Page 48 of Burning For You

“I’m all ears. Shoot,” he said, leaning back and pushing his empty plate away.

He wanted to focus on her words.

Not the sadness around her eyes.

The cautiousness about her next move.

Just listen to her talk it out.

“You can tell me I’m nuts. I’ve been told it enough. Sean said the same thing. I could be reaching for something that isn’t there.”

“But you won’t know until you get it all out?”

“That’s how I feel. First, I’m not sure if Corbin told you about my job.”

“He did. Some of it. And I know you’re a freelance reporter.”

“That’s just kind of a side gig to help with my other writing.”

“You’ll have to explain that part because I thought you wrote like manuals or something.”

She laughed. “I do. But I want to be a fiction writer. I think I always have, but I’ve never been able to actually finish a book. I’d start and stop. I’d get these ideas and then freeze or just trail off.”

“Do you know why?”

“I think I need to tell my story. Even if it’s false. Even if what I put down isn’t right, I need to tell it as part of my therapy. A glimpse of what I lived in my life.”

“That makes sense.”

“But when I decided to do that, I realized there was so much that didn’t add up. Things I’ve pushed off for years and said not to get ahead of myself on. Not to let my mind wander where it has no place being.”

“Like thinking the fire wasn’t an accident?”

“Yes. Hear me out. They said that there was a cigarette left in the tray that caught fire. Yes, there were empty boxes in the living room. Boxes that never got broken down, even empty food boxes.”

“Which will only feed a fire once it starts. Did you have carpet or hardwood floors?”

“Carpet. Those old, cheap, green ones. I remember someone saying that made it worse.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “The fluffy carpets will trap the air and feed it like gasoline making it spread faster across the floor and up the walls.”

“I heard that too.” She continued, “I’m not disputing any of those things. Not at all. But there are two things I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

“One. My mother never left anything of a cigarette to burn. She sucked it right until the end. There was nothing to even stub out half the time, but she did. Always. At least in my mind.”

“You’re sure?”

“As sure as I am that she tipped back her can of beer five times to make sure even her backwash came out,” she said drily. “The same as my father. He didn’t smoke as much as her, but he did it occasionally.”

“Are you sure that they might not have lost track of it and gone to bed if they’d been drinking?”

“They were functioning alcoholics. They drank like that all the time, went to bed and got up and went to work the next day. I’m not sure I believe it, but sure, it could be possible.”

“You’re just not buying it?”

“It’s not up to me to do that.”