left behind on the walls. That coating is everywhere, it seems, and I have no idea how anyone is ever going to get that off. Something tells me a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser isn’t going to cut it.
“Do you think they’ll be able to salvage it?” I ask Owen as we start down the stairs. “The house, I mean.”
“I’m not in the restoration business, but I think so,” he says, reaching the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t think it’s going to need to be demolished.”
“That’s good,” I say. “I was getting tired of the paint colors anyway.” I force myself to smile against the way I feel. I have to find things to laugh about or I’m going to fall apart.
“Which way to the laundry room?” he asks.
“Through here.” I start down the hall, stopping short outside my studio. The door is off its hinges, thanks to Owen breaking it down, and I can see the exact spot where I stood when he rescued me.
My eyes are burning, and I can’t blame that on the smoke.
He stops moving.
“Sorry,” I say.
“I can just go and see if I can find some clothes?”
“No, it’s fine.” I push past the studio and into the laundry room, thankful I was behind on housework this week. I find two full baskets of clean clothes and another one waiting to be washed. I never thought three baskets of laundry would mean so much to me, but they feel like such a gift, even if they will smell like they were hanging on a clothesline near a bonfire.
I dump the clothes into the drawstring bag, shoving them down to make room.
“Anything else?” Owen asks. “Prescriptions?”
I shake my head.
“Glasses?”
Another head shake. “I think I’m good.”
He nods and starts back down the hall. As we reach my studio, I stop again, this time, taking a quiet step inside. My microphone is there, on my desk, and I think about all the hours I’ve spent here, bringing The Hopeful Romantic to life.
“What is this room?” Owen is standing behind me, looking right at my big secret and trying to make sense of it.
“Oh, just my office,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can, without turning around.
“I thought your office was upstairs?”
“This is. . .um. . .my work office.” I turn. “That’s the beauty of living alone, you can have as many offices as you want.”
I look back at my desk and then at my microphone. It’s sitting there, next to my headphones—a total splurge purchase—and I want to discreetly put them both in the bag, but Owen is standing right here.
“Those look expensive, do you want to take them?” he asks.
Oh, thank goodness, I don’t have to come up with some weird, convoluted lie.
I’m bad at lying anyway, so if he asks me what they’re for, I don’t even know what I’d say.
“What are they for?”
“Social media!” I blurt, and not quietly.
