Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
Gray
“Once the construction team is able to take down these two walls,” the engineer hired by Faye’s insurance company says, “then you’ll be able to go through and search for any items you might be able to salvage.
For now, though”—he lifts the police tape back up, secures it over the skeletal remains of Faye’s front door—“I’m asking that you resist the urge to walk through the space. Things are unstable and dangerous.”
It’s impossible to miss the pain rippling through Faye’s face.
And the frustration.
This shit has been taking too damned long, but the amount of red tape we’ve—well, really, she’s—cut through over the last couple of weeks has been insane.
But they’ve finally identified the cause of the fire—faulty wiring on her heater—and the insurance adjuster has come out, started the claim process.
And today, the engineer was here to survey the wreckage.
Though he hasn’t brought great news.
Faye still can’t search for her belongings.
I shift closer, some part of me still unable to understand why she lets me near her after what I’ve said, what I’ve done, but though what happened a couple of nights ago is still a sharp slice of shame that threatens to extinguish the kernel of hope in my heart, what I feel more is…her love.
And her strength.
This time will be different.
This time I won’t waste it.
Won’t allow it to be ruined.
Mostly because she won’t let me.
On the heels of that thought, she straightens her shoulders and nods in response to the engineer, and fuck, that solid steel spine is beautiful.
“You have the list of contractors?” he asks.
“Yes, I’ll begin meeting with them this afternoon.”
“Good.” He passes her a card, tells her to keep in touch, and then we’re watching him walk back to his car, get in, and drive away.
“You good?” I ask, smoothing my hand down her back.
Another nod, but this time it’s a little jerky, as though she doesn’t need to have a shield with me, as though she doesn’t need to hide her pain from me.
As though she doesn’t always have to be strong with me.
That kernel in my chest grows.
“I’ve been avoiding coming over here,” she says softly before her eyes come to mine. “And you’ve been letting me.”
“You’re living right next door. It’s not like you can avoid seeing it.”
“That’s true enough.” A breath. “But it’s not the same as being right here.”
Near the ashes, the scent of smoke soft but still seeping out of the charred wood.
“No,” I agree, “it’s not.”
She exhales and looks at the remains of her life. “Part of it still doesn’t seem real.” It’s a whisper. “It doesn’t feel like my house any longer.”
“It will again.”
“Maybe.” But her tone tells a different story.
She doesn’t believe me.
“Want to take a lap?” I ask into the silence that falls.
She frowns as she looks up at me in question.
“Around the house,” I explain.
Her frown deepens. “He said it wasn’t safe to go in.”
“We won’t go in,” I tell her, taking her hand and drawing her against me. “We’ll just…look.”
And hope to fuck I can find something that’s not cinder and ash.
Something that reminds her she hasn’t lost everything.
“All right.”
As we walk, picking our way carefully through the broken glass, the shards of wood, I search for a way to relieve the tension creeping into her frame. “I was thinking about the game tonight…”
Her tension ratcheting up even further.
Dammit.
“Gray,” she begins, shaking her head.
I touch her cheek. “No, Red. I just…I’ve been thinking about what you said, what you’ve helped me see.
Courtney and I…” I shake my head. “My feelings aren’t totally sorted on my part of what made us go so wrong, but I also know that I don’t want to—no, I know that I can’t keep living my life worried about what she’s going to do. ”
She turns toward me, stepping into my arms, squeezing me tightly for a long moment.
“She’s going to post on social media if she wants to, the stories are going to get picked up by the media if they get picked up. She might show at the house, might make a public scene, and…” I shake my head. “I can’t do a damned thing about it.”
Her arms spasm around me. “Oh, honey.”
“I’ve spent a decade trying to prevent that from happening and it hasn’t made a fucking bit of difference—”
“I didn’t mean to make it seem…”
I cup her cheek. “You didn’t do anything except make me realize I can’t keep doing this.
” I sigh. “But the truth is, it’s been easier to pretend I’m trying to protect you from her, to protect the team from the crap she brings.
Because I’m scared, Red. What I feel for you…
Courtney never had even a modicum of it. ”
Her eyes glimmer with tears.
I catch one as it slips from her bottom lashes.
“I don’t want to keep hiding and avoiding and living my life to not trigger her. I just…I just want to be us, wherever that takes us.”
Another tear falls before she buries her face against my chest.
“Gray,” she whispers.
I hold her there, stroking my hand up and down her back, feeling her tears soak into my shirt, feeling my own throat grow tight.
But eventually, we pull ourselves together.
“So, about the game…” I begin.
“Yes.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
She leans her head against my arm, smiles up at me. “And I’ll still be there anyway.”
Fuck, I feel that deep in my heart.
But instead of taking her back to my house and showing her exactly how much that means to me, I lace my fingers through hers and start walking again.
She falls quiet as we round the corner and at first I think it’s because she’s processing—and likely going to be doing it for a good long while—all she’s lost. But when I glance down at her, she doesn’t seem to be in pain.
Instead, she seems a hundred miles away.
“What is it?” I ask.
She misses a step, then shakes her head, as though shaking off all those miles. “It’s nothing, really,” she says, but goes on before I can push her for a real answer, “I just…between the insurance stuff and Courtney, the stories in the press and my publicist…” A sigh. “It’s been a lot.”
“I know it has, Red.”
I want to hold her close again, to find a way to make it all go away.
But we’ve had enough heavy over the last couple of days.
“You’ve had all of that plus having to bunk with a big, annoying hockey player who burns things on the regular.” I tug at the end of her ponytail. “You’ve really been through it.” A beat. “And I’m not just talking about the fire.” Another pause. “Or the weird pregame meals.”
She giggles. “You’re incorrigible.”
Not normally.
But it’s easy with Faye.
Easy to laugh and joke and be myself.
“You like it,” I counter.
“I do.” Her lips twitch as she lightly touches my jaw. “In fact, I love it.” A beat. “So much I forgive you for burning my banana bread.”
Another thread wrapping tightly around my heart. Another piece I hold close.
But…keeping it light.
I tug at her ponytail again, laugh when she swats me away. “So, since banana bread is off the table, what are we going to burn next?”
“There’s no we when it comes to burning.” She lifts her chin. “And anyway, we didn’t burn the sugar cookies we made last night.”
Yup.
More baking commenced last night.
And we faired—well, I faired—much better at cookies than banana bread.
“Or the lemon tart,” I point out.
“That’s because we didn’t actually have to bake that one,” she says on a giggle that has my heart expanding.
True enough. It only required store-bought ingredients and time in the fridge.
I’m still counting it as a win.
We keep walking, picking our way to the spot where her kitchen window used to be and she exhales, laughter gone, the pain drifting back through her, hunching her shoulders, shrouding her eyes. “Nana used to love being in the kitchen,” she whispers. “Said it was the heart of the house.”
“I agree.”
“You with your burning tendencies and chicken and PB&J pregame meal?” she asks and God, I love her strength, love that she tries to shake off the hurts, tries to keep looking forward.
But I don’t want her to hide herself.
I’m not going to let her.
This shit hurts.
And she’s allowed to hurt, allowed to express that pain.
I’m just…going to do my best to take it away.
Hell, I can think of any number of ways to kiss it and make it better.
But first, I think she needs something else. Cupping her face in my hands, I hold her eyes. “Red?”
“Yeah?” she murmurs.
“You need to know that my kitchen has a hell of a lot more heart with you in it.”
Truthfully, my whole house, my whole life has felt that way.
Warmer.
Better.
Faye.
“Gray,” she whispers, her eyes going damp.
“Shh,” I say, smoothing back her hair. “You don’t have to say anything. This is just us taking it slow and learning each other, remember?”
A deep breath. “Slow is you saying beautiful things and taking care of me?”
“Well, considering you fell in love with me in this very spot…”
She freezes. Then glares at me and pulls back. “If you remember correctly, this is where I fell in love with the fantasy of you.”
“Ouch,” I tease, rubbing a hand over my chest, pretending to soothe the ache there. “My ego.”
“Gah, you’re annoying.”
“You like it.”
“Maybe.” She nibbles at her bottom lip, guilt sliding through her expression. “But I also feel that—at this juncture—I need to confess something.”
“Confess what?” I ask, watching her gaze slide away, her cheeks go pink.
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s embarrassing.” A flash of eye contact. “Like really embarrassing.”
“I think I’ve covered the gambit on embarrassing, Red.”
She winces.
“No.” I tap her on the nose. “No looking back. Now”—I draw her closer—“what’s this confession of yours?”