Chapter 7 - Chloe
The rumble of Lewis's truck is oddly comforting as we pull away from the hospital.
It's an older model, well-maintained but clearly loved, with a few dings in the dashboard and a small crack in the corner of the windshield.
Somehow, it fits him—solid, dependable, with a few imperfections that only add character.
"Sorry about the mess," Lewis says, gesturing vaguely at the cab, though I can't see any actual mess beyond a coffee mug in the cup holder and a Cedar Falls Fire Department sweatshirt tossed in the back seat. "I wasn't exactly planning on giving anyone a ride yesterday."
"It's fine," I assure him, settling into the passenger seat. My throat still feels raw when I speak, but the medication they gave me at the hospital has taken the edge off the pain. "Better than fine, actually. Thank you for doing this."
He glances over at me, his eyes warm. "You don't have to keep thanking me, you know."
"Force of habit," I admit. "My mother would have a fit if I didn't express proper gratitude for every little thing."
"Sounds intense," Lewis comments, turning onto a tree-lined street that leads away from the hospital and downtown area.
I shrug. "She's big on appearances. Everything has to be just so." I mimic my mother's precise tone: "'A Bennett always presents the proper image, Chloe.'"
Lewis chuckles. "I'm guessing jeans and a t-shirt wouldn't qualify as 'the proper image'?"
"God, no," I laugh, then wince at the pull in my throat. "She'd sooner die than be caught in denim. It's all tailored suits and pearls, all the time."
"Even at home?"
"Especially at home. You never know when an important client might stop by." I shake my head at the memory of my childhood home—beautiful, immaculate, and cold as ice. "Our house was like a museum. Look, but don't touch."
Lewis frowns slightly. "That doesn't sound like much of a home."
"It wasn't," I say simply. Then, not wanting to dwell on my less-than-warm upbringing, I change the subject. "So, where do you live? I haven't really seen much of Cedar Falls beyond the main street and, well, the hospital."
"I'm on the east side," he says, taking the turn signal to head in that direction. "It's a small place, nothing fancy, but it's mine. I bought it about three years ago."
"You own your home?" I'm impressed despite myself. At twenty-two, with student loans and the cost of starting my practice, home ownership feels like a distant dream.
Lewis nods. "It was a fixer-upper. Had to gut most of it and rebuild. Been working on it in my spare time."
"You renovated it yourself?" My surprise must be evident in my voice because he glances over with a grin.
"Don't sound so shocked. I may not be the most organized guy, but I'm good with my hands."
The comment sends an unexpected flutter from my stomach straight to my panties, which I firmly ignore. "That's impressive. I can barely hang a picture without putting multiple holes in the wall."
He laughs. "It's mostly just patience and YouTube tutorials. And a lot of help from the rest of the department."
We drive past neatly kept houses with front yards just starting to green with spring. Cedar Falls looks different in the daylight—charming in a way I hadn't fully appreciated when I arrived. Or maybe it's just that everything looks better when you're not sure you'll live to see it again.
"So, does everyone in Cedar Falls know everyone else's business?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Is it that kind of small town?"
Lewis considers this. "Yes and no. People definitely notice things, and news travels fast. But it's not as suffocating as some small towns can be. People generally mind their own business unless you need help—then everyone shows up."
"Like when your office burns down on your second day in town?" I suggest dryly.
He smiles. "Exactly like that. Fair warning: you're probably going to get a lot of casseroles in the next few days. It's the Cedar Falls way of saying 'sorry about your traumatic experience.'"
"I can think of worse ways to be comforted," I say, already feeling more at ease. "Though I should probably warn you, I'm a terrible cook. I've been surviving on takeout and microwave meals through law school."
"Good thing I'm not," Lewis says with easy confidence. "Between the inevitable casseroles and my famous burgers, you won't starve."
We fall into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the truck's tires humming against the pavement.
I watch the town pass by outside my window—a small park with a playground, a row of local businesses, a quaint church with a white steeple.
It's all so different from Chicago's constant noise and movement.
"Do you miss it?" Lewis asks suddenly, as if reading my thoughts. "The city, I mean."
I consider the question. "Parts of it. The energy, the options. Being able to get food delivered at 2 AM." I smile at his laugh. "But I was ready for something different. Something more..."
"Personal?" he suggests when I trail off.
"Exactly. In Chicago, I was always someone's daughter, someone's student, someone's intern. Here, I can just be Chloe."
"Chloe, the lawyer who survived a building fire on her second day in town," Lewis amends with a grin.
I groan. "Is that going to be my claim to fame now?"
"For at least a few weeks," he confirms. "Until someone drives their car into the lake or Mrs. Peterson's prize-winning pig escapes again."
"Again?" I ask, laughing despite the twinge in my throat.
Lewis launches into the story of Wilbur, the escape artist pig, and his adventures through downtown Cedar Falls last summer, complete with animated gestures. His enthusiastic storytelling draws me in completely, and before I know it, we're turning onto a quiet street lined with mature oak trees.
"Here we are," Lewis says, pulling into the driveway of a modest one-story house with dark green shutters and a wide front porch. "Home sweet home."
The house is charming—not too big, but well-proportioned, with a neatly kept yard and flower beds that look freshly mulched. It's exactly the kind of place I would have imagined for him: unpretentious, welcoming, solid.
"It's lovely," I say sincerely as he helps me out of the truck.
"Wait until you see the inside before you make that judgment," he warns, but the pride in his voice is unmistakable.
His house feels lived-in and comfortable in a way that immediately puts me at ease. The front door opens directly into a living room with hardwood floors, a large, slightly worn leather couch, and a stone fireplace that takes up most of one wall.
"So this is it," he says, gesturing around with one hand while steadying me with the other, though I don't really need the support. "Living room, obviously. Kitchen's through there. Bathroom down the hall on the left, my bedroom at the end, and the guest room is on the right."
"You did all this yourself?" I ask, taking in the craftsmanship evident in the built-in bookshelves flanking the fireplace and the careful restoration of what must be original hardwood floors.
"Most of it," he confirms, leading me further into the house. "The place was a mess when I bought it. Carpets everywhere, walls in the wrong places, kitchen straight out of 1975."
I follow him into the kitchen, which is surprisingly spacious and modern, with white cabinets, dark countertops, and a large island in the center. "This is gorgeous," I say, running my hand along the smooth surface of the island. "I wouldn't have pegged you for such a design eye."
Lewis laughs. "I can't take credit for that part. Chief’s daughter helped with the aesthetic choices. I just did the heavy lifting."
"Well, it's beautiful," I say, meaning it. The kitchen feels warm and inviting, the kind of place where people would naturally gather.
"Thanks. I spend a lot of time in here when I'm not at the station. Cooking helps me unwind." He moves to the refrigerator. "Speaking of which, can I get you something to drink? Water? Juice? I think I have some iced tea..."
"Water's fine," I say, suddenly aware of how dry my throat feels.
He grabs two glasses from a cabinet and fills them from a pitcher in the refrigerator. "The doctor said you need to stay hydrated, so I'm going to be pushing fluids on you for the next few days. Fair warning."
"I've been warned," I say, accepting the glass gratefully. The cool water soothes my raw throat.
Lewis nods. "Let me show you where you'll be staying."
He leads me down a hallway lined with framed photographs—mostly of what appears to be Lewis with his firefighter colleagues, a few of him with a man who must be his brother, given the family resemblance, and several landscapes that look like they were taken around Cedar Falls.
"Did you take these?" I ask, pausing to examine a striking photo of a sunrise over what must be the lake he mentioned.
"Yeah," he admits, looking slightly embarrassed. "It's just a hobby, nothing serious."
"They're really good," I tell him, admiring the composition and lighting. "You have a good eye."
He shrugs off the compliment, but I can tell he's pleased.
"Guest room in here," he says, opening a door to reveal a simple but pleasant room with a queen-sized bed, a small desk, and a window overlooking the backyard.
"This is perfect," I say, stepping inside.
The room is painted a soft blue-gray, with white trim and curtains that filter the afternoon light into a gentle glow.
It's clean and uncluttered, with just enough personal touches—a handmade quilt on the bed, a small vase of fresh flowers on the desk—to make it feel welcoming.
"Bathroom's right across the hall," Lewis continues. "There are fresh towels, an extra toothbrush, and some other basics in the drawer. I always keep extras for when Ollis crashes here after a long shift."
"You really think about everything."
"I try," he says with a smile. "I should have thought to pick up some of your things from Mrs. Finch's, but honestly, it's been a bit of a whirlwind."