Chapter 7
VIENNA
From the kitchen, the low rumble of Caleb’s voice comes in starts and stops.
His tone is rough and commanding, rather than the gentle one he’s been using with me. I can’t tell what he’s saying, but given that he’s on the phone with the fire department, I can’t imagine he’s happy.
I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it.
Of course he’s not happy. I burned down his dad’s retreat. Because of me, Caleb ran into a burning building. He could have been badly injured.
He could have died.
He keeps telling me it’s not my fault. First last night, while we watched the cabin burn. Then later, after the firefighters and police left, he told me again. And he reminded me over coffee this morning, as well.
It’s not that he doesn’t seem genuine when he says it.
He does. But how could he not blame me? It was my responsibility to keep the fire under control.
If I hadn’t added that last log right before falling asleep, everything would have been fine.
Waking up to a cold cabin would have been the worst of it.
But no. I was more concerned about comfort than safety. And now look what happened. Not only is my life even more of a mess than it was already, but I’ve also screwed things up for Caleb.
That’s not really fair, a voice in my head whispers. You didn’t think you were doing anything unsafe. You added the log just like Caleb showed you. And you didn’t mean to fall asleep while reading on the couch. You just did.
Fair or not, Caleb’s cabin is nothing more than a pile of blackened wood on scorched grass. And that’s on me.
The guilt I’ve been carrying all day seems to grow even heavier, dragging at my body and making it hard to breathe. The tears I’ve been fighting make another bid to escape. As I swallow against them, my throat feels like it’s on fire.
Even though Caleb’s just in the other room, I feel completely alone.
Burrowing into the quilt he wrapped around me, I rest my chin on my knees and close my eyes as I try to rein in my emotions. I don’t want Caleb coming back into the living room to find me crying and worrying him more than he is already.
Back when I broke my leg, I would have loved to have been the object of so much concern. If I’d known Caleb then, and he was by my side at the hospital, constantly checking on me, I would have been beyond grateful for it.
For a moment, I let myself fall back into the memories, but this time, I add Caleb to them.
That first night at the hospital, when the pain is so bad the drugs they give me don’t touch it, he’s there. Holding my hand. Wiping away my tears. Tracking down the doctor on call and demanding he do something to help me feel better.
When I wake up from my first surgery, instead of the nurse, Caleb’s face is the first I see. Behind him are dozens of flowers he brought to brighten the room. His expression is creased with worry, only easing slightly once he’s absolutely sure I’m okay.
And when I go home to my second-floor apartment, I don’t have to navigate the steps on crutches by myself.
Caleb carefully lifts me into his arms and carries me up them, then brings me into the bedroom he’s readied for me, complete with fluffy blankets and plenty of pillows and my nightstand overflowing with snacks and books.
If I’d known Caleb back then, it could have been a possibility. But now? After what I did?
I don’t deserve his generosity.
I don’t deserve his concern.
If Caleb wasn’t such a nice guy—and he is, I don’t care what he says—he’d have dropped me off at the shelter in Montpelier and wiped his hands clean of me instead of insisting I stay at his house to recover.
I should have said no when he offered. But I was just so tired, and the idea of a shower and a bed and Caleb’s reassuring proximity was too much to resist. So I said yes.
And now it’s more than twelve hours later and I’m still here.
In his house. Accepting his hospitality.
Allowing him to play nurse and personal chef while I lounge on the living room couch as if I deserve it.
The pressure behind my eyes builds. My nose prickles. A few rogue tears trickle down my cheeks and chin before darkening the quilt tucked over my knees. I watch as the dark spots spread into the pale blue fabric, turning it a gloomy gray.
Gray like my mood.
Gray like the overcast sky through the window.
Gray like the ash-covered snow around the spot where the cabin used to be.
Though I’ve always tried not to wallow in self-pity, it’s really hard not to.
Hugging my knees close to my chest, I bury my face in the quilt and squeeze my eyes shut. I try to think of something positive—anything positive—but I’m drawing a blank.
I don’t want to feel sorry for myself. But how can I not?
My car is wrecked. I don’t have a place to stay.
I’m on forced leave from work—my boss called to tell me to take the next two days off as soon as he heard about the fire—which means it’ll take even longer to save up for an apartment.
Everything I own was destroyed. And I royally screwed things up for the person who’s been kindest to me.
Yesterday, there was a small seed of hope that my burgeoning friendship with Caleb might turn into something more.
Each time he smiled at me, or touched me, or did something thoughtful like buying those cookies or making homemade hot cocoa after snowmobiling just because I mentioned liking it, the seed sprouted another root.
And when he hugged me before he left the cabin last night—before the fire, when everything was still good—the little roots dug deeper.
But that hope is over.
And I feel so horrible about last night, I’m not sure if I can bring myself to stay here anymore.
“Vienna?”
My head jerks up at Caleb’s voice. He’s not in the kitchen anymore, but standing in the doorway of the living room. His expression is solemn.
My heart drops.
He’s going to ask me to leave.
Yes, I know I’ve been thinking about it myself. But deep down, there’s a part of me that wants to stay as long as he’ll let me.
Sniffing back my tears, I work to keep my voice steady. “Did you hear anything? About the fire?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he crosses the room in several long strides, his gaze never leaving mine. Once he reaches the couch, he drops to his knees in front of me. “Vienna. What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”
Before I can reply, he peels the quilt back and takes my injured hand. As he turns it over to inspect it, he continues, “Is it your hand? Do you need to take something for it?”
It’s hard to concentrate on answering when his touch feels so good. But I force myself to. “I’m fine.”
Caleb searches my face. “Are you having trouble breathing? Feeling dizzy? Nauseous?”
I shake my head while trying to sniff unobtrusively. “No trouble breathing. And I’m not dizzy or nauseous. I’m okay. Really.”
He rises from his knees and perches on the edge of the couch, turning so he’s facing me. “You’re not fine,” he states. “You were crying.” His thumb brushes across my cheek. “People don’t cry for no reason.”
“It’s just my eyes,” I lie. “They’re still a little sore and itchy. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” His brows go up. “Are you sure?”
The truth wants to come out. But for some reason I don’t understand, I keep it in and change the subject instead. “Did the fire chief say anything about the fire?”
A frown creases his forehead. After a brief hesitation, Caleb replies, “He’s sending the fire investigator out this afternoon. Around two, he said, so there’s time to look around before it gets dark.”
My stomach twists. Even though I know the fire had to have been my fault, until there’s confirmation, I can still hang onto a sliver of hope that it was a fluke accident. After the fire investigator comes, though…
“Vienna.” Caleb leans forward. His gaze burns into mine. “It wasn’t your fault.”
I duck my head. “You can’t say that. I was the one who added wood to the fire. It was my responsibility—”
“No.” He touches my chin, tipping it up. “If it was anyone’s responsibility, it was mine.”
“What?” I blink at him. “Your fault?”
“Yes, my fault.” Regret drags his mouth down. “You said you weren’t experienced with building a fire. I should have checked on the fireplace more often. I should—”
“It wasn’t your fault. It was mine,” I protest. “Everything that happened…” My throat goes thick.
“You stopped on the road because of me. Offered to let me stay in your cabin because you felt bad for me. You trusted me with your dad’s special retreat, and I ruined it.
Then you had to come rescue me and you could have been killed.
That’s all on me. Of course it was my fault.
All of it. And I know I should leave. Get out of your life before I mess it up even more. ”
“Leave?” Caleb straightens. “Why would you leave? Where would you go?”
The latter question is a harsh reminder of how crappy my situation is, and the tears start up again. “I don’t know. The shelter. The loaner car. Or… I can take a bus down south and camp out on the beach.”
Not that I have the money for a bus. Not when the last of my cash is gone and the little I have left in my checking account won’t even be enough to replace my clothes.
“Camp out on the beach?” Caleb’s voice rises. “You want to camp out on the beach? Where some sick—” He stops. Takes a deep breath. “You can’t be serious, V. That’s not even remotely safe. Think about what could happen to you.”
I try to ignore the flutter of warmth that comes from his new nickname for me. “Then I’ll go to the shelter. Try to find a job in Montpelier. I’ll have to get my license replaced, and my social security card, but—”
He grasps my uninjured hand. “Why would you leave? I told you, you’re welcome to stay here.” His brows pinch together. “Are you worried about being in the same house as me? I can put another lock on the guest room door if that makes you feel better.”