Page 6 of From the Ashes (Redwood Bay Fire #2)

CHAPTER 6

Zahir

I figured that going home alone to stew on my interaction with Colt would be a bad idea. That’s how I find myself driving the familiar route to my teta’s home like I’d originally planned when I’d gotten off work a couple of hours ago. I might be too late for breakfast, but like most grandmothers, I’m sure she’ll be delighted to feed me no matter the time of day.

Sure enough, she opens the door of her modest home and her face splits into a dazzling smile. “Habibi!” she cries, throwing her arms around me like she didn’t just see me a couple of days ago. “As-salamu alaykum. You should have told me you were coming.”

“Wa-‘alaykumu salam. If I’d texted, Teta, would you have seen it? Is your phone even on?”

She scoffs and ushers me inside so I don’t let all the cool air out. “Why would I turn it on unless I need it?” she says.

Silently, I shake my head and smile. We’ve had this argument more times than I could ever hope to count, yet she never seems to grasp the concept that someone might need her.

Actually, I think she pretends not to understand to preserve her peace and quiet. Just the fact that she lives by herself and not with my parents is a little outrageous, but she’s always been madly independent. Her husband—my grandpa—died so young that she had no choice to be anything else, really. My dad worries about her a lot, especially since he and my mom moved farther upstate. I tell him she’s fine, but I think she takes a certain amount of glee in stressing the rest of the family out.

I’m her favorite because I’m not so easily rattled. She enjoys a challenge.

“Have you eaten? I’ll make tea. Will you stay for lunch?”

“I haven’t eaten,” I lie, because the cookies and cupcakes seem like they happened hours ago, and I would never miss out on a chance of being fed by Farah Delacroix. “Tea and lunch would be wonderful.”

She snorts and wanders back into the kitchen, waving me in the direction of the back yard. “Like I was going to let you leave with an empty stomach.”

Her patio is covered by an awning, so even though I’m back outside in the heat, at least it’s shady as I sit at the table, looking at the pompoms of deergrass dancing in the warm breeze. The flowers that line her winding flagstone path are all vivid pink, yellow and orange, just like the throw pillows on the sofa I’m resting on. Teta has always despised anything demure or subtle, claiming that life is for living and no one should be ashamed to take up space or mark their presence as they move through this world.

I’ve always thought it was her who I got my artistic inclinations from, even though she’s never shown much interest in painting anything other than the walls of her home. But she’s always been my biggest fan, relentlessly encouraging me when I thought I was no good.

How long has it been since I picked up a brush? Too long. I don’t have the time, money, or space to indulge in my passion like I used to. Although Yara and Lili from work took me to a paint and sip class last year where we captured a rather beautiful naked man on paper for a couple of hours.

That was damn good fun, but it’s not how I used to express myself back in the day. My thoughts drift to the art studio at San Clemente Academy and how I’d lose myself in there for hours whenever possible. Still life wasn’t really my thing. I preferred a slightly surrealist, abstract style if I was working on scenery. But my favorite was when I’d try and express my feelings on the biggest canvases I could find with bold colors and swirling forms. It had all been very cathartic for a teenage boy who felt like he never belonged anywhere.

Expect with Colt.

I cringe to think how the artwork he inspired would look now. Both when I thought we were in love and after he left and broke my heart. There were a lot of paintings during that time, too many to try and recall what even one looked like now. But I have no doubt they were…intense. It’s probably best if they have been lost to time.

My grandma kept every single one of my projects when she had the bigger house. I assume she put them in the trash when she moved here like I was always begging her to. She shouldn’t be cluttering up her life with my old junk out of a sense of obligation or sentimentality.

But in moments like this, when my mind is in turmoil, my fingers itch to hold a brush so I can pour everything from my heart out onto a canvas. If I were able to grant myself a wish like a djinn, I’d snap my fingers right now and conjure up an enormous white space where I could sweep thick colors as high and as far as my arms could reach.

For some reason, I’m yearning to paint the beach. I try not to think about why that’s pretty obvious.

Luckily, my teta interrupts my musings by arriving with a tea tray. The glasses were a housewarming present from my cousin a couple of years ago, but the silver pot was her mother’s, brought all the way from Morocco when my grandma emigrated when she was still a child. I’ve always loved it as a symbol of our family’s strength and endurance.

Also, it has four little legs that when I was a young boy I was convinced would come to life at any moment and the pot would simply wander off.

“What’s on your mind, habibi?” my grandma says with a frown as she pours me a glass of the hot, sweet, minty tea. The station has a decent coffee maker. It’s one of the things Captain Valentine refuses to be stingy about. But no one makes tea like Teta.

I shrug and reach for a cookie to let my drink cool for a moment. My grandma always cleans out the Girl Scouts every year, and I’m delighted to see she’s cracked open the Caramel deLites, finally. Like I said, Yara’s cookies and Nevaeh’s cupcakes seem like days ago now, so what’s one more before lunch?

Or two.

“I just got off shift, that’s all,” I say with a smile, not wanting to worry or bother her.

But she narrows her eyes at me as she picks up her own tea, as usual not concerned by how hot it must be under her fingers or on her tongue.

“You only just got off now?” she says, checking her watch and grimacing in sympathy. “Was it a tough night? I’m so sorry.”

I sigh because I already know I can’t lie to her. It’s a miracle I’ve been able to keep recent events to myself for this long. Besides…as far as I know, she’s literally the only other person on the planet who knows the truth of what really happened back in high school.

“No, it was an easy shift, actually. Even the earthquake didn’t give us much trouble.”

She tsks. “That wasn’t a quake. That was a baby little tremble.”

I laugh, agreeing with her, but still proud that things like that don’t faze her. Women of her generation were so often taught they were helpless, especially immigrants with her skin color. Teta knows when to be scared of something really dangerous, and a meager 4.2 on the Richter scale isn’t one of those times.

“So, what’s got you so sad, hmm?” Of course she’s not going to let it go. I pick up another cookie and twirl it between my fingers.

“I had to run an errand after work,” I say, which is true. She just sips her tea in silence, though, piercing me with her gaze like I’m under a microscope. I sigh again, already knowing I’m not going to wriggle out of this. “Colton Ross is back in town.”

Teta gasps and fires off a series of curses in Arabic and a few in French as well for good measure. “That bad boy!” she finishes off with a scowl. “What’s he doing back here? I hope he’s ashamed of himself.”

It’s been nice to have Yara defending me, but she met Colt for all of three minutes during our call. Teta had my best friend over for dinner and sleepovers countless times when we were kids. She knew how ‘special’ he was to me and was there for me when my whole world fell apart. Her outrage warms me and reminds me that I’m justified in having all these complex emotions.

“Well, he’s a man now, not a boy,” I inform her gently. “And he seems to have moved back here for the time being after his dad had a heart attack.”

Teta clutches her chest, but I shake my hands at her, sending cookie crumbs scattering over the table. I put the thing down on my plate and brush my fingers clean.

“Mr. Ross is okay. I saw him today, in fact.”

“Alhamdulillah,” she says in relief.

I know she won’t let me get away with not telling her the whole story, though, so I carry on. “It appears that Colt has come back to work for his dad or take over the family practice when Mr. Ross retires. So…I guess he’s going to be staying for good.”

“Why would you go see him?” Teta wails, fidgeting anxiously with her loose-fitting hijab. “After all he put you through! The way he broke your heart into a million pieces.”

As simply as I can, I explain what happened on the beach and then Nevaeh’s visit to the station this morning. “It was my duty to pass on the information.”

She tuts before stuffing a whole Caramel deLite into her mouth. “You’re too good for him,” she mumbles around the cookie.

“I know,” I say heavily. “He did say sorry, though.”

I’m still not sure how I feel about that. Nor the way his face lit up when I spoke with him. Nor his blatant concern for Nevaeh’s wellbeing.

For years, I’ve had this image of him in my mind as a callous playboy. The guy who used me to experiment and lose his virginity with before running off to college to be the good little lawyer his daddy always wanted him to be. The phase of his bisexuality he could keep hidden in the closet so whatever unsuspecting woman he eventually married wouldn’t be frightened off.

The man I saw on the beach and again at Ross & Associates doesn’t exactly match up with the picture I’ve been painting all these years. Usually, I have no trouble bringing the images in my head to life on canvas, but this is the other way around. It’s real life that doesn’t align with my imagination.

He’s a lawyer, though. A successful one, by the looks of it. Despite my shredded heart, I never caved into the temptation to search for him online and see where he ended up. Wherever it was, it wasn’t with me, so why should I care? But it’s easy to see that he’s flourished in his profession, and I don’t really see how you can be a competent corporate lawyer if you don’t excel at bending the truth or outright lying.

Which is an elaborate way of convincing myself that the charming man I’ve seen on these two occasions is an act.

Except…he didn’t know I was going to be there either time. He certainly had no clue I’d become a paramedic in town when he risked his own wellbeing to save a stranger’s life. That selflessness isn’t just at odds with the Colton Ross that’s been living rent-free in my brain for the better part of fifteen years. It’s…admirable.

Attractive.

I hate that his smile still makes my heart skip a beat. I hate how he’s grown from a gorgeous teen into a striking, handsome man. But I hate the most that he really doesn’t seem to be the monster I’ve made him out to be.

Teta is still doing her best on that front, however. I listen with affection as she rants about how he can say he’s sorry all he wants, but he still treated me like garbage, and I shouldn’t forget that for a moment. She does have a point.

“You’re not going to see him again, are you?” she demands, concerned as she slips her hand over mine and grips surprisingly hard for someone of her age.

“I highly doubt it,” I assure her.

As I say it, though, my heart pangs in my chest. Logically, I know I never want to run into him again. Today has given me that closure Yara was pushing me toward. Or at least it’s given me clarity. I don’t know if I can ever truly forget and forgive the way he made me feel worthless by leaving town with little more than a brief, vague note wishing me well before saying goodbye forever. I had childish dreams of marrying that man one day.

So, no. I have no intention of going back to his law office or hanging around at the beach. But there is a small, pitiful part of me that looks a lot like my eighteen-year-old self who is mourning Colton Ross all over again. Just knowing he’s so physically close but just as far away as ever is kind of cruel.

Nothing has changed, however. His father clearly still regards me with the lowest contempt. After that tasteless joke about getting a girl’s phone number, it looks like he’s just as determined to see Colt marry a woman as before. That tells me that even if Colt ever came out of the closet as bi, marrying a man is probably never going to be a possibility for him.

Which is fine. I’m not interested. I haven’t been for fifteen years. So I’m sure I’ll get used to the idea that Colt is around town, and after some time, he’ll fade from my mind just like he did before.

I refuse to ever let him have power over me again. That I can promise my teta.