Page 52 of Melting for the Firefighter

I love her.

The truth should feel good.

Instead, I remember white chairs arranged outside the church.

An empty bridal room.

My best man’s phone going straight to voicemail.

I remember my father promising every morning that he would stop drinking, then forgetting the promise by dark.

People leave.

They make vows.

They ask for trust.

Then they find the part of you that needs them and tear it out on the way through the door.

Cora will rebuild her shop. Her apartment will be repaired. She will stand on her own feet again.

Then she will have a real choice.

She will not need my house, my protection, or me.

I hold her closer and hate myself for wondering whether she will still choose me when leaving becomes easy.

Morning brings coffee, pain medicine, and an insurance adjuster on speakerphone.

Cora sits at my kitchen table in one of my shirts while I make toast.

The shirt covers her to mid-thigh. Her curls fall loose around her shoulders. She is beautiful.

Looking at her in my clothes should not make me want to drag her back to bed.

It does.

“The commercial policy covers structural repairs, damaged inventory, and qualified business-interruption expenses,” the adjuster says through the phone. “Your personal property claim will be handled separately. The temporary-housing portion may cover a furnished rental while the apartment is uninhabitable.”

I drag the knife through the butter.

“How soon?” Cora asks.

“We may have something available within two weeks.”

The knife pauses.

Two weeks.

My kitchen already looks different because of her. Flowers crowd the counters. Her tea sits beside my coffee.

Two weeks from now, all of it could be gone.

“That sounds good,” Cora says quietly.

I force myself to move again.

“You’ll have your independence back.”