Page 4 of On Fire

I do remember that day, but not because of what Finn said—it was how he started sobbing. It was the only time I’d seen him cry since Alison’s death two years before. Nobody gives a fuck is what he said, before breaking down in the hall outside the offices. I had waited a beat before reminding him of a truth. Still here, man. Not going anywhere is all I said before holding him while he wept.

When I said I wasn’t leaving. I meant it. He could hurl insults, accuse me of anything, and I would still be there. That's the kind of friendship we have—that's the kind of love I have for him.

I collect the bottles, making sure they don’t clink together and wake Claire, and set them in the sink to be rinsed later.

“No apology, needed,” I say again.

“I'm not sure there's a word for the kind of friendship we have.” He rubs her bare shoulder with a thumb in small slow circles.

“I'm okay with that,” I say reflecting another, smaller truth. I'm not used to talking about my feelings. This is really hard for me. As much as Finn knows me, he doesn't really understand how difficult this kind of conversation is.

Then, once again, he surprises me and says exactly that. “I know this is hard for you.” And then he lowers his voice. “But I want you to be happy. To find what I have with her. Is that possible for you?”

That's the question, isn't it. I don't think so. The first person I think of, though, is Dave Keller. What if?

This is the balancing act I’ve been living through the last nine months, somewhere between denial and hope. I try to push Keller from my mind, but I also understand I won’t know for sure until I do something about it.

Claire stirs in his lap and Finn checks his watch. “Whew! Ten ten. Late night,” he says with a grin.

Finn rouses her with a kiss on the cheek. Stretching for a moment, she then sits up and yawns.

“Time to go,” she says glancing around for her purse.

I hand it to her. She sleepily rubs her eyes and then scans my apartment one more time. It’s not until they are almost out the door that I hear the reason for her confusion.

“Your place is great,” she says slowly, “but how do I say this? How come you don't have any . . .? I don't know. It's so sterile.”

“He likes it that way,” Finn says.

He doesn't need to protect me. I grin. “I do like it that way, I guess. No deciding what to keep if you don’t have much.”

“Yeah, but you don't have any family photographs. There's no vacation photographs or knickknacks. There's nothing on your refrigerator. Mine’s covered with things.”

Finn nods. “Reminders for your patients to come and get their rabies shots. Test results.”

“There’s other stuff.” she says. “You know, photos of friends, my family.”

“Hey. I put the Colton Security Christmas card on the table there by the front door every year,” I say in mock defense. I can’t give her an answer she will like.

“I'm sorry,” she said laying a handle lightly on my arm. “I guess I'm just noticing these things, family things, more now that this has happened,” and she pats her abdomen.

She smiles and puts an arm around my neck and gives me a fast kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.” She turns around one more time before they step out into the hall. “You are a part of the family, you know.”

Part of me withdraws quickly. That is impossible. She has no idea.

΅

My phone is vibrating, not ringing. I’m disoriented—I never have it set on silent. I grope in the dark for the nightstand, trying to figure out if it’s even the phone. Then I remember. I turned the phone ringer off while Claire was dozing.

Kicking off sheets, I glance at the digital clock burning blue neon: 1:49 a.m.

All I can think of is that it’s Finn and Claire and something’s wrong. The baby. Push that thought away. A break-in at the hotel. It’s nice, but even nice places have their fires, burglaries, shooters. My heart is pounding, and all I can think is, You invited them here and now they're in trouble.

But it’s Jackson’s number that lights across the face of the black screen. I don’t pause from pulling on pants. “Talk to me,” comes out with the phone jammed between my ear and jaw as I reach for a shirt.

Jackson’s voice is young, eager, but there’s something else too—something more urgent. He’s breathing hard. “Nic. There’s a bomb.”