Page 65 of Wild Fire

I close my eyes, trying to go back to sleep, but I can’t. I keep thinking about that day—about the flames. I’d thought I was dreaming then. I thought for sure my dad was right, and I’d been sent straight to hell. The flames were so high, and all I could see was red. The firelight bathed everything in an almost hellish glow. The smoke gathered like a red cloud, choking me like a phantom, until I’d realized I wasn’t dreaming.

The first thought in my brain was not to save myself. It was to save him—my father, the man who lit the match, who thought that death was the only way I could be saved from what I’d become.

And he’d almost succeeded, but in his drunken fit of rage, he’d forgotten one thing. I was the son of a fireman, and I’d spent my entire life preparing this moment.

I didn’t think, because there was no time to think. There’s a simplicity in those moments—the ones where you know you could die. That nothing is guaranteed; not even your next breath. The sirens blared outside, but I never heard the footsteps of the firemen. Which I knew meant they thought they were too late. They thought we were dead, so they weren’t coming for us. No one was coming for us.

No one was coming for me.

I heard his wicked cough through the wall and didn’t hesitate to move. I needed to save him. I needed to find my dad and get us out of there, or we were both going to die, and I didn’t want to fucking die.

So I did what I was trained to do.

But it was no use. He refused to open the door, and there was too much red smoke. The flames were too high, and I wasn’t strong enough to break down the door. I screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore, begging, pleading for him to answer me. I told him I was sorry. I told him I could change. I told him I loved him, and begged him to forgive me. Promised that I’d go to his stupid camp or therapy or whatever he wanted, if he would just open the door. If he would just give me a chance to be worthy of his love again. We could fix this. We could go back to the way things were before I’d destroyed everything.

All he had to do was answer me. But he never did. I couldn’t breathe, there was too much smoke, and I thought for sure that was it.

The darkness came like a shadow, and then the light disappeared.

When I opened my eyes, I thought it was all a dream. A terrible, awful dream. But it wasn’t. It was real.

The doctors said it was a miracle—I’d somehow managed to escape with nothing more than minor damage to my vocal chords and my throat, which they said was from the smoke. And the screaming.

But the rest of me was untouched—thanks to my hoodie; my too-big Firehouse 99 hoodie that I’d stolen from my dad and never gave back.

Tears fill my eyes because now I don’t even have that anymore. I gave it away, because I thought Nate needed it more than I did. I thought it would give him the courage it gave me once. To keep going, keep fighting.

There’s a knock on my door, and I groan, knowing it’s probably JJ. I told him I was fine, that I was sick and was taking the weekend off, but of course, he knows it’s bullshit. Which is why he’d show up unannounced, just to call me out on my shit and force me to talk about it. Thing is, I don’t want to talk. I just want to feel… something. Again. I hadn’t realized how numb I’d been until Nate Barrett showed up in the middle of a burning room.

Even with Cal and my subs, I never let myself feel present. Even my scenes, carefully orchestrated as they were, were designed to be methodical; cause and effect. But Nate makes me feel. He makes my heart thump in my chest, makes my breath catch in my throat, and he makes my stomach flip flop like I’m on a roller coaster. But most of all, he makes me feel alive. He makes me feel like for once in my life, I have a reason to keep going, to keep doing the things that make a difference. Nate makes me feel like it’s all going to be okay, but I know now it’ll never be okay. Because I’m a broken piece of machinery that will never work right no matter how many times you change the part.

The knock sounds again, heavier this time, like he’s already getting pissed that I haven’t answered the door. I have half a mind to ignore it, but I also know he won’t let up or leave me alone until I at least show him my face and let him know I’m alive. So I get up, my legs like deadweight because I’ve been bedrotting for two fucking days, and head towards the door. I need a shower. I need to eat something, but even the thought of doing those things feels like a monumental task at this point.

“Coming,” I mutter. “Hold your fucking horses.”

But when I open the door, I have to do a double take.

Because standing in front of me is the one person I never thought I’d see again.

Nathan fucking Barrett, in my hoodie. My father’s hoodie.

With…

“Are those fucking flowers?” I ask as I take in the sight of an array of flowers wrapped in plastic.

I must be more sleep deprived than I thought…

“Yes,” he says, clearing his throat. His blue-green gaze holds mine, and I swear, my heart wants to rise up from the ashes.

“You brought me… flowers?” I deadpan, trying to make sense of the fact I keep blinking, but he doesn’t disappear like I keep expecting.

“Can I come in?” he asks carefully.

I look at him on my porch, standing there in my hoodie as he offers me the small bouquet.

In all my life, I can’t say I’ve ever had a man buy me flowers. Ever. Not even to apologize. The fact is not lost on me. I take the flowers from his hands. It’s not a large bouquet, and it’s mostly carnations and lilies with a few roses thrown in for good measure. But it’s the color of the roses—a dyed green-blue—that hits me in my chest.

I think it might be my favorite color.