Page 37 of The Vow

Normally, I like the rain. It has a cleansing effect, like everyone is afforded a second chance. I remember ma saying the same thing about confession, that it cleanses the soul, but I haven’t been to confession in years, not since the scandal to end all scandals. Our parish priest was accused of having a lurid affair with a divorcée, and while it was never proven, it made me lose faith in the clerical collar. Father Pesti eventually moved to a neighboring parish, and to me, that was an admission of guilt.

“What in the fuck!?”

God was punishing me for my loss of faith. Two fire trucks are parked outside of my house. No longer in pain, no longer tired, all I could think was that something happened to Alex. Parking haphazardly on the side of the road, I ran towards the chaos.

“Is this your house, sir?”

“Yes. What’s going on?” I asked the firefighter. “Where’s Alex!?”

My front door flew open. My heart only started beating again when I saw her. She ran to where I was standing on the front lawn, soaked to the bone, and if it weren’t for my battered body, I would have picked her up and hugged her.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Everything is o-kay.” She spoke with her hands. They were raised in front of her as if staving off an opponent.

“Thank God, you’re not hurt! What happened?” I asked, yelling through the rain.

“Um... just a small fire. Did you win?”

“A fire!”

“Yes. But relax. Everything’s okay now.”

“Relax?”

“We arrived just in time, sir. Next time, Miss Adams, remember that water and hot oil don’t mix. Have a good night, folks.”

The firefighters cleared the street. Alex gently touched my bandaged eye. Wordlessly, she held my hand and rushed me inside where she disappeared into the bathroom and emerged with two bath towels. “Are you mad?”

“I’m relieved you’re safe,” I said, taking the towel she was offering me. “How bad is it?”

“It’s not. I promise. Did you win!?”

I couldn’t help but marvel at her beauty. Even drenched to the bone, with her hair wet, and her mascara running, she took my breath away.

“I won. Knocked him out in the eighth round. Asshole put up a good fight, though.”

“Jesus Christ. Took you long enough to tell me!” she said, jumping into my arms. “Congratulations!”

“Ouch.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. You’re hurt. Where does it hurt?”

“My left side,” I said, lifting my sweatshirt. “I’ll be fine in a few days.”

Leaning over, she placed her hands on my hips and kissed my naked skin. “Let me run a bath for you.”

“The damage, Alex.”

“Oh. Right. Over here,” she said, leading me to the stove. “It’s the backsplash. Maybe the ceiling a bit. Your mother told me about your favorite pasta. She gave me a recipe, but it’s all in Italian, so I winged it. I thought, ‘How hard could it be? It’s just pasta and anchovies.’ Water, your mother said. Oil, she said. I didn’t know not to mix the two, and... are you proud of me for saying pasta instead of noodles?”

Lately, smiling has become a habit. Winning tonight paled in comparison to knowing Alex was thinking of me. There was minimal damage, but I almost didn’t care if the entire house burned down. “You were cooking for me?”

“Yeah. I figured you’d be hungry. Or if you won, we could celebrate. If you lost, you could pig out and forget about it. I called 9-1-1 as soon as I saw flames. I’m not going to lie. It scared the shit out of me.”

“You’re adorable.”

“No. I suck. I told you I can’t cook,” she mumbled. She was scrubbing the backsplash, her way of avoiding eye contact.

“Alex...”