Page 54 of Fire

Definitely not for the reasons I expected, though.

“What about you?” I ask, trying to change the subject and lighten the mood. “Did you always know you wanted to be a doctor?”

“I think I always knew I wanted to do something in STEM,” she replies, her voice already sounding lighter. We pass a magic shop with a sign that boasts the best tarot readings in the city. I’ve seen the same declaration three times in five blocks. “But it wasn’t until I was in high school and I saw this guy collapse in the middle of the mall that I knew I wanted to be a doctor.”

“Does every doctor have an origin story like this?”

She laughs. “Some, yeah. Others…others just want the prestige.” My guess is Tanner falls into that category.

“So was the guy okay?” I ask, tugging on her hand so we can turn the corner. So far, we have been just sort of strolling down Bourbon Street, too busy talking to really stop anywhere. But I have a destination in mind that I think she’ll like.

“Well, that’s the whole thing. He wasn’t okay. God, it’s been two decades, and I can still remember exactly how my heart felt when I saw him fall. It was like a tree crashing in the middle of a forest or like that game you play where you have to close your eyes, fall back, and hope someone catches you.”

“A trust fall?”

“Yeah, exactly. It was super crowded that day cause of the holidays, which was a blessing. He fell into a startled group of shoppers, and they broke his fall. Anyway, it was the first time outside of a TV show I had heard the words ‘Is anyone a doctor?’ And then this woman shouted, ‘Here!’ The crowd split, and she ran and kneeled at his side.”

“And little Zara was hooked.”

“Yup, and it wasn’t even about the heroism or the honor of it. I just kept picturing that man collapsing and thinking, what if that had been my dad or my mom…or someone else I loved? And I just knew I wanted to be the one who could raise my hand in a crowd and know what to do.”

I keep walking, but I feel like I’ve just been kicked in the chest.

This woman is too good for me.

Here she is explaining how she became a doctor because she couldn’t stand the idea of not knowing how to care for and save her loved ones. And my current life goal is to what? Get my chance in the limelight so I can finally one-up Edwin? Prove to the world I’m more than my last name?

“Oh! Is that an art gallery?” she asks, pointing to a building a bit further down the street. I hadn’t even realized we had reached Royal Street.

“Yeah,” I nod. “Actually, that’s where I wanted to take you. There are a bunch on this street.”

“Really?”

She’s beaming up at me, and damn, if that isn’t the best feeling in the world—like sunshine or playing a brand-new bass for the first time. It feels like…something I can’t quite define yet. “Yeah, I remember you loved art back in college, so I thought I’d take a chance that you still did.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

I remember a lot of things.

I remember how she used to doodle on her notepads during our tutoring sessions. I recall the day when I finally asked her about it and saw her face turn red. I’d never seen her embarrassed about anything before. When she finally showed me the doodles, she admitted she loved art but was a terrible artist. I, in turn, told her I loved to sing even though I couldn’t carry a single note.

She drags me down the street, and for the next two hours, with a break in the middle for lunch, we explore every art gallery we can find. I don’t think I realized how different each one would be. Neither did she, judging by the way her eyes widened when we entered the one with the neon-colored modern art, complete with matching frames.

It was so damn bright in there. They should consider giving sunglasses at the door.

Every gallery we go to, I feel like I am learning something new about Zara. She loves watercolors and black-and-white photography the most. She will stand in front of a candid photo of an old man playing chess and say something insightful, like,“What do you think his life was like?” and suddenly I will find myself staring at him, wondering the same damn thing.

She is so curious. It’s infectious.

Everything about her draws me in, and there are whole chunks of time that pass where I simply watch her move from one canvas to the next, soaking up every detail.

As if she were a priceless piece of art.

Because that’s what she’s starting to feel like.

Priceless.

“You ready?” she asks as we step out of a small photography studio. She actually bought a few prints to put up in her new room when we get back to LA. I remember her apologizing for the lack of furniture and the bare walls. At the time, I just assumed she hadn’t moved everything over yet.