“There is a spare toothbrush and things in the bathroom.” Looking at him strangely, he must understand my mind. “Relax, I have a bunch of hotel kits from traveling. If you feel the need to destress with sewing, then there is probably a thread with a spare button in there, too.”
“Sewing isn’t for me, and thank you again.”
Keats circles the bed with a strong stride to stand before me and raises his hands to frame my face with my hair between his fingers. The hold he has on me is firm which makes it easy for him to lower his lips to mine for a deep kiss. One that I’m receptive to, anchoring me down on earth and creating longing for this man that I no longer view as an enemy. Keats is a man of character and caring. Just so happens, I’m lucky enough that he wants to be those things with me. I kiss him back, powerful and confirming. I don’t want to run away. Even when I want to shut myself away from the world right now, I want to do that with him.
We part, and he kisses my forehead delicately. “It will be okay,” he promises.
Our eyes meet for a mutual agreement. If they could talk, then it would be to say that he’ll protect me, and I’ll let him.
Eyes always speak the truth.
Walkingthrough the rubble with Keats, the smell of smoke means that we will need to shower when we get back to his place. We can see the remnants of part of my house. Or rather, we can see the kitchen and living room, but there is a giant black hole.
“Luckily, it didn’t spread upstairs,” he highlights.
“I should be grateful for that, but my entire kitchen and living room are gone. Nothing is savable here.”
Keats gently kicks a piece of burnt wood while his hands stay in his pockets. “They need to check the foundation and the load-bearing walls for upstairs. The insurance guy mentioned he will get out here only on Monday. I’ll talk to him about getting some temporary beams in.”
I grab his arm to give us a pause. “Wait… I heard you earlier that you’re not working on Monday. Is it…” There is no way. He never abandons work.
“You need help with this.” He downplays this, but it means a lot to me.
“You don’t have to do that. I know you’re busy,” I assure him. His lips press together, clearly disagreeing, and it’s apparent that there is no point debating this. Besides, my heart warms over this gesture, and that’s a feeling I don’t want to let go of. “Thank you.”
We take a few more steps into my home. “My desk sanctuary. My photos. The flowers you gave me. Hell, even my pie plates… all gone,” I list in a daze.
Keats nudges my arm with his elbow. “They are allreplaceable. Besides, your pie plates were not really being used to their full potential since I never got a baked present.”
I flash my eyes at him, grateful that he is trying to make this easier on me, but I need to keep this appraisal going. “Upstairs will need to be aired out for what feels like forever. Re-painted, too. Maybe new flooring in my bedroom because it’s above the kitchen. Probably just better to start all over again.”
“I’m not sure what to say except… it could have been worse, and lucky for all of us, you are still standing here.”
I rest my head on his upper arm as we stand side by side. “Lucky us,” I echo.
It’s a long minute of staring at the scene until I sigh and decide that we’ve seen enough. There is nothing I can do today.
I interlink my hand with Keats’s as we exit my charred home. We notice a woman helping Mrs. Tiller out of the front seat of her car. That must be her daughter.
“Oh, Esme. I’m so sorry,” she wails.
Swallowing my anger, I remember that it was an accident. I mosey her way with Keats in tow. “How are you feeling?” My hand creates a visor over my eyes due to the sunlight.
“I’m too strong. Nothing is wrong. But your house…” she cries. In the corner of my eye, Keats is shaking hands with Mrs. Tiller’s daughter.
“Your house, too.”
Her daughter interrupts. “I’ve called the insurance company, and I will be sure to keep you updated.”
That headache is returning, and Keats must notice. “I think today we just focus on the shock.”
We all study each other with solemnity and complete deflation. The shining sun does fuck all to lighten the mood.
It’s a little chitchat more before Keats and I head back to his house, and he ushers me to the kitchen.
“Hey, look at that, you have a working kitchen,” my humor is a little cynical today.
He smiles to himself, amused. “A saving grace because you need to be fed. Besides, I’m starving. Being a superhero is hard work. It gets me the girl, but it’s a killer on my physique,” he jokes.
