If Caleb wasn’t such a nice guy—and he is, I don’t care what he says—he’d have dropped me off at the shelter in Montpelier and wiped his hands clean of me instead of insisting I stay at his house to recover.
I should have said no when he offered. But I was just so tired, and the idea of a shower and a bed andCaleb’s reassuring proximity was too much to resist. So I said yes. And now it’s more than twelve hours later and I’m still here. In his house. Accepting his hospitality. Allowing him to play nurse and personal chef while I lounge on the living room couch as if I deserve it.
The pressure behind my eyes builds. My nose prickles. A few rogue tears trickle down my cheeks and chin before darkening the quilt tucked over my knees. I watch as the dark spots spread into the pale blue fabric, turning it a gloomy gray.
Gray like my mood.
Gray like the overcast sky through the window.
Gray like the ash-covered snow around the spot where the cabin used to be.
Though I’ve always tried not to wallow in self-pity, it’s really hard not to.
Hugging my knees close to my chest, I bury my face in the quilt and squeeze my eyes shut. I try to think of something positive—anythingpositive—but I’m drawing a blank.
I don’t wantto feel sorry for myself. But how can I not?
My car is wrecked. I don’t have a place to stay. I’m on forced leave from work—my boss called to tell me to take the next two days off as soon as he heard about the fire—which means it’ll take even longer to save up for an apartment. Everything I own was destroyed. And I royally screwed things up for the person who’s been kindest to me.
Yesterday, there was a small seed of hope that my burgeoning friendship with Caleb might turn intosomething more. Each time he smiled at me, or touched me, or did something thoughtful like buying those cookies or making homemade hot cocoa after snowmobiling just because I mentioned liking it, the seed sprouted another root. And when he hugged me before he left the cabin last night—before the fire, when everything was still good—the little roots dug deeper.
But that hope is over.
And I feel so horrible about last night, I’m not sure if I can bring myself to stay here anymore.
“Vienna?”
My head jerks up at Caleb’s voice. He’s not in the kitchen anymore, but standing in the doorway of the living room. His expression is solemn.
My heart drops.
He’s going to ask me to leave.
Yes, I know I’ve been thinking about it myself. But deep down, there’s a part of me that wants to stay as long as he’ll let me.
Sniffing back my tears, I work to keep my voice steady. “Did you hear anything? About the fire?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he crosses the room in several long strides, his gaze never leaving mine. Once he reaches the couch, he drops to his knees in front of me. “Vienna. What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”
Before I can reply, he peels the quilt back and takes my injured hand. As he turns it over to inspect it, he continues, “Is it your hand? Do you need to take something for it?”
It’s hard to concentrate on answering when his touch feels so good. But I force myself to. “I’m fine.”
Caleb searches my face. “Are you having trouble breathing? Feeling dizzy? Nauseous?”
I shake my head while trying to sniff unobtrusively. “No trouble breathing. And I’m not dizzy or nauseous. I’m okay. Really.”
He rises from his knees and perches on the edge of the couch, turning so he’s facing me. “You’re not fine,” he states. “You were crying.” His thumb brushes across my cheek. “People don’t cry for no reason.”
“It’s just my eyes,” I lie. “They’re still a little sore and itchy. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” His brows go up. “Are you sure?”
The truth wants to come out. But for some reason I don’t understand, I keep it in and change the subject instead. “Did the fire chief say anything about the fire?”
A frown creases his forehead. After a brief hesitation, Caleb replies, “He’s sending the fire investigator out this afternoon. Around two, he said, so there’s time to look around before it gets dark.”
My stomach twists. Even though I know the fire had to have been my fault, until there’s confirmation, I can still hang onto a sliver of hope that it was a fluke accident. After the fire investigator comes, though…
