Things You Save in a Fire

by Katherine Center

“I’m just not interested.” He glanced down at himself, approvingly, and then met my eyes. “You’re interested.” I shook my head. “You’ve thought about it,” he said. “Pretty sure I haven’t.” He lowered his voice. “You’re thinking about it now, though, aren’t you?” “Not in a good way.”

The same bedtime routine, over and over, endlessly—as safe and repetitive and dull as always. I could play it out to the minute in my head.

I embraced that idea, the weird howl in the room became comforting proof that I must be fast asleep, tucked in bed, making it all up in my head. As usual.

The captain watched them a second. “Look at that,” he said to the group, like it was a profound life lesson. “The Irish and the Italians working together. Who says we can’t overcome our differences in this country?”

“What happened?” he asked, frowning and starting to sit up. “You fainted. Take it slow.” I helped back him up to the chair. “That’s embarrassing.” I sat back in my chair. “I won’t tell anybody.” “Thank you.”

“I’m just saying that … pretty much every time I see you, all I want to do is to put my arms around you.”

But it turned out to be kind of like when an old song comes on the radio, and you think, ‘I love this song!’ but then as you keep listening, you remember you never really loved it—you were just excited for a second because you recognized it.

It was too many opposites. I wanted to go just as badly as I wished I’d never offered. I wanted the rookie to hurry up and get here just as badly as I wanted him to never show up at all.

“I was early,” he said, his voice all apology, “but then I saw a kid wipe out on his bicycle, and I stopped to help.”

Somehow, what the rookie made me feel was the kind of hopefulness you could only get when you didn’t know any better. Even though I did know better. And worse.

But when I started thinking about who I could trust—you were at the top of the list. Actually, you were the list. Just the whole list.”

“Friends?” “You’re my friend, aren’t you?” “Friend-slash-enemy.” “Fair enough.”

“It was my stalker,” I said, pointing at the brick on the counter. Josie peered over. “At this hour?” She frowned. Diana chimed in. “Who has that kind of energy?”

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, referring, I supposed, to the brick. “What would you have done?” He shook his head, looking out at the course. “I don’t know. Helped you sweep up, maybe.”

“Did you fall on purpose?” He finished wrapping and taped it in place. Then he lifted his head and looked straight into my eyes—and I knew the answer.

But he leaned in. “There was no way in hell you were quitting the department today. Not if I had anything to say about it. You deserved to win, and you won. Now shut up.”

We looked through old photo albums and sang Christmas carols, even though it wasn’t Christmas. She showed me her old diaries and old portfolios from art school. She walked me through her jewelry box and tried to educate me about which long-gone relatives had owned which rings and necklaces and charm bracelets. We drank a lot of coffee and made a lot of tea. We made sure not to miss the sunsets.

I tried, with at least partial success, to savor the time we had left. That was the goal, anyway—to enjoy her living presence near me and not fixate so much on the sorrow to come that I forgot to pay attention. To learn to make the best of things. As fast as I could.

The sight of him there, in the doorframe, felt like salvation. I wanted to grab onto him like a life preserver in an empty ocean.

I’d been afraid to leave the house since finding out about my mom. Afraid she might … disappear, maybe.

“What now?” I said. “I just want to see you.” I held my arms out like, Voilà. “Can we just … talk? I have questions for you.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “I might do stupid things. I might forget to pick up milk at the grocery store, or step on your toe when I’m not looking, or do something I don’t even understand, like I just did tonight. But I’ll never be cruel to you. Not knowingly.”

“I am in love with you.” I don’t know what I was expecting—but I promise this wasn’t it. He went on. “It’s bad. And that kiss that night—it only made things worse. That’s why I’m quitting—partly, anyway. It’s that bad. It’s made things kind of unbearable for me at the station.

“I was really working on it.” “Working on what?” “Um,” he said. “On not letting myself talk to you except when absolutely necessary. Not touching you unless forced by the captain. Not following you around. Not asking for advice. Not, you know, staring at you longingly—or even stealing glances the way I might’ve if I were the only person at stake. And just basically trying not to even think about you.” He gave a little shrug. “Failing most of the time on that one, but genuinely trying.”

The answer wasn’t to never love anyone. It was to love like crazy whenever you could.

same way that laughter soothes sorrow, or company soothes loneliness, or a good meal soothes hunger.

Then he reached toward the tray where his breakfast still sat and he picked up a little silver ring. Made of tinfoil. I stared at it. “I made it from the applesauce top,” he said, meeting my eyes. “It might be a little sticky.”

It’s pure fiction. Of course. I’m just telling myself stories. But that’s the life-changing thing about stories. We believe them anyway.