Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 147(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 147(@300wpm)
My phone rings.
I know who it will be. Fuck it—I answer. “You have some nerve, you know?”
“Lia.” Blaze sounds relieved. “Will you please just let me explain?”
“Okay, yeah. I’d like to hear how you explain this. Go ahead.”
“First of all, I’m not trying to get rid of you. No one is trying to get rid of you. That’s not it at all. I honestly think fire inspector suits your skill set.”
“Oh, what skill set is that?” My voice drips with lethal sarcasm. “Setting fires?”
He draws a breath and I know I’ve hit the nail on the head.
“Great. Thanks. You know—I get it. You’re a fixer. You like to help people. You act like a grump but you’re actually the guy everyone calls when they need a hero. And I became your new project. The pyro who can’t get over her guilt. You saw my problem straight away and you stepped in to fix it.” My voice breaks, the pain of what I’m saying tearing me in two. Because as I speak the words, I know without any doubt, every word is true.
“Well, thanks but no thanks. I don’t need fixing.” My eyes smart and my nose burns. “I’m not broken. And even if I were, I can take care of myself.”
I hang up on Blaze before he can reply.
Because really? What can he possibly say? I know I’m right.
He calls back but I block his number.
I don’t need to hear his shit.
I open the kitchen drawer and pull out a book of matches reflexively, but of course I remember Blaze’s attempt to cure me of this. I crumple the matchbook in my fist and hurl it at the wall.
Fuck him.
I don’t need his help, or anyone else’s. I don’t have a problem.
There’s nothing wrong with me.
And if that means walking away from a fire career to prove it, I will.
Blaze
I punch the wall in my living room.
Sonofabitch.
How could I fuck something up so badly?
Something that actually means something to me. Someone who actually means something to me.
Lia isn’t a rescue project. She’s the only bright spot in my life. Why didn’t I realize that sooner and show her? Tell her?
Why in the fuck do I always have to be a hero? What made me think I could ‘fix’ things for Lia? I was trying to help, but I did it in the worst possible way. I should’ve talked to her, offered my help—which she probably wouldn’t have accepted. I guess that’s why I went around behind her back. It wasn’t just to surprise her. It was to railroad her.
And that makes me a goddamn asshole.
I suck at relationships. I should’ve learned from my experience with Samantha. I’m too controlling, I jump in too fast. I try to make something out of nothing.
Clearly that’s what I did with Lia, too.
And if I care about her, I need to back the fuck off. She doesn’t want my help. The best thing I can do is leave her the fuck alone.
I punch the wall again, satisfied when the plaster crunches and my knuckles come away swollen and torn.
And then I whale on that wall with both fists until the entire panel is in a crumbled heap at my feet.
Chapter 13
Lia
The trouble with anger is that when it goes away, there’s often a worse feeling underneath. Anger hides the true emotion. Often it’s fear, like when I bluster and bluff my way through things.
Right now it’s heartache.
Because breaking up with Blaze is the worst thing I’ve done.
That’s not true. Burning down the house was the worst thing. But splitting with Blaze comes in as a close second.
My heart is a sunken stone, far below my solar plexus, but not quite to my bowels. It’s sloshing around in my stomach, making it impossible for me to eat. Or walk. Or move really.
Which is why I spent the past three days in bed.
The guys from CrossFit texted to find out why I no-showed—because I never no-show unless I’m on shift.
The worst of it? Today’s my birthday.
Worst birthday of my life.
I have to drag myself out of this bed and get to my parents’ house, but eating my mom’s home-cooked food and listening to the banter of my overbearing family is the last thing I want to do.
I should tell them I got called in to cover a shift.
No, my mom would just insist on rescheduling for tomorrow.
My phone rings. I check the screen. It’s my cousin, Talia. She’s probably the only person in the world I would answer the phone for right now. I swipe my screen. “Hey, girl.”
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you—”
“Yeah, thanks.” I cut in before she can finish singing the whole damn song.
She must catch the heaviness in my tone, because she immediately drops the chipper thing. “What’s wrong?”
“Ugh,” is all I can say.