Chapter Fifteen
Angel was back in her nightmare. She stepped through a doorway into a bedroom.
The walls were charred, covered in posters of rock stars and singers and surfers, though most were barely recognizable.
Ahead, on the other side of the room, sitting on the wooden study desk, was a girl.
She was tiny, with big green, terrified eyes.
“I’m here to help you.” Angel’s voice rang out over the crackling flames but seemed to be swallowed by the inferno. She tried again. “JUST WAIT THERE, ALRIGHT! I’M HERE TO HELP YOU!”
The girl nodded; her skinny arms were wrapped tightly around her legs. Her body was trembling and shaking, and her gaze held tightly onto Angel’s, refusing to let go.
As the flames devoured the desk, Angel moved forward. Her steps were slow and labored, her breath short and painful, like knives digging into Angel’s throat.
But something held her back, a force pulling against her, like invisible hands grasping at her gear. Angel fought the resistance. She wrestled and tussled against it. Sweat soaked her brow. Her skin was red hot and on fire.
The girl with the green eyes began to scream, terrified screams that pierced the air over and over again.
And then, with a deafening crack, a beam crashed down and blocked Angel’s path.
Frozen in place, Angel watched helplessly, screaming, and fighting as the flames engulfed the girl and the screams faltered out.
Angel woke up.
Her body shook like a leaf in a storm. Bile sat in her throat, and she swallowed it down, pulling a face at the bitter taste in her mouth.
The dreams were getting worse, and not better, yet she wasn’t going to tell a single soul about it, especially Bruce.
He’d send her back to the shrink and the last thing she wanted was to lie on that stupid green futon with her feet up and a box of tissues resting on the table beside her, talking about her feelings.
Sitting up over the edge of her bed, Angel wiped the sweat off the nape of her neck and took a deep, settling breath in through her nose.
It had happened fourteen months ago; Angel and her team had responded to a distress call at an apartment building on Pacific Avenue.
The fire had originated from a gas stove left unattended on the second floor.
It had come out later that a woman named Grace Bingway had been frying up bacon when she had suffered a heart attack and had dropped dead to the floor.
When Angel and her team arrived, the building was already engulfed in flames, and thick smoke was billowing from the windows.
The primary objective was to rescue anyone trapped inside.
Angel had already assisted and carried out four residents, including an eighteen-month-old who had suffered burns on the right side of his little body.
And then she had gone back up to clear apartment sixty-eight.
That was when she found Abigail Summers sitting on the table in her bedroom.
Abigail had only been twelve years old when she died.
There was nothing fair about it. Especially when Angel had been so close to saving her when the ceiling had given way, striking Angel and rendering her unconscious.
Two days later, she had found herself in a hospital bed, surrounded by sterile white walls and Catherine sitting on the chair beside her.
It wasn’t her fault. Everyone had made that very clear.
But it had felt like it was. She should’ve foreseen the ceiling collapsing. She should’ve tried harder to get to Abigail. She should’ve….
There was always something more to do, more effort to put in, more lives to save.
Reaching over to the bedside table, Angel grabbed her phone and flicked on the screen. It was midnight.
Too late to go for a run around the block. Too late to head to the gym and pump weights until her heart was racing so fast, she couldn’t think of anything other than just catching her breath.
Too late even for sex.
Samantha’s face popped into her head. Her beautiful honey-brown eyes. The tiny pink freckles across her nose and forehead. The way she had looked so disheartened this morning at the fire station when Angel had scolded her for arriving at the station unannounced.
Guilt suddenly clogged her throat, and she had to swallow in quick succession to dislodge the guilty lump. It was all Bruce’s fault with his warning that made very little sense. But it was never good to blame anyone else but oneself.
Her father always used to say that. She made a mental note to call him in the morning. The last time she had spoken to him was to ask him if a screw or nail worked better to secure the TV bracket to the wall, and before that, was to reprimand him for divorcing her mother.
Besides, it was Angel who had pushed Samantha out of the station, who hadn’t accepted the brownies with a big, grateful smile on her face.
She had a sudden intense desire to see Samantha, to hear her voice and feel her body pressed up against her own. But it was late, and Samantha was probably sleeping, enjoying one of her blissful, innocent dreams. Not like the nightmare that had just plagued Angel.
Still, she took a chance.
The phone rang and rang. Angel was just about to end the call when Samantha’s sleepy voice echoed across the speaker.
“Angel, are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” started Angel, unsure of what to say.
Why was she calling Samantha in the first place?
To apologize? To invite her over for sex?
To just listen to hear soft breathing while she slept, hoping Samantha’s mere presence would clear up her head enough that Angel too, could fall into a blissful sleep?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up, Sam. I just had a nightmare.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
Angel was suddenly in two minds. Inviting Samantha over in the middle of the night had been the most spontaneous thing she had ever done.
Acted on a whim, some would say. And now she regretted it.
Like confirming a themed party invitation weeks before and dreading it on the morning of when she’d have to spend the day looking for a dress to wear and heels to fit.
“You really don’t have to. Forget it, actually. Don’t worry. I’m perfectly fine.”
“I want to. I’ll be over in ten minutes.”
Twenty minutes later, the front doorbell rang and Angel, who was sitting on the sofa, waiting a little impatiently, stood up and tightened the gown around her waist.
Walking to the front door, she peeped through the keyhole—in case it was a stranger—and spotted Samantha’s red curls before she spotted anything else.
Her heartbeat suddenly quickened, and her palms felt clammy.
She wanted to duck down and pretend she didn’t phone up the red-headed beauty in the middle of the night.
Still, she unlocked the door, stepped out of the way as it swung open, and welcomed Samantha inside.
Samantha was in a matching beige waffle lounge set.
“Here, I got these for you.” She lifted a plastic packet of what looked like nuts.
“That’s why I’m a little late. I couldn’t find the almonds anywhere and was actually going to go to the shops, but then I remembered it’s midnight and everything around here was closed.
So I dug around the cabinets a little longer and found my secret stash. ”
“Almonds?” asked Angel. She had been given many gifts over her years, but none of them had ever been a bag of nuts. And this wasn’t even a store-bought packet of sealed almonds, but rather a handful of nuts transferred into what resembled an already used plastic packet.
Samantha’s eyes suddenly widened as if she had spotted an intruder over Angel’s shoulder. “You’re not allergic to almonds, are you? I even put a few crushed-up ones in the brownies. What a nightmare. Imagine if you ate one.”
“I’m not,” said Angel quickly, before Samantha ran off on a tangent. To be honest, Angel’s lids were becoming increasingly heavy the longer they stood in the small foyer. “So, why almonds?”
“A handful of almonds before bed can help conquer bad dreams,” she smiled. “It’s an old wives’ tale. My grandmother always used to give me some nuts before I went to sleep whenever I visited her house. She would say, ‘Almonds before sleep, keep the bad dreams at bay so you can dream deep.’”
“Well, in that case, thank you,” said Angel, and took the packet from Samantha. Their fingers brushed against each other, and Angel noticed that Samantha’s hand was icy. “I didn’t realize it’s so chilly outside. Do you need a jacket? Or gloves, for that matter?”
It took Samantha a moment to grasp what Angel was referring to and when she did, she laughed and lifted up both hands. “Not at all. I don’t have the best circulation in my hands and feet. It’s a genetic thing—Raynaud’s syndrome. My dad’s got it too.”
“I haven’t noticed it before.”
“That’s because I always warm up my hands before I touch anyone. It’s become a habit over the years. Not that it bothers me at all.” Samantha briskly rubbed her palms together, creating what Angel could only assume was friction enough to generate warmth.
Angel hadn’t noticed it before. Everything about Samantha had always seemed so hot and fiery.
“Do you want something to drink?” asked Angel. The polite thing to do when you called someone in the middle of the night and invited them over was surely to offer some tea. And possibly an apology, although Samantha didn’t look like she minded the outing.
“Tea, if you’ve got it. Chamomile with a tot of honey.” She looked a little embarrassed, as if her request was huge. “Or whatever you’ve got. I’m actually not fussy at all. I like everything and anything.”
Angel chuckled. “I’ve got chamomile. Make yourself comfortable on the sofa. There’s a blanket in the basket if you need one.”
A short while later, Angel carried both cups of tea to the sofa and placed them down on the coffee table.
There was a moment of silence that should’ve felt awkward but surprisingly didn’t.
It was surprising how comfortable Angel felt in Samantha’s presence, as if the formalities of a first, or a second, or third date had been waved and their time together had gone straight to being comfortable.
It was actually rather disconcerting. Not only did Angel experience a crystal-clear sort of clarity when she was with Samantha, but she also experienced a sense of vulnerability whenever she was with her.
It was as if Samantha had a way of peeling back the layers of Angel’s well-constructed fa?ade, revealing her unfiltered self, the self she saw in the mirror but didn’t show anyone else. Not even Catherine.
If there was any time to run away, it would be now.
But she didn’t.
“So, you’re having nightmares?” asked Samantha as she picked up the cup of tea and held it with both hands.
“One specific nightmare,” admitted Angel. “I’ve had it for a while now.”
Samantha frowned and scooted herself a little closer to Angel. For a moment it looked as though she was going to spill the tea onto the sofa, but she righted her arm and the sofa remained stain-free. Thank goodness. “We were discussing dreams the other day. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I haven’t told anyone,” said Angel softly, before taking a deep breath in.
“It’s kind of been my little secret. I’m sure if I told anyone, they’d probably put me on probation and make me see the shrink.
” She chuckled gravely, even though it wasn’t a laughing matter.
Recurring nightmares about lives lost could be serious, especially if it affected her capacity to perform.
Firefighters had to be mentally resilient.
Any sign of weakness could jeopardize her career.
Samantha leaned forward, setting her cup of tea gently on the table before she pivoted herself to face Angel. Her hands, now warmed, reached out and found Angel’s, their fingers interlacing seamlessly. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Angel gazed at Samantha, truly taking in every single detail of her features: her slightly upturned nose, her luscious lips, and those captivating honey-colored eyes.
She couldn’t help but notice the goodness in her eyes, a pure warmth, a refreshing sort of kindness.
Samantha was good. She was as good as they came.
“Yes. I actually do.”