I look up.
I watch the clock.
And I hope.
* * *
There are certain moments that,even as they’re happening, you know you’ll remember with perfect clarity for the rest of your life. Fragments of time you’ll look back on in fifty, sixty, seventy years and replay in your aging mind with razor-sharp acuity.
Every element. Every facet. Every detail.
The sound of a car door slamming.
The sight of a man stepping into a sun-drenched kitchen.
The smell of smoke and fire and sweat.
The feel of arms coming around you, holding you close.
I fly from my seat. One minute I’m at the kitchen table and the next I’m standing in front of him, staring up into his face. His beautiful goddamned face, still streaked with black from the fire. He reeks of ash and looks like hell.
I don’t care.
I don’t think.
I don’t wait.
I hurl myself against his chest, arms going tight around his waist, head tucking in the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. Hugging him fiercely, as though I’m afraid that letting go, even for a moment, might make him somehow disappear.
He’s alive.
He’s breathing.
He’s here.
For a minute, he just stands there unmoving. But after a while, I feel his arms lift from his sides — tentatively, like he’s not entirely sure whether he’s doing it properly — and slide around my back. His soot-stained fingers press against my white dress, tugging me into him. Closer, closer, closer. Until we’re pressed so tight together I can barely breathe.
It doesn’t matter.
Breathdoesn’t matter. I don’t need air in my lungs. I don’t need anything except this.Him. Here with me, alive and sturdy and blessedly retaining the full use of all four limbs.
Releasing a shuddering breath, Conor’s chin lowers to rest on the crown of my head. I feel the tension go out of him in a gust as he allows himself to sink fully into the embrace. Surrendering to his own need for comfort after a day of flames and fear and uncertainty.
I lose track of how long we stand there, twined together. Taking comfort in a wordless embrace. When we finally pull apart, I don’t let go. Not completely. I keep my fingers laced with his as I peer up at him.
For once, his emotions aren’t closely guarded; they’re brimming over, burning bright at the the surface, exposed for the world to see. His face is etched in sadness, his eyes are red with grief.
It damn near breaks my heart.
“Oh, Conor…”
He sighs when I say his name. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
His jaw clenches as he struggles to find the words. “I was still in the hallway when the bomb went off. Got tossed into a wall. A few bumps and bruises. Nothing serious.”
“That doesn’t sound likenothing,” I argue. “Getting thrown—”