I tuck him in, blow him a kiss, and make sure his door is safely closed.
Then I walk back into the kitchen, roll up my sleeves, and take out a full bottle of sunflower oil from a pantry that has seen better days. Unscrewing the lid, I take a deep breath and hope that shady insurance guy knows what the fuck he’s talking about.
The dread sitting heavy in my stomach turns to fear as I turn on the gas.Okay. So I’m actually doing this. Right now.
But I remind myself that the world has left me with no other choice. People around here who flash luxury sports cars probably got them same way I’m about to get clothes for my child’s closet—by turning against the law.
Maybe that’s just how people get ahead in life these days. My father definitely broke a few laws when I was growing up. I was naive enough at the time to not question his whereabouts when he would disappear for a few days at a time for “work.” His office was the beehive at the other end of the garden. But I was young—what did I know?
I follow the insurance consultant’s instructions and crank the stove up to the highest setting. Shakily, I place a frying pan on top of the ring—nonstick apparently works best for this kind of thing.
The mess on the countertop catches my eye. Between work and caring for Sonny, I have next to no time to clean this place up. Mortgage payment letters pile up. Among stacks of documents are old toys that Sonny keeps forgetting about, and an old nail kit I keep forgetting to use. Manicures are simply not in the budget, so I’ve been meaning to try a more budget-friendly one from home.
Dishes from the lunch Jess made drip-dry on the drainer. She must’ve poured bleach in the sink or something, and wiped down the sides with disinfectant.
I hesitate with the oil when I smell the chemicals, but after a quick search on my phone to check that bleach is flammable, I confidently unscrew the cap of sunflower oil and pour a generous amount into the frying pan.
Deep-frying chicken,is what my alibi will be.Karaage chicken is Sonny’s favorite.
That part isn’t a lie. It’s his Friday-night dinner of choice.
I keep the heat high and wait for the rest to unfold. Standing back, I watch the oil start to fizzle and pop, air stuck in my throat as I do something that could very much put my life in danger, never mind Sonny’s.
But his bedroom is far enough away for him to be safe. Besides, this will all be over and done before I know it. I’ll call the fire station, wait for them to put out the small blaze, and get in touch with the stove company as soon as the firefighters leave. Money could be in my account before the day’s over.
Firefighters…
My breath catches.
Caleb was close to joining the station here in Maple Crossing…before the New York City Fire Department got him first.
It was everything to nothing in less than twenty-four hours.
Sharing a milkshake in the back of his rented truck.
Hands down the best one I’ve ever tasted.
My legs dangle from the car, while his are long enough to touch the ground.
God, he’s so fucking tall.
And hot.
We take turns drinking the milkshake. Didn’t wanna order a second—sharing one felt more intimate.
The sun goes down between the trees. Caleb says those trees are better than the New York City high-rises. “Maybe I’ll take you there someday,” he says. “If I can bring myself to leave this place.”
Strawberry kisses.
Summer sunsets.
He drops me off at home before it gets dark. With his arm hanging out the window, he says, “See you tomorrow, Hart.”
But tomorrow rolls around and he’s gone.
Some dumb senior firefighting position was more important than me.
I’m jolted back to the present moment by the acid smell of smoke. I cough once, clear my throat twice, and refrain from opening the windows.
