Page 34

JACK

If you would have told me five years ago that I would be spending one of my Saturdays off at a one-year-old’s birthday party, I would’ve laughed in your face.

With the way my shifts work, my days off don’t always fall on the weekends, and I used to cherish the ones that did, taking advantage of them.

Today, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than watching Evee stare wide-eyed at the cake in front of her, as a room full of thirty adults and a dozen children gather, ready to sing her “Happy Birthday”.

The party is bigger than I thought it would be—especially when Rumi had initially told me she was just celebrating Evee’s birthday with Ava. When she invited me to the party that Ava took over , as she explained it to me last Friday, I assumed it would only be a few people aside from me.

But, even with the room full of people, I only see them.

Rumi’s green and white plaid top and short set matches the one Evee is wearing, and it takes everything in me not to grab the two of them and take them home with me, wanting to keep them all to myself.

The more sane, less caveman, part of me is so happy that Rumi has this many people here to celebrate Evee.

I’ve gotten to the point where a week without Rumi is too long. I’ve been counting down the days until I got to see her again since I watched her car pull out of my driveway last Friday.

I’ve been tempted to call her, but I talked myself out of it each time—not wanting to rush whatever is happening between us while simultaneously trying to convince myself that it isn’t a bad idea and that it isn’t all in my head.

Spending time with Rumi and Evee is everything I didn’t know I needed. It’s like seeing in color after months of grayscale; like a breath of air after being stuck underwater.

And the way she looks at me—those times I’ve caught her staring from across the room as she’s made her rounds to her guests, the way I watch her breath hitch when I catch her, the way her cheeks blush when I give her a wink—nothing that looks like her could be a bad idea.

It’s almost made the eight days I’ve gone without seeing her worth it.

Almost .

“Wait!” Ava calls out, her phone already in her hand to take pictures of Rumi and Evee. “Where are the matches for the candles?” She looks from Rumi to Annie and Luke where they’re standing by the counter who both shrug their shoulders.

My sister, standing next to Ava, reaches in her purse hanging over her shoulder. She pulls out a lighter she always keeps with her—an old school Zippo that used to be our grandfather’s. “Here,” Emerson says to Ava, dropping the lighter in Ava’s hand who passes it to Rumi.

“You ready, cutie pie?” Ava asks Evee, her curious blue eyes roaming all over the space, watching all the people stare at her.

Everyone’s attention is on her as she tilts her head from side to side, but I watch her mom.

Rumi gives Ava a small smile, tucking one of those stubborn pieces of hair that fell out from where half of her hair is tied back with a satin green bow that matches the set her and Evee are wearing.

Her dark waves fall over her exposed skin, the top she’s wearing falling off both of her shoulders, the sight making my mouth water.

I catch a glimpse of that scar on her collarbone, my heart lurching at the memory of our conversation from last week, the scars she carries with her—the ones I still have questions about.

Granted, I’d probably have questions about everything she tells me about herself—I’m hungry for information, hungry for her, in every way possible—but the way she shied away from telling me about what happened for her to need her kidney removed is still heavy on my mind.

I need to know more about her—need to spend more time with her.

I need her .

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ava bring her phone up to snap pictures as Rumi lights the one candle on the cake Annie made just for Evee—it’ll last for a quick song and photo op before Evee sinks her little fingers right into the light green frosting.

I watch the small spark of fire appear in Rumi’s hands, and I feel the air in the room grow thin. The faint smell of lighter fluid from the Zippo fills my nose, and I struggle to keep my breaths even and deep as she brings the light closer to Evee and toward the cake’s candle.

While therapy twice a week is helpful, the strategies we discuss when it comes to my PTSD from the fire is easier said than done.

My adrenaline during calls, along with the familiar urgency and muscle memory that takes over, can often help me stay in the right headspace—as well as keeping my distance from the fire and knowing I’m in the right gear, and no one I care about is in any danger.

Repeating that to myself is what my therapist taught me, and it has gotten me through the few active fire calls we’ve received since my panic attack in the field four weeks ago.

But right now, watching Rumi with that flame in her hands and so close to Evee, you’d think this whole building was on fire with the pain in my chest.

I rub my palm back and forth just below my throat, trying to alleviate the pressure building as Rumi lights the candle, gently holding both of Evee’s hands in one of hers so she doesn’t try to reach for the lighter.

The room of people begin the opening line to “Happy Birthday”, but it sounds like they're hundreds of feet away, the pounding of my ears growing louder and louder with every second I watch the candle burn, the orange flame reflecting in Evee’s eyes as she stares at it makes my fist clench at my side.

I feel my jaw tick, my entire body tensing as I resist the urge to pull Rumi and Evee into my arms, away from the candle.

An open flame is dangerous, no matter how small.

A spark as small as one from a space heater too close to a blanket is no different than a birthday candle too close to the streamers hanging from the ceiling or the sleeve of Rumi’s top getting too close.

All it takes is the smallest spark to start a fire, one that can grow to be unmanageable, one that can eliminate buildings, destroy lives, kill someone you love.

I never heard how the fire inspection here went—did it get done? Does Luke uphold the necessary precautions? Does he even have a fucking fire extinguisher? I look up, seeing the fire alarm and sprinklers, hoping like hell they’re up to date and code.

I feel Emerson’s eyes drift to me as the song comes to a close, the last “Happy Birthday” ringing out as the people around us begin to clap. Rumi’s still holding Evee’s hands together, bent behind her chair, her arms wrapped around Evee as she sways her from side to side along with the song.

My eyes travel up, aching to find some sort of solace in her eyes—the ones that remind me of the calmness, the peace, I can only find when I’m on the lake.

I’m not in the field.

We’re not in any danger.

She’s okay.

Evee’s okay.

I am okay .

I have yet to fully let go of all the guilt I have from the fire that killed Bennett. I know, logically, it wasn’t my fault—I didn’t set the fucking house on fire—but my PTSD, my grief, my anxiety all has a way of mixing together to create this overwhelming panic.

But no matter how many times my therapist tells me that I couldn’t have done anything to stop Bennett from running in there—there’s nothing I could’ve done to save him once he made that choice—I just can’t get myself to admit it or let myself believe it.

When my eyes meet Rumi’s, I’m met with a crease of her brow and a look of concern, her blue eyes filled with confusion as she watches me, no doubt seeing the tension riddling my body.

The crowd around Evee begins to clap, and the noise helps Rumi come back to herself, a smile coming back to her face as she helps Evee blow out the candle, and I finally feel like I can breathe again.

“What’s wrong with you?” My sister bumps her shoulder with mine as the crowd around Evee’s high chair disperses.

People start to grab cupcakes from the dessert table while a few hang back to snap pictures of Evee taking handfuls of her cake into her hands, the green frosting all over her mouth as she eats from her hands.

Tension from my body subsides, and my lungs properly filling with air again as I watch her. Rumi and Ava both laugh at the sight, pulling the corners of my lips up.

The panic attacks don’t last as long, but they're every bit as jarring as my first one on the side of the road a year and a half ago.

Every time this happens, every time I detach from my surroundings—my reality—repeating the same worst-case scenario in my head over and over again, no matter how irrational it is, I’m able to come back to myself quicker.

Emerson bumps my shoulder again. “What?” I snap, more annoyed with myself than with her, but the frustration is in my voice regardless.

“Don’t be an ass,” Emerson grits through her teeth, her voice low, not wanting to bring attention to us. “You’re the one who looked like you were about to strangle someone five seconds ago.”

I hesitate for a moment, not sure how to explain myself.

“And I know that wasn’t the case because no one was standing too close to Rumi.” My sister smirks, her features so similar to mine sometimes. She’s teasing me, obviously catching on to my growing feelings toward Rumi, even when I thought I haven’t given much away.

I know her and Luke have been rooting for something to happen since they helped me move three weeks ago, but I’m still careful with any details I give my sister, or Luke, when it comes to Rumi.

I told Emerson and my mom about the night they came over, and Emerson—having been a nanny all through college in addition to her job as a barista—was the perfect person to help pick out the necessary items I needed at my house for if— when —Rumi brings Evee over.

They tried to hide their excitement over my friendship with Rumi, but my mom’s comment about not wanting to be too old of a grandparent one day and Emerson’s teasing about putting even more roots down than the house gave them away.

I scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I try to sound nonchalant, but it comes out forced.

“And don’t try to make some shitty excuse,” Emerson argues. “I thought therapy was helping.” Her voice takes on more of a worried tone, her tattooed arms crossing over her chest. She shakes her bangs out of her eyes as she tilts her head, looking up at me.

“It is.” I cross my own arms, feeling defensive suddenly. I haven’t told my mom or Emerson much about my sessions, just that I’m going twice a week, and they’re helping.

We’ve started talking more about the night Bennett died, my therapist having created a safe, nonjudgmental space where I finally feel like I can open up without any pressure from anyone else.

He’s let me do things on my own time which has made the whole process easier—even when I was convinced there was no fucking way talking about that night would ever happen, let alone help.

It’s kind of embarrassing to admit how much his low, gentle voice asking structured questions helped me talk through the night at last week’s session—how I was able to walk him through what happened and my feelings throughout.

There were moments that I felt myself falling back into the night, the grief threatening to take over and push me into a panic attack, but my therapist knew how to ground me, how to keep me focused on my current surroundings and remind me that I was safe.

I’ve begun to make sense of what happened, and I never thought I would.

“Are you sure?” my sister asks. “I know you told mom things were going well in your sessions, but you don’t have to sugarcoat it for me.”

“I said it’s helping.” I try to keep my voice even, making sure neither of us raise our voices enough to gather any attention—or more attention than the pretty blue eyes I feel on me.

Turning my head toward Rumi, she’s still talking to Ava, but I meet her eyes, giving her a small nod of my head, hoping to ease any trepidation I might have caused her. If Emerson could tell something was off with me, I’m sure I wasn’t hiding it well enough for Rumi to not have noticed.

“It’s helping, Emmy,” I repeat, turning back to her.

Emerson looks toward Rumi, having followed my gaze—not that I’ve been trying to hide how hard it is for me to take my eyes off her today. “I like her,” Emerson says, looking back at me. “I’ve gotten to know her these last few weeks working with her.”

I nod, curious to see where she’s going with this.

“But she doesn’t need your shit on top of all her own shit,” Emerson says, poking a finger into my chest.

I rub the spot with my hand, but I can’t fight the smile that forms on my lips. Emerson told me the same things I told myself not too long ago. “Agreed,” I tell her.

Emerson pokes me in the chest again, a little less hard this time. “She needs good, solid people in her life. Not people who leave when things get tough.”

While Rumi is my friend, and I’m starting to feel better about opening up to her more, the same way I hope she wants to do with me, I’m putting the work in to be someone she deserves in her life.

I’m still trying to put all the pieces together of who she is and the past she comes from, but I’m dying to see the whole picture; dying to be someone worthy of it.

I turn to look at Rumi again, but she’s surrounded by more than just Ava as she stands next to Evee’s high chair, now completely covered in green frosting. Evee’s eyes are starting to look droopy, her sugar high coming down almost as quickly as it came.

I let out a sigh before saying, “I’m not going anywhere.”