Chapter Twenty-Two
Angela
I have never been so humiliated in my life.
First, he dumps me without a word. Then he ignores me for over a week.
Then he invites me out for a drink, at which point his mom storms in and acts like he’s taken up with a drug-addicted sex worker who’s going to screw up his credit and give him an STD.
Stay away from my son. Stay away from her son?
What the hell did he tell his mom about me to make her act like that?
As promised, I block his number and his email address. Fortunately, being on the run means I have no social media accounts, so I don’t have to worry about blocking him from those, too. Brady does his part by completely ignoring me again.
The next week passes much the same as the last, with me buried in my books, working extra shifts, and putting in more time at Legal Aid, exhausting myself so that I can fall asleep without crying for hours.
The weather is getting increasingly hot, dry, and windy.
The smell of fire is always in the air, like a far-off campfire.
Dust is everywhere, coating my pores and my hair and feeling like grit in my mouth.
I would kill for rain or anything to change my routine up a little bit, but the work and the dry heat are equally relentless.
By Saturday night, the Diablo winds are so strong they keep me awake despite a long night at work.
I lie in bed, listening to them screaming down the canyon and buffeting the garage, knocking over a planter and maybe a chair outside.
That wind is the loneliest sound I’ve ever heard, and as I lie awake under my sheet feeling the garage shake slightly with each strong gust, I wish I were lying with Brady’s heavy arm anchoring me to him.
On Sunday, I wake up after just a few hours of sleep and notice two things: it’s still windy, and the campfire now smells like it’s in my backyard.
I peek outside. The sky looks apocalyptic—orange and hazy with a red disk of sun.
I check my weather app. Highs in the nineties, strong winds, and a wildfire raging in a canyon about five miles away.
Well, that explains the sky. I pack a sweatshirt and my laptop and books and head to the library.
I’m sweating and dusty by the time I arrive, my eyes and mouth burning with the ash that’s drifting from the sky. I go in the bathroom and wipe my face down with a damp paper towel before shaking out my ashy, windblown hair and re-braiding it. I guzzle water to get the taste of ash out of my mouth.
God, this is awful. Will this weather ever let up?
The air is cool in the library, but it still smells like smoke. I finally get to work, reading and outlining the cases for tomorrow’s class. I’m two hours into it when a security guard approaches me.
“Ma’am, we’re closing down campus due to poor air quality from the fire. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
“Oh! Sure, okay,” I say. Damn it. I turn on my phone to give Lizette a call and make sure she’s okay. But a text from her pops up as soon as my phone powers on.
We’ve been evacuated. I’m staying but you might want to get your stuff.
I instantly think of the dry pastureland behind her property.
I pull up a map of the area on my phone and realize that our neighborhood is across the freeway from where the fire is raging.
It couldn’t get across that huge freeway, could it?
Surely we’re being evacuated just to be safe.
But my books and my cash and my jewelry are in the apartment.
You’re totally overreacting, Angela , I tell myself as I quickly pack up my stuff and stow it in my backpack.
I run out to the garage and hop on my bike.
As I speed out onto the street, I almost collide with an SUV.
A dark blue Jeep Grand Cherokee to be exact.
It screeches to a halt in front of me, and I topple over.
A string of profanities bubbles up inside me, but I manage to clamp my lips together.
Brady hops out of his car and runs over to me.
“Jesus Christ, Angela, are you okay?” He helps me up and holds me by the arms, looking me over.
Am I okay ? No, I’m not okay! My knee and elbow are scraped, but it’s nothing compared to the excruciating embarrassment of nearly crashing into Brady’s car.
“I’m fine,” I grumble, shaking free of him and leaning down to pick up my bike. “I have to go.”
“Where are you going? I was just coming to get you.”
I turn to stare at him in shock. “What the hell are you talking about?” I snap at him.
“I was just at your place. Your neighborhood’s under an evacuation order. I went to get you, but your landlady said you weren’t there.”
“You went to get me?” I shake my head in confusion and disbelief and climb on my bike. “I’ve got to go.”
Brady grabs the handlebars. “Where are you going?”
“I have to get my stuff.”
“From your apartment?” he says incredulously.
“Let go of my bike.”
“You can’t just go riding over there on your bike, Ange. Don’t you understand what an evac order is? The fire’s coming right down the canyon toward your neighborhood.”
“Well, I’d better get a move on, then. Now let go so I can get the hell out of here.”
“You’re out of your mind,” he says. “You’re not going.”
“Well, you’re not stopping me, so unless you want me to file a report with campus security, you’d better let go.” I try to wrench the handlebars away from him, but he holds tight.
“Get in my car. I’ll take you,” he says, sounding frustrated and looking like he wants to kill me.
“What are you talking about? I’m not—” But before I can complete the sentence, he grabs me around the waist, hoists me off the bike, and throws my bike in the back of his car.
“Get. The fuck. In the car.”
“Fuck. You!” I scream, stamping my foot like a bratty preschooler.
But I’m also desperate to get to my place and salvage my things.
I yank open the passenger side door and get in, slamming it hard behind me.
I buckle in and fold my arms across my chest, my breath coming in heaving gasps that are partly the fault of air quality but mostly unshed, furious tears.
We’re silent as Brady speeds through town, his hands tight on the steering wheel and a hardness to his jaw that I’ve never seen before.
Ash is now raining down on the windshield.
Traffic is heavy heading away from my neighborhood, but the road heading toward it is empty.
When we get to my street, we’re stopped by a barricade manned by a firefighter in full gear.
Brady puts his window down.
“Can’t go in there, folks,” says the firefighter.
“I’m FDNY,” says Brady, handing the guy an ID card. “This lady left behind a pet before the evac order went out. Can I escort her in real quick and then we’ll get out of here?”
The man returns Brady’s ID. “Yeah. Be quick, though. Fire jumped the freeway. It’s moving fast.”
“You got it, man. Thanks.” Brady puts his window back up and steers around the barricade. He speeds to my street and pulls all the way up the drive to my apartment. “Let’s go,” he says.
Lizette is up on a ladder, spraying down her roof with a garden hose.
“You gotta get out of here, ma’am,” Brady calls to her. “Fire’s moving fast.”
“No way!” she calls back. “They’ll have to drag me out of here!”
“Jesus Christ,” Brady mutters, following me into my apartment. “Hurry!” he says.
“I am!” I huff, running straight for my cash and jewelry and throwing them into my canvas MoMA tote. I quickly throw some underwear and clothes in there, too.
“Gimme those,” says Brady, taking the stack of textbooks from me. “Let’s go.”
We run out of the apartment and get in the car. By now the smoke is unbearable, and I’m coughing.
“Last chance, ma’am,” Brady shouts to Lizette out his window.
“I’ll be all right,” she calls, still up on the ladder with her hose.
Brady shakes his head, muttering under his breath and looking seriously pissed, and speeds off through my neighborhood.
“Look,” says Brady, pointing out his window. I gasp when I see the hills behind my street lit up with flames.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, stunned.
We navigate past the barricade and join the traffic heading away from the fire.
“So, um, listen,” he says, running a hand over his face. “Air quality’s bad all over town. I thought we could head back to Cataluna Hills, stay there a couple of nights until this is under control. I’ve got a bag packed and a room booked.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say, my voice low and controlled but for a touch of bitterness I’m unable to conceal.
“Where are you gonna stay, then?”
That’s a good question. I literally have nowhere to go. Everyone I know is evacuating. And unless I want to burn through the food and rent money I’ve just stuffed into my bag, I can’t even afford a hotel room. I want to scream with frustration. “I’ll figure something out,” I say.
“Fine. Where should I drop you?” It sounds more like a challenge than an offer.
“Finnegan’s.”
“Closed.”
Shit. I’m silent, frantically running through my mind for options. This is an eventuality I had never planned for.
“Come on, Angela. Just come with me. It’s just for a couple of days.”
“Fine,” I whisper, dangerously close to crying.
I take deep breaths to control myself, but it’s no use.
The stress of the day’s events, plus the loneliness that’s built up over the last few weeks, eventually spills over.
I turn my face toward the window so he can’t see the tears streaming down my face.
Unfortunately, a telltale sniffle makes him look my way.
“Shit,” he says under his breath.
“Fuck off, Brady,” I say, hating how tearful and shaky my voice sounds.
“Angie.”
“Just. Shut. Up.”
He sighs. “Okay.”
He manages to keep his mouth shut for the entire trip to Cataluna Hills, which must be a record for him. He pulls up to the hotel where we went on our date and checks us into a room with two queen beds.