Page 12 of On Fire

I don’t see how the answer is anything other than “No.” How can I be with someone, with bombs going off?

΅

The morning sky throws a shade of orange-pink across my apartment. Tossing keys into a bowl, the phone rings before I have a chance to sit down on the sofa. It’s Claire.

I glance at my watch before speaking. “It’s seven o’clock. Why are you up?”

“I am so sorry, Nic. This was a friend of yours, right? His bar? Finn just told me.”

“Yeah.” I stare out the window at the buildings across the street. “Did he get any more news about Jackson?”

“An audiologist basically said he’ll be fine, maybe some slight hearing loss in that ear. The cilia or something in his inner ear have been completely flattened, but they’ll come back. It's like going to a really loud concert and standing right next to the microphone. The difference is that this was just one hit.”

I exhale relief. She hears it and shifts gears. “Listen, I’m starving. Finn’s in the shower, but he’ll be out in a minute. I want pancakes. Can you come to the restaurant at the hotel?”

The last thing I want to do is eat, but she wants company. This whole bombing has to have unnerved her.

“Sure, meet you at the hotel in ten?”

Finn and Claire and I grab a very early breakfast, though it's eight by the time we’re served. I sip coffee.

Claire is ravenous. Though she didn't suffer from morning sickness, her appetite has not really kicked in until now. Watching her devour a short stack and two eggs, I’m reminded I need to eat and pick up a spoon. The oatmeal tastes like paste though.

I'm training for the Boston Marathon and am supposed to be out there right now on my Sunday run, a full twenty miles. My legs are restless—it’s like they need to move. Finn notices.

“You want to bring a change of clothes? You could stay at The Inn and run after the TTX.”

I shake my head. “I’m good. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

He nods and takes a bit of his shrimp and grits. “Bryce can run you back here in the chopper.”

It was just last night I was chatting with them, like this, over a meal. Those people who died, they didn’t know it was going to be their last meal, their last drink, their last phone call, their last piss.

It just was.

Rubbing a finger along the rim of my coffee cup, I watch my two friends talk. Now satiated, Claire sighs and sits back and enjoys a second cup of decaf coffee. Finn says something to her that makes her laugh. Their body language is so in tune, harmonizing in some spiritual way that I can’t help but be happy for them.

For a moment, I think of Finn’s question the night before the bombing: Is this possible for you?

Finn and I have never really discussed in depth who I am, and the parts of me I keep hidden.

He only knows because he found me once in bed with a covert ops guy, a man I’d had a crush on and we slept together, several times. When I was forced to come out to Finn, he just shrugged and said he’d already figured it out. It was one of the reasons we decided to train as profilers together. He has an innate way to read people and wanted to use his skills in the context of security and surveillance.

I did too—but I also wanted tools that would throw people off. If he could figure me out, that meant others could too. I needed to turn off whatever it was I was doing.

I’m uninterested in talking about myself but he’s taken it upon himself to do some shielding on my behalf—without a lot of consultation. We've just been there for each other in ways that most people wouldn’t understand.

The guy's incredible and Claire is lucky to have him. And he's damn lucky to have Claire.

Finn leans toward me. “I’ve been thinking. If you need to bow out of this one? I totally understand.”

I can feel my eyes starting to dart around the restaurant and shake my head. Part of security is always checking for egresses in and out of buildings. It’s a default mode I go into. “No. I’m good.”

“Well, I can tell you’re not good. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Claire glances up. “It must be hard when it’s a friend.”

I can’t have this double-layered conversation with her here and this fact makes my stomach hurt. I love Claire, but I don’t know what Finn’s shared with her.

“You need to trust people more,” Finn says around another forkful of grits.

“Well, there’s three reasons not to, right?” I say with a bitterness that does not sound like me.

Claire’s head shoots up and her gaze does not waver. She sets down her fork. “We love you, Nic.”

She doesn’t get it. Love is the problem.