1. Smoke and Circumstances #2
Sterling’s reaction is instantaneous. He shoves me back, one hand on my shoulder, and covers us both as debris skitters across the asphalt. The explosion is over as fast as it started, leaving a sickly glow where my apartment used to be.
He glances back at me, his hand still anchored at the base of my neck. “You okay?”
I nod, or try to. I can’t stop staring at the flames. There’s nothing left, nothing to go back for. my books and art supplies and photos and memories all combusting into the stratosphere.
My brain is numb. I hear voices of the people around me, but it’s like their actual words fall on deaf ears.
I am aware, distantly, that I am still sitting on a curb, my bare foot pressing into the gravel beneath it.
Bowie is no longer screaming, just shivering, the plastic carrier rattling with every aftershock of fear.
I want to call someone, anyone, but my phone is dead and my words are all burnt out.
Sterling reappears what seems like a lifetime later, ash streaked across his jaw and water darkening his jacket. He moves through the thinning crowd, quiet and methodical, the center of whatever universe is left to me.
He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just stands there, looking at the blacked, out windows and then at me, and I see in his eyes the answer to the trick question from earlier.
He kneels beside me, meeting my eyes. I brace for bad news, because that’s what’s left to come.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft enough that I almost don’t hear it over the distant traffic.
“Hey,” I echo, mouth thick. I want to say something clever, but every line I can think of tastes stale and desperate.
He sets his elbows on his thighs, steeples his hands, and for a second I see the weight of the day settle on his shoulders. “It’s gone,” he says after a moment. “The whole floor. I’m sorry.”
I look down at my hands, which are doing their nervous thing, fidgeting with the zipper of the carrier, tapping the corner of the sketchbook, then finding nothing and just wringing each other until the knuckles go white. “Yeah. I kind of figured.”
He nods, then sits with the silence until I can’t take it and start talking just to fill the void.
“I thought, you know, worst case, they’d let us go in and grab some stuff.
Like, maybe my stuff’s not important in the cosmic scheme, but I’d at least like to have a toothbrush and maybe not wear cartoon avocado pajamas for the rest of my life.
” I force a laugh, and it comes out raw, catching on the edges.
Sterling grins, tired and a little sad, but genuine. “You make pajamas look good. You could start a trend.”
I groan, drag my palms down my face. “Yeah, tragic evacuee chic. Very on-brand for me.”
He lets me sit in the self-pity for a minute, then nudges my knee with his own, gentle. “It’s just stuff, Mandy.”
I want to scream at him that it’s not just stuff, it’s everything, my life, my memories, but the truth is it’s not even that.
It’s not the loss of things; it’s the loss of normal.
The rituals: morning coffee in my chipped mug, stacking my pens by color, the soundtrack of Bowie’s claws skittering over hardwood while I scramble to meet deadlines. The absence is what unmoors me.
I clear my throat. “What about everyone else? The other tenants?”
“No one was hurt if that’s what you’re asking.
” He shrugs. “Shelter’s set up a couple blocks over, but they’re pretty full.
Some people have family. Some… don’t.” He looks at me then, really looks, and I know he’s thinking about my parents and how that is absolutely not an option, even if I could stand to listen to my mother’s I-told-you-so’s for more than ten minutes.
“Your offer still good?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He pretends to think about it, tapping his chin theatrically. “Hmm, let me see, ditch the furball and you got a deal.” He winks and flashes me a smile that is uniquely his.
Despite myself, I laugh, this time, a real one. He knows I would never abandon my baby.
He grins, pleased, then glances at the carrier. “How’s the little monster?”
“Pissed,” I say, as Bowie yowls in apparent agreement. “But alive.”
“Good,” Sterling says, and for a second I think he means the cat, but then he looks at me and the moment stretches, soft and dangerous. “Really glad you’re okay, Mandy.”
I have to look away. It’s too much. I focus on the skyline, now painted with the vibrant blues that said it was going to be a beautiful day for someone who’s house didn’t just burn down.
“You’ll tell me if I’m being a pain, right?
Like, if I eat all your cereal or Bowie shreds your couch, or if I just, you know, overstay my welcome… ”
He shakes his head, like I’m missing the obvious. “You could never overstay, Sparkles. My place is your place.”
I want to believe him. I want to let myself collapse into that offer, to let someone else take care of me for once. But the part of me that spent twenty-something years proving I could do it alone, that built a life out of careful independence, flares up in protest.
“I’ll start apartment hunting tomorrow,” I say, a little too bright. “Maybe I can Airbnb it for a week or two, just until, “
He interrupts, voice gentle but firm. “Or you can stay until you’re ready. No timeline. No rent.”
“Sterling, “
“Nope. You helped me after my surgery. You let me crash on your couch when my last place got flooded. And you make better coffee than my own mother.” He leans in, mock, serious. “We have a sacred friendship debt, and I intend to collect.”
I’m tempted to argue, but I know better. When Sterling sets his jaw like that, there’s no moving him. I exhale, the fight leaving me with the air.
“Okay,” I say, softer than I intend. “Okay. But I’m not washing your socks.”
He grins, triumphant settling beside me. “That’s fair. But you’re on dish duty.”
We sit in silence, and for the first time since the alarm went off, I feel a tiny fragment of calm. Not peace, not yet, but the sense that maybe I’m not alone in this. That maybe I never was.
Sterling stands, offers his hand, and I take it. He doesn’t let go right away, just squeezes once, warm and steady, before grabbing the laptop and sketchbook from me and tucking them under his arm.
“Come on, Amanda,” he says, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes it sound like a promise.
I follow him to the ambulance, Bowie’s carrier knocking against my thigh, the future as uncertain and terrifying as it’s ever been. But at least now, as I walk beside Sterling, it doesn’t feel so empty.