Then something slices through the quiet. A shrill, insistent beeping that detonates inside my skull. Smoke detector. Rapid. High. Relentless.
It shouldn’t make my whole body fold in on itself. It shouldn’t make my hands go cold and my vision narrow to a tiny, sharp pinprick.
It’s not just a sound to me. It’s a memory.
I can still smell the putrid smoke.
Can still feel the heat of the fire.
Can still hear the incessant beeping of the smoke detectors going off as our house was reduced to rubble.
And what makes the panic tighten around me like a noose is the realization that the beeping isn’t coming frommytownhouse.
It’s coming from Claire’s.
A full-body jolt hits me, and I sprint across the driveway and toward her front door, my pulse slamming against my ribs. Thankfully, there are no signs of smoke from the windows, but that doesn’t mean anything. My childhood home was engulfed in flames in minutes.
I try the knob, but it’s locked.
“Claire?” I shout, pounding on the door. No answer.
But her car’s in the driveway.
I spin and run into my house, tearing through the kitchen and out onto the shared deck, rushing toward the sliding glass door. I pull on it, prepared to smash the glass if need be. Thankfully, it opens, and I rush inside.
No flames. No scorched walls. No blistering heat engulfing me.
Just Claire in the kitchen, totally oblivious to my presence. She’s wearing oversized pink headphones that make her look absurdly cute, dancing and singing “All I Want for Christmas is You”. She’s searing something in a pan, smoke curling toward the ceiling as the alarm shrieks overhead.
I grab a chair and climb on it, my fingers fumbling around until the beeping stops. When it does, the silence rushes back in, feeling unnervingly loud.
Only then does Claire turn.
“Declan!” she gasps, ripping off her headphones. “What are you?—”
“Your smoke detector was going off.”
“Sorry.” She laughs sheepishly, turning off the burner and removing the cast iron skillet from the heat. “Our exhaust fanis broken so whenever I sear anything….” She gestures to the smoke. “This happens. I’ve learned to ignore it.”
“Ignore it?” I stare at her, incredulous.
“I was in the mood for an ahi salad tonight.” She gives me another sheepish smile, setting the tuna steak on a cutting board. “Sorry if it bothered you.”
“Bothered me?”
The words come out ragged, uneven.
Before I can wrap my head around what I’m doing, I close the space between us in three strides, my still shaking hands framing her face.
Her eyes widen and her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away. As if she can sense I need this. Need to feel her skin against mine. Feel her warmth. Feel the reminder that she’s here. That she’s alive.
“I thought…” I shake my head, struggling to get the words out.
I’m still in that house, smoke so thick I can’t breathe, my mother urging me to run.
“Thought what?” she asks softly, her eyes locked on mine. She reaches up and cups my cheek, her touch grounding me to the present instead of the past that still torments me every damn day.
Except with her.
