Page 2 of Second Alarm
"It's just my voice, Hanna."
She turns to face me fully. "It's absolutely not just your voice. It's the voice of a man who thinks being funny about something will make him look like he isn't bleeding from the throat about it, and I don't have the bandwidth tonight, Ty."
I watch her. Her own words catch up with her a beat later — her shoulders drop a half inch, and she looks at the ceiling.
"That came out mean."
"A little," I agree.
"Sorry."
"It's fine." Because what else am I gonna say.
"It isn't fine." She meets my eyes for the first time since she started packing.
I could say a lot of things here. I could say that I've spent the last few weeks reworking every definition of the wordfineI had before we started this, andfinenow means her mouth onthe hollow of my throat at midnight in a supply closet, andfinenow means the way she laughs when something is actually funny instead of when she wants it to stop being sincere, andfinenow means this room, with her packing, with my shirt inside out on her body, and thereforefine's become a useless word and I'm going to have to go find a new one after she leaves.
I don't say any of that.
"Stay," I blurt.
The word lands in the room like a dropped wrench.
She doesn't move. She doesn't even breathe for a second. She just stands there with one hand on the zipper and the other one curled into the hem of my shirt, and then, very quietly — "Ty."
"I know."
"Don't do this."
"I know."
"I have a job. I have an apartment. I signed a lease. We agreed." She ticks them off one by one.
"I know."
"You know what you're asking me."
"Yeah."
Her chin comes up. "Do you?"
I look at her. I look at her the way I've been looking at her for weeks in the dark and not at all in the light, because in the light, there's Cal. There's always, always Cal. The kid who lived one street over from me in Copper Ridge since we were both missing the same front teeth. The kid whose mom fed me dinner every summer his dad was on shift. The kid whose little sister used to follow us around the backyard with a doll in each fist. The kid who talked me into applying to the academy with him, who packed into this dorm room with me the day we moved in, who still thinks Hanna showing up in town this spring was nothing more than his sister chasing a paramedic program. Cal, who doesn't know that when he flew home for the long weekendto see their mom, I took her to dinner at a diner with bad coffee. Who doesn't know anything about anything. Who I love. Who loves me. Who thinks I'm a good guy.
"Yeah." I hold her gaze. "I do."
"It would kill him."
"It wouldn't kill him."
"He'd never forgive either of us."
"He might."
"Ty."
I drop my eyes. "Hanna."
"You’re twenty-three, Ty, and I’m only nineteen."
