“Combats cyanide poisoning,”Isaid asIgently stroked her hair, smoothing it down. “Alot of the materials that burn in a residential structure fire release carbon and nitrogen.Underhigh heat, they create cyanide.”
Aurora sniffed, then sniffed again.
“Baby . . .”Iturned her over to face me and wiped her tears away. “Talkto me.”
“I don’t know how you found me,” she cried.Herbody shook as sobs racked her frame.
“Hey . . .Hey, hey.Justbreathe.I’vegot you,”Isoothed asIheld her closer. “You’reokay.That’swhat’s important.We’regonna figure out the rest.Itwas a freak accident.”
“I don’t even know how it happened so fast . . .”
I sighed asIworked the grotesque algorithm around in my brain the wayIhad whenIwent next door to see what was left. “The911 call said they saw lightning strike at least three times.Fromthe way the chimney fell,Ithink a bolt went straight down it and set the soot on fire.It’slike dropping a stick of dynamite down into the house.IfIhad to guess, another strike caused the wiring in the walls to catch fire and start burning from the inside, and the last one lit up the roof.Itwas an old house to begin with.Pairthat with all the oil-based paint and wood stain we had stored up . . .Itwas a powder keg.”
Crying made her break into a coughing fit.Ikept my hand on her back as she sat up and reached for the waterIhad put on the bedside table.
“I was stupid,” she whispered in a hoarse voice when she set the glass back on the table.
"No, you weren’t.Youdid what you could and got lucky that the renters on the other side saw the lightning strikes and called it in.Itwas . . .”Isighed. “Shit.Youwere in the wrong place at the wrong time.Itwasn’t your fault.”
I tried to tamp down the memory of hearing dispatch rattle off the address to theOldWhitlockPlace.Theoverwhelming fearIfelt whenIcalled her over and over again from the engine during the short drive from the station.Theabsolute terror when she didn’t answer andIrealizedAurorawasn’t at my house.Thelife-altering painIfelt whenIknew that she was, likely, trapped.ThewayInearly crumbled whenIfound her curled up on the floor of a hell house.
“It was the perfect storm.”Ipulled her into my arms again. “Butyou know what, sweetheart?Soare you.You’remyperfect storm.”
She looked up at me with tear-stained cheeks.
“You struck me close to home, and didn’t leave until you wrecked me in the best way.Youmade me face my fears.Youhelped me confront thingsI’vebeen too scared to face.Andyou know what?I’mbetter for it.I’mscared of losing you,Roar.I’mfucking terrified that you’re going to wake up tomorrow and drive back toColorado.”
“What ifIdo?” she whispered. “WhatifIleave?”
I tucked her hair behind her ear. “ThenI’mcoming with you.”
Aurora didn’t say a word.Shesimply laid her head on my chest, wrapped her arms around me, and cried.
I didn’t blame her one bit.
* * *
The next morningdidn’t fare any better.Lighthad an uncanny way of illuminating the parts we wanted to keep secret or ignore.Themoment thatAurorapeeked through the curtains and saw the outline of the house barely standing, she lost it.
I caught her as she crumbled and held her through the onslaught of grief.
When she had worked through the first wave of shock, she calmly peeled herself away and announced that she was going over there.
I watched through the windowpane beaded with air conditioning condensation asAurorastood in the middle of the blackened stilts that had once held up the house.Shewas in a pair of my gym shorts that had been rolled over at the waist six times, one of my t-shirts tied at the bottom, and a pair of my boots to keep her feet safe.
So many decisions had to be made.Forthe house.Forthe property.Butright then, allIcared about was her.
Hell, she didn’t even have clothes.Theonly thing she had over here was some damn underwear.Thatwas whereIneeded to start.Thepractical stuff.
The existential “Ilove you, but you don’t love me” problem could be handled later.
I gaveAuroratime to grieve the future plans that had turned to ash, and waited patiently.Iknew from firsthand experience that mourning couldn’t be rushed.Hell, it never really ended.Whetheryou were mourning someone or something, grief was grief.Likethe ocean, it came in waves.Ithad to be experienced, and it had to be respected.
I watched as she found a safe place to sit on the fallen chimney and hugged her knees, soaking it all in.Takingthat as the signal that she might be ready for company,Islipped on a pair of shoes, grabbed a pair of work gloves and supplies in case she wanted to paw through it all, and walked over.
Aurora didn’t say anything asIcrunched through the debris.Isqueezed in beside her on the charred bricks and wrapped my arm around her.
“My debit and credit cards are gone.”Shewiped a stray tear. “Soare my driver’s license and my keys.Well,Iguess my keys are in there somewhere, but it would be like finding a needle in a haystack at this point.”Shelet out a sharp breath. “Myclothes are gone.Mylaptop is burned to shit.Ibacked up my manuscripts to the cloud, but all my pictures and old files are gone.”Herlip quivered. “Thedrafting desk is gone.I’venever been given something so beautiful.Youput so much into that and it’s . . . it’s gone.”Shekicked at the rubble. “Iknew the house wasn’t mine, butIdidn’t want to see it be bulldozed.”Tearsleaked from the corners of her eyes and her voice softened. “Iwanted to be able to drive by it someday and see the place whereIfell in love with you.”
