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“I’m just saying, it’s awfully nice for him to do something so helpful for you during this really hard time.”
I have no idea why, but this makes me think of Practical in Poughkeepsie.
“Well, if there’s a whole crew lined up, I’m going to go get muffins from the shop,” I say, suddenly nervous. Because I know there has already been a lot of chatter about Owen saving me. And because I’m not sure I can keep my resolve intact if he’s going to be this kind.
The words from that stupid comment creep back into my mind:
Thoughtfulness in a relationship doesn’t always have to look like a romantic gesture, and don’t you think it’s more important in the long run?
In this case, thoughtfulness does feel a little like romance.
Isn’t the difference between “nice” and “romantic” the motivation?
So, Mr. Larrabee, what’s the motivation here?
I chastise myself for even considering it would be anything but nice.
I stop by the shop and find it nearly empty. Apart from two employees, it’s like a ghost town. Even The Coffin Dodgers aren’t at their usual spot. At least they won’t miss the muffins I’m about to steal.
I’m the owner, I can steal whatever I want, I think.
I pack up a big box of treats, pour myself a cup of coffee, and then pour one for Owen.
Friendly, right?
I get back in the car and head a few blocks over to my street. But the second I make the turn, the memory of that night flashes in my mind. My grip on the steering wheel tightens, whitening my knuckles as I slow the car down and stop a full block away.
I barely manage to get the car in park as my breath quickens. I momentarily can’t think straight. I can smell the smoke. I picture all of my things as ash. My peripheral vision darkens, and I’m frozen in the driver’s seat of my car.
I think I’m having a panic attack.
I hold my breath and let it out, slowly, saying, “Okay. Okay. You’re okay,” over and over for what feels like an eternity. My heart is racing, and I feel like every nerve is plugged in, maxed out.
On fire.
I breathe.
I breathe.
I breathe.
The dark edges in my vision subside, my hands start to relax, and I realize that my face is wet with tears I didn’t even know had fallen.
I shakily breathe as I grab a Kleenex out of my bag. My pulse is starting to calm down, and I feel strangely tired.
The whole ordeal lasted only a few minutes—but I feel like I just ran a marathon carrying a sack of hammers.
I take a minute to gather myself and wipe my eyes before purposing to get to my house.
That was scary.
I pull up to see that this “crew” Owen has assembled has descended on my house. There are cars parked all the way down the block, and people moving across the yard. I see The Coffin Dodgers standing outside, looking like they’re pondering something important, which means they’re probably caught up in an argument about who knows the best way to clean up a house after a fire. And no matter where they land, they’ll likely all agree it’s not Owen Larrabee, even though he’s the trained firefighter.
My neighbors, Pat and Peggy are in the mix, along with Peggy’s sister, Meg, Owen’s parents, Heather from Catty’s Coffee, Felicia Fudrucker, the high school principal, and a whole group of people I don’t know. I can’t be sure, but I think that might be a group of Appies hockey players over there. . .
I squint for a better look. Like everyone else in town, I’m a fan of the Appies. And I’m absolutely positive that their goaltender, Felix Jamison is standing in my front yard. Helping clean-up my house.
Owen recruited hockey players for this?
