Things You Save in a Fire - Katherine Center Page 0,61
I drove across the country alone, that I was at the beginning of the end. And maybe it was the end of something. But it was a beginning, too. One with the potential to make things better—or possibly so much worse.
But so far so good. I had kissed Owen—in a no-holds-barred, full-body kind of way, and it had been good.
All violence is bad, of course, but what Heath Thompson had done to me was an attack on love itself. It took one of the best parts of being human and ruined it.
I’d gladly given up all hope of love for a guarantee of never having to relive even a part of that memory again.
Here was the astonishing thing: Nothing about what had just happened with the rookie reminded me of that night. It didn’t cause flashbacks, or spark terror, or—worst-case scenario—make me want to die. Quite the opposite, in fact.
It wasn’t terror, it was joy. It wasn’t agony, it was pleasure. There were mouths involved, yes, and hands and arms and bodies touching—but the context was so different, there with a person I’d come to like and admire and absolutely trust, there was just no comparison.
The kiss itself was a big surprise.
But the discovery that kissing wasn’t agony? Even bigger.
It felt almost nostalgic, like remembering what it felt like to believe that the world was full of good things and good people and good luck. It tasted bittersweet, because it insisted there was so much to look forward to—even when I already knew there was far more to dread.
Somehow, what the rookie made me feel was the kind of hopefulness you could only get when you didn’t know any better.
Even though I did know better.
And worse.
I wondered if that was it: Maybe I only liked him so much because I couldn’t have him. I could not have chosen a more forbidden, off-limits, never-gonna-happen guy to obsess over than Owen. We couldn’t be together.
In a way, he was a safe choice.
In another way, it was more dangerous than anything I’d ever done. Because now I knew what I’d been missing. Now I just wanted more.
And now I was crying in my bed. So much my hair was wet on the pillow below. I’m not exaggerating at all when I say that I was a person who never cried—but there they were: tears.
I’m not even sure I could’ve told you what they were for. There were so many different emotions making up their alchemy, I had no idea how to separate them out. There was sadness in the mix, for sure. And anger.As well as relief and joy and longing and anxiety. Tears of everything, I guess. They were tears of intensity. Tears of coming back to life.
Nineteen
THE NEXT MORNING, the captain called me into his office and yelled at me. But not for what you think.
When I entered his office, he was at his desk.
“What the hell were you thinking, Hanwell?” he demanded, without looking up.
I froze.
Oh God. This was it.
When I didn’t answer, he looked up—then stood up. “Well?”
I shook my head, like I didn’t understand.
“There’s no way this was an accident!” he said then. “Because there is no way you don’t know the rules.”
I held still.
“And if you know the rules,” he went on, “and you broke them anyway, that’s insubordination.” He took a step closer. “And you know how I feel about insubordination.”
I blinked.
“Are we clear?”
We weren’t. Not at all.
Ever so slightly, I shook my head.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?” he said.
I shook again.
He reached out and picked a package up off his desk. “I’m talking about this.” He held it out, like incriminating evidence.
I frowned.
Then I realized what it was.
It was a cyanide-poisoning antidote kit.
That’s what he was mad about? The relief hit so hard, I felt dizzy for a second. But it passed.
“Do you care to explain this?”
I took a breath. “Looks like we got a cyanide kit,” I said. I checked his desk for another package. “There should be two.”
“So you admit you’re responsible.”
My name was right there on the mailing label. “Yes?”
“Hanwell,” the captain said then, tossing the package back on his desk and crossing his arms. “As you keep reminding me, you are not a newbie. You know how things work in a fire station. So what I can’t figure out is how you could possibly have imagined you were allowed to order fire equipment without my permission.”
“I didn’t order it,” I said. “I applied for a grant.”