Chapter 19
Jamie
Rosie was standing by the couch in her pajamas, watching Sam sleep.
I found her there in the gray light of early morning, bare feet on the carpet, her expression serious in the way it got when she was trying to figure something out. She didn't move when I approached. She just stood there, studying him.
Sam was too big for the couch. His feet hung off the end, one arm dangled toward the floor, and his neck was bent at an angle that made my own spine ache just looking at it.
Even in sleep, he looked uncomfortable. His brow was furrowed, his jaw tight, his body arranged in a way that couldn't possibly be restful.
He'd been sleeping like this for weeks. For us.
"He's like Goldilocks," Rosie whispered. "But the couch is too small."
Something cracked open in my chest.
I'd known, of course. I'd seen him stretching in the mornings, rolling his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck. But I hadn't let myself look at it directly. I hadn't let myself feel the weight of what he was giving up every single night so that Rosie and I could have his bed.
Sam stirred. His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light, and then he saw us. Both of us, standing there watching him like he was an exhibit.
He smiled. That easy, warm smile that made my stomach flip in ways I was trying very hard not to think about.
"Something wrong?" His voice was rough with sleep.
Rosie pointed at his feet. "You're too big for the couch."
Sam laughed and pushed himself upright, wincing slightly as his back protested. "I'm fine, Rosie. The couch and I are old friends."
Rosie shook her head, unconvinced. "Goldilocks found a bed that was juuuust right. You should find one too."
He laughed again, but I saw the way he rubbed his shoulder when he thought we weren't looking. I saw the stiffness in his movements as he stood.
I didn't believe him. And from the way Rosie was still frowning at the couch, neither did she.
After we dropped Rosie at school, I found myself noticing Sam's apartment in a way I hadn't before.
When we first arrived, I'd been in survival mode. Getting through each day. Getting Rosie fed and bathed and to school on time. I hadn't stopped to look at where we were actually living.
Now I did.
The apartment was modest but comfortable. Nothing flashy, but there was quality underneath the simplicity. I thought about how Sam could afford this. Not all firefighters lived like this.
Havensworth didn't have one fire department.
It had a patchwork of districts, each funded by its own tax base, each paying its firefighters differently.
A crew on James Island might make $36,000 a year.
A crew in a wealthier district might make $50,000.
Same job. Same risks. Different zip code.
And because each district operated independently, a dispatcher like Megan couldn't just send the nearest unit to a call—she had to work within jurisdictional lines, even when lives were on the line.
Sam and Jack were career firefighters at Station 33, one of the better-funded stations, and it showed.
My eyes drifted to the corner of the living room. A record player. And beside it, a crate of vinyl albums.
I crossed the room and crouched down, flipping through the spines. Led Zeppelin. Creedence Clearwater Revival. The Eagles. Lynyrd Skynyrd.
Something tugged in my chest.
"Jack had half of these," I said.
Sam appeared in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand. "We used to fight over who had better taste. Never did settle it."
I pulled out Creedence. "This was always playing at our house."
"Your dad got us into them." Sam crossed the room and crouched beside me. "He'd put this on during backyard cookouts and talk about seeing them live in '72. Jack and I must've heard that story a hundred times."
I smiled. I remembered those cookouts. Dad at the grill, Mom bringing out lemonade, Jack and Sam throwing a football in the yard while the music drifted through the screen door.
Sam took the album from my hands. "Come on."
He slid the vinyl from its sleeve and set it spinning. The first notes filled the apartment, and suddenly I was twelve years old again—summer heat and the smell of charcoal and my father's voice singing along off-key.
Sam settled onto the couch. I sat beside him, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him.
The music did what music always does. It made the room feel bigger and smaller at the same time.
"I wasn't there when he died."
The words came out before I could stop them.
"I should have come home sooner. He told me not to, but I should have come anyway." I stared at my hands. "I could have said goodbye. I could have been there with him at the end. Instead I was in New York drinking champagne."
Sam was quiet beside me. When he spoke, his voice was rough.
"No one was there when he died, Jamie. He was alone."
I turned to look at him. I hadn't known Jack spent his last moments without anyone beside him.
"I tell myself he wanted it that way," he said. "That he didn't want Rosie to see him suffer. I want to think he didn't want us to watch him go. That he wanted us to remember him happy."
I thought about Jack. The memories that came when I said his name.
Sitting at the kitchen table at midnight, his patience never wavering as he walked me through calculus I didn't understand.
The way he looked at Sarah on their wedding day, like she was the only person in the room.
Rosie on his shoulders, both of them laughing at something I couldn't hear.
The hug he gave me at the airport before I left for New York, holding on a beat longer than usual, like he knew something was ending.
His laugh. The sound of it, loud and easy, filling whatever room he was in.
Every time I worked on the reform proposal, every time I looked at Rosie's face, Jack was still there. Still alive somewhere in my mind. Because the images that stayed, the ones I carried—they were all happy.
"That's what I tell myself," he said again, quieter now.
Sam was showing me the thing he held onto so he could live with it. And I realized I wasn't the only one who'd been carrying this.
The guilt didn't disappear. But the weight of it shifted. It was still heavy, but we were holding it together now.
I reached over and took his hand. The music played on, but I'd stopped hearing it.
He was here. He'd been here through all of it—the funeral, the fire, the days I couldn't get out of bed and the days I had to anyway. I didn't know what I would have done without him.
His thumb traced across my knuckles. Neither of us looked away.
Somewhere in the silence, the space between us had gotten smaller. I didn't remember moving closer. I didn't think he had either. But here we were, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough that—
A knock at the door made us both jump.
Megan's voice came through the door. "It's me. I brought food."
Sam exhaled. He ran a hand through his hair. By the time he stood to answer the door, the moment had passed, but I could still feel the ghost of it in my chest.
I stayed on the couch, trying to slow my heartbeat, trying to look like nothing had happened. Because nothing had happened. We were just sitting. Listening to music. Talking about Jack.
Megan swept in with grocery bags in both arms. She took one look at us—Sam standing by the door, me on the couch, the record still spinning—and something flickered across her face. She didn't say anything. Just set the bags on the counter and started unpacking.
"How are you two doing? Rosie settling in okay?"
"She's good," I said. "We're figuring it out."
"That's great. Kids are resilient." Megan pulled out a container of soup. "Listen, I wanted to tell you something. A friend of mine has a two-bedroom apartment available. It's close by, affordable, and when she heard about the fire, she offered to give you a discount on rent."
I looked at Sam.
He was already shaking his head. "They're fine here. I don't mind the couch."
"Sam." I kept my voice gentle. "You can't keep sleeping on a couch that's too small for you. Rosie noticed this morning. Even she knows it's not right."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. There was nothing he could say—or at least nothing that wouldn't reveal more than either of us was ready to name.
"Thank you, Megan," I said. "We'll take it."
Megan looked between us with a knowing expression that said she could see the shape of what we were dancing around even if we couldn't.
"I'll text you the details," she said. "You can move in whenever you're ready."
After she left, the apartment felt different. Quieter. The record had stopped at some point, and neither of us had noticed.
"This doesn't mean we're leaving you," I said. "It just means you get your bed back."
Sam nodded. But something crossed his face as he turned away. Loss, maybe. Or fear.
I pretended not to notice.