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They taught us in elementary school never to open a warm door during a fire. Why did I think of that?
I had opened the door to a fire, and it was poised to decimate my family.
Twenty years as an army brat had taught me they had to notify us within a certain number of hours of identifying him. Hours. He’d been alive hours ago.
The door shut behind them, leaving our world shattered.
“He’s seven years old and everything he knows just ended. So I think I’ll give him just another few minutes.” Before I tear him to pieces.
“I want it to be your birthday.”
How was it possible these people were having such a normal day, such a normal conversation? Didn’t they understand the world had just ended?
Every time someone hugged me, or told me they were sorry, another piece of me shut down, like my maximum pain threshold had been reached.
April was allowed to fall apart. That was a luxury I didn’t get to have, not anymore.
“But don’t you worry about them, not Grams, or Mom, April, or Gus. I will take care of them, I promise.”
His lips thinned. “Some things don’t work out.”
“The fire you have within you is impossible to kill. The first breath you take when you’re free of all this, it will come roaring back. That’s what is so impossibly beautiful about you.”
kissing Josh was like a freaking fire caught me and scorched until I burst into flames.
“Gus has my number because I’m his coach. Now you have it because I’m your whatever.”
“Grief, by its very nature, is designed to suck the life out of us because we are so willing to join our dead.
“We’re taking it slow until you say so, because I can’t bear to hear a ‘no’ from you. But here’s your only warning: I’m going to chase the fuck out of you.”