Waiting to see if she'd ever open that door again?
Turns out standing still takes more courage than running in.
CHAPTER 19
Maya
Two weeks since the fire.
Two weeks since everything burned.
The smell of smoke was gone from my hair, my clothes. The burns on my hands were healing, pink, and tender, but no longer bandaged. The doctors had cleared me. I was fine.
But I didn’t feel like it.
Zoe had been careful around me all week, tiptoeing like I might shatter if she moved too fast or spoke too loudly. She did the dishes without being asked. Made her own breakfast. Stopped playing music in her room.
I hated it. Hated that my daughter had to manage my emotions. Hated that I'd become someone who needed managing.
At night, I lay awake and replayed everything.
The photo.
The article.
The comments that had confirmed every fear I'd ever had about myself.
The fire. Tommy's tears. The smoke filled my lungs as I held his hand and promised I wouldn't let go.
And Shane.
Shane, who ran through a burning building. Shane, who appeared through the smoke like something out of a dream. Shane's hands that steadied Tommy, his voice calm and certain.
‘I'm here to get you both out.’
He came anyway.
I kept circling back to that. I'd pushed him away. Ended us. And he came anyway.
David left when things got hard. My parents pulled away when I needed them most. Everyone I’d ever counted on had proven that counting on people was a mistake.
But Shane ran into a burning building for me.
What was I supposed to do with that?
The psychiatric facility was forty minutes outside the city. Gray walls. Fluorescent lights. The smell of industrial cleaner and something sadder underneath.
I wasn't sure they'd let me in. I'd called ahead, explained who I was, and the woman on the phone had gone quiet for a moment before saying visiting hours were two to four. Sometimes it's that simple. Sometimes you just have to ask.
Tommy looked smaller than I remembered. Smaller than he should have been. The anger that had twisted his features in that hallway was gone, replaced by something hollowed out and fragile. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt that hung off his thin frame, and he wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Hey, Tommy."
He flinched at his name. "Ms. Cummins." His voice was barely a whisper. "I didn't think you'd come."
"I said I'd help you. I meant it."
"Why?" He finally looked at me, eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. After what I did. After I almost—" His voice broke. "Why are you helping me?"
