3. Cora
Cora
I wake in a bed that smells like Lance.
Cedar soap. Clean cotton. A faint trace of smoke that makes my heart jump before I remember where I am.
His house.
His bedroom.
His enormous sweatshirt wrapped around me.
My gaze finds him in the chair beside the bed.
Lance is asleep with his arms crossed over his chest and his head tipped against the wall. The position looks painful enough to require medical attention. He stayed there anyway.
Sunlight slips through the blinds and falls across his forearms.
The scars are clearer in daylight.
Small, pale circles. Too even to be random. Too many to be an accident.
My chest aches.
I have wondered about them for two years. Seeing them here, while he sleeps beside me after carrying me from a burning building, makes curiosity feel too small a word.
I shift beneath the blanket.
His eyes open immediately.
“What hurts?”
“Good morning to you too.”
He is out of the chair before I finish speaking.
One hand cups my jaw. The other presses lightly against my forehead.
“Dizzy?”
“A little.”
“Chest tight?”
“Only when a large firefighter interrogates me before breakfast.”
The corner of his mouth moves.
Almost.
“I’ll make food.”
“You cook?”
“Eggs.”
“That answer lacks confidence.”
“They’re decent.”
“Decent is what people call food when they are trying to avoid legal trouble.”
His almost-smile deepens.
I laugh, then cough hard enough to make my bruised hip throb.
Lance’s entire body tightens.
He reaches for a glass of water beside the bed and places it in my hand. The glass is full and cool, which means he must have brought it while I slept.
He waits until I drink half.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
“The doctor said coughing is expected. She also said I bring you back if it gets worse.”
“Did you memorize the discharge papers?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Of course he memorized them. Lance probably reads instruction manuals before assembling furniture and keeps emergency batteries organized by expiration date.
I push back the blanket and stand.
My hip protests, but the room stays steady.
Cool air touches my bare thighs.
I look down.
The sweatshirt falls almost to my knees, but almost is doing important work in that sentence.
I am wearing underwear beneath it.
Only underwear.
Heat rushes into my face.
Lance goes very still.
His gaze drops.
He looks at my bare legs, then at the hem of his sweatshirt. Something hot and unmistakable moves through his hazel eyes.
For one suspended second, neither of us breathes.
I have spent years wishing I could disappear whenever a man looked at my body.
I do not want to disappear now.
Lance looks at me as though every soft inch is something he has no business wanting and cannot stop wanting anyway.
His jaw tightens.
“Breakfast,” he says roughly.
He turns and walks out before I can decide whether I am relieved or deeply offended by the existence of eggs.
I follow him to the kitchen.
The room looks like the rest of his house.
Everything is clean, solid, and arranged with quiet purpose.
A black coffee maker sits beside the toaster.
A row of knives hangs in perfect order. The refrigerator has no magnets, photographs, or takeout menus.
The counters are clear enough to perform surgery on.
It is a kitchen built for survival rather than living.
Lance takes eggs from the refrigerator and sets a skillet on the stove.
I sit at the small table and watch him cook.
This turns out to be a mistake.
His gray T-shirt pulls across his shoulders every time he reaches for something. The muscles in his forearms flex as he cracks eggs one-handed against the side of the bowl. His hair is still rumpled from sleeping in the chair.
He looks unfairly good for a man committing violence against breakfast.
“You are staring,” he says.
“I am supervising.”
“You know how to cook eggs?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know I don’t need supervision.”
The edge of one egg turns brown.
I tilt my head. “Evidence suggests otherwise.”
He gives me a look over his shoulder.
I smile sweetly.
A few minutes later, he sets a plate in front of me.
The eggs are cooked.
Very cooked.
I take a bite.
Lance sits across from me with coffee and watches my face.
“You can tell me they’re bad.”
“They’re brave.”
His eyebrows lower.
“They faced the pan and gave everything.”
For half a second, he only stares.
Then a low, startled sound leaves him.
A laugh.
A real one.
It changes his entire face.
The hard lines soften. His eyes warm. He looks younger, lighter, like this version of him has been hidden somewhere beneath all that control.
My heart trips over itself.
This could be normal.
That is the dangerous thought.
I could sit at this table while Lance ruins breakfast. I could fill his empty refrigerator with ridiculous magnets and leave mail on the counter. He could laugh at something foolish I say, and I could spend the rest of the day trying to make him do it again.
The picture forms too easily.
I lower my gaze to the eggs.
Lance clears his throat and reaches for his coffee.
The moment folds itself away, but it does not disappear.
An hour later, we meet the Fire Chief outside Grandma’s Garden.
The shop looks smaller behind the yellow tape.
The front windows are gone, leaving dark openings where Grandma once painted tiny white vines around the glass. Black streaks climb the pale siding. Water seeps beneath the door and carries petals into the gutter, a bruised stream of pink, white, and yellow.
Pieces of everything Grandma and I built together drift toward the drain.
My feet stop.
Lance’s palm settles against my lower back, warm and steady through his sweatshirt.
“Breathe,” he says.
I pull air into my lungs.
It tastes like wet ash.
Zain approaches with damp hair and black coffee in one hand. He looks like he has been awake for days and would deny being tired under oath.
“Morning, Cora.”
“Chief.”
“Zain is fine.”
I nod, though calling him Zain feels like addressing a judge by his first name.
He looks toward the building.
“The fire investigator confirmed the point of origin. Wiring behind the cooler overheated inside the wall. Unplugging the unit wouldn’t have stopped it.”
I turn toward Lance.
Some of the guilt has left his face. A little remains, stubborn as my rosemary.
“Can it be saved?” I ask.
“A contractor needs to inspect the roof and front supports. The rear rooms held. You’re looking at smoke remediation, new wiring, structural repairs, and a lot of cleanup.”
A lot of work.
A lot of money.
My stomach twists.
“The insurance adjuster is coming tomorrow,” Zain continues. “The town council approved an emergency permit process in case you rebuild.”
“They already met?”
“People get things done here.”
A movement near the alley catches my attention.
Jordan comes around the side of the building carrying a large plastic storage tub.
“We pulled what we could from the back,” he says. “Clothes are in rough shape. Some of the pictures might be salvageable.”
He sets the tub down and opens the lid.
My framed graduation photo lies on top. The glass is cracked, and water has curled one corner of the picture.
Grandma’s smile remains.
Her arm is around me. Her yellow dress is too bright for the gray afternoon we had that day, and I am laughing at something she whispered right before the picture was taken.
I press my bandaged hand to my mouth.
“Thank you.”
Jordan’s expression softens. “We’ll get more once the inspector clears us.”
“You already saved me. You don’t have to save my things too.”
“I carried some stuff.” He glances toward Lance. “He did the saving.”
Lance shifts beside me.
Praise makes him uncomfortable.
I understand that. Kindness makes me uncomfortable too. We both seem poorly equipped for anything gentle.
My phone rings from Lance’s pocket.
He insisted on carrying it because of my injured hand, although I suspect he would carry me around in his pocket too if I were small enough.
He checks the screen.
His expression hardens.
“Your mother.”
My chest tightens.
“I should answer.”
He gives me the phone.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Cora, what is this I saw online? Your shop burned down?”
“Last night.”
“Why did no one call me?”
Hope rises before I can stop it. Stupid, loyal hope.
“I was at the hospital.”
“Are you getting an insurance check?”
The hope dies so quickly it should not have time to hurt.
It does.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Because if they pay for all your stuff, maybe you could help me a little more. The landlord added a late fee.”
Lance goes completely still beside me.
Zain takes Jordan by the shoulder and steers him toward the engine.
Privacy, Whispering Pines style. Everyone leaves while remaining close enough to interfere if necessary.
“I sent you eight hundred dollars yesterday.”
“And I told you rent went up.”
“My home burned down.”
The words leave me in a whisper.
“I know, honey. That’s awful. You always land on your feet, though. Your grandmother made sure of that.”
I close my eyes.
Grandma made sure I knew how to survive.
Mom decided that meant I should survive everything she handed me too.
Lance takes the phone from my hand.
“She’ll call you later.”
He ends the call.
Anger flashes through me because it is easier than admitting how badly I wanted him to do it.
“You cannot hang up on my mother.”
“She heard you say your home burned down and asked for money.”
“She has problems.”
“She keeps making them yours.”
“You don’t know her.”
“I know what she just did.”
His voice stays level.
That makes it worse.
I want him to shout so I can shout back and pretend this is about his manners instead of my mother’s complete lack of concern.
“Give me my phone.”
He places it in my palm immediately.
“Cora.”
“I need a minute.”
I walk toward the alley and breathe through the sting in my eyes.
The back of the shop smells wet and burned. The trellis Grandma built from scraps of wood lies broken near the door.
My mother has always been this way.
Lance noticing should change nothing.
Instead, shame crawls beneath my skin.
He sees me clearly now. A grown woman buying scraps of attention from someone who abandoned her. Eight hundred dollars at a time.
Footsteps stop behind me.
“I’m sorry,” Lance says.
I turn.
“You were right.”
“Still shouldn’t have taken the phone.”
His apology leaves me with nowhere to put my anger.
“Why do you care?”
The question surprises both of us.
His hazel eyes hold mine.
“Because you deserve better.”
My throat tightens.
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
The same words he used at the hospital.
Before I can ask what they mean, Tessa approaches carrying two lemonades and a clipboard.
Her dark hair is braided down her back. Her sharp eyes move between Lance and me, taking in the tension without comment.
“I come bearing sugar and town interference.”
She hands me a lemonade.
“Thank you for last night.”
“You scared ten years off my life.”
“Sorry.”
“Make it up to me by following instructions next time.”
“I plan to avoid having a next time.”
“Excellent strategy.”
She lifts the clipboard.
“The Founder’s Day committee wants Grandma’s Garden at the festival. Free booth. Pine Ridge Greenhouse is donating stock. We’re also setting up a rebuilding fund.”
“I can’t take people’s money.”
“You’ve donated flowers to every school dance, funeral lunch, hospital drive, and town celebration for years.”
“Grandma started that.”
“You continued it.”
I shake my head. “People need their money.”
Lance speaks from behind me.
“They need a way to help.”
I look at the burned shop.
Accepting help feels like opening my hands and admitting they are empty.
I have spent my whole life making myself useful. Giving flowers. Sending money. Solving problems before anyone has to ask twice.
Receiving is different.
Receiving means someone might see what I need.
Tessa lowers the clipboard.
“Let us show up for you, Cora.”
The words press against the hollow place my mother’s call left behind.
No one has ever said that to me before.
I swallow.
“Okay.”
Tessa smiles and places the clipboard in my hands before I can change my mind.
By afternoon, Pine Ridge Greenhouse has delivered more flowers than will fit on Lance’s kitchen table.
I spread stems across the counter and fill his sink with greenery. Buckets crowd the floor. Ribbon unspools beside the toaster. A stray leaf lands near the coffee maker.
The room begins to breathe.
Lance watches from the doorway with his arms crossed.
“I am taking over,” I say.
“I see that.”
“I can move everything to the guest room.”
“Guest room is full.”
“Then I can work somewhere else.”
“Stay.”
One word.
My heart hears too much inside it.
He walks to the table and picks up a sprig of rosemary.
His large fingers look strange around something so delicate.
“Stay as long as you need,” he says.
I smile because he is offering more than anyone ever has.
A roof.
Space.
Time without a bill attached.
I wish he had said want.
Lance sets the rosemary down and places a spare key beside it.
“So you don’t have to wait for me to let you in.”
I look at the key.
No one has ever handed me access to their home as though my presence there requires no apology.
I pick up a piece of green ribbon and thread it through the ring. Then I tie it around my wrist.
Lance watches me do it.
His gaze stays on the ribbon.
Then it lifts to my face.
Neither of us says how much it looks like I belong here.