Nothing.
I want to leave it alone; she’s under no obligation to respond. But it feels wrong. Like something’s off. Frowning, I stalk down the gate, my teammates chatting around me.
Rolondo is glued to his phone when he halts. “Shit,” he says, turning to look at me.
That quickly, my skin prickles. “What?”
“Isn’t this your photographer’s place?” He hands me his phone, which is running news footage.
The bottom drops out of me. Because Chess’s building is an inferno. I can’t breathe. For a second, I can’t even see.
I start running, my heart in my throat. If she’s gone…
No. Nope. No. No.
She has to be okay. She has to be.
* * *
Chess
* * *
So this is what shock feels like. I’ve always considered myself a fighter. Life slaps at me, I slap back. And yet here I sit, smelling of smoke, unable to do more than stare a rusty blot on the floor. Is it blood? Iodine?
Pain radiates along my wrist at a steady rate. My right butt cheek is so sore, I lean to the left to alleviate the pressure. I’m guessing there’s a massive bruise forming but no one looked, and I don’t really want to either. Everything else is numb. The bustle of the Emergency Room hums in my ears. The sounds are strangely detached from where I sit behind the thin curtains that surround me. A woman starts retching. My stomach roils.
I’ve been here for hours. Everything moving at a snail’s pace. But I’m finally patched up and free to go. But here I sit.
I can’t stay here forever. But I don’t move. I can’t. I have nowhere to go.
Panic skitters at the edges of my mind, trying to claw at my skin. I push it down deep where it can’t get me.
I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t.
I am afraid. I have no home. No one to comfort me. Loneliness feels like a gapping maw threatening to swallow me whole. A slow shake starts low in my belly, spreading upward and outward.
In the halls, someone is running, soles scuffing on the linoleum. My curtain pulls back.
Finn strides in, wearing a frown and a perfectly cut navy blue suit.
The urge to cry surges like a wave. I swallow it down, blinking rapidly.
“I broke my laptop,” I blurt out lamely.
He doesn’t stop until I’m wrapped up in a giant hug. “Honey,” he says in my damp air.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I lean my head against his crisp suit jacket and draw in the scent of wool and soap. He’s so warm and solid, the ice around my heart instantly starts to thaw. He strokes my hair and then eases back to look me in the eyes. The compassion I see in his twists my battered heart. “You all right?” he asks.
No. Not even a little.
“Fractured wrist. I’ll live.”
I just don’t know where.
Finn touches the temporary cast they put on me, then his fingers drift down to skim across my knuckles. “It hurts, I know.”
“How did you know I was here?”
Why is he in a suit? God, he looks good in a suit.
“Someone started watching the evening news when we landed.” Finn’s expression turned haunted. “They were covering your building.”
“Ah.” I don’t want to relive that picture.
His fingers tighten on my shoulders. “Scared the shit out of me, Chess. I didn’t know if you were in there…” He trails off and gives me another hug. Fiercer this time. “Your neighbor, some guy named Fred, was still outside. He told me where to find you.”
I guess I have something to thank Fred for.
Finn peers down at me when I give a small huff of laughter. And his mouth tightens. “You should have called me.”
“I forgot to grab it when the fire started.” I laugh again, but it doesn’t feel good. “I don’t know a single fucking number. Isn’t that pathetic? Couldn’t even remember James’s number, and I’ve known him for ten years. Not that it would matter since he’s in New York right now.” I bite my lip to keep from babbling any further.
A sympathetic smile tilts Finn’s mouth. “I’d be fucked without my phone.”
I snort, fighting the burn behind my lids. “Well, I’m certainly fucked.”
He grimaces, ducking his head. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m crap at this.”
Personally, I think he’s pretty perfect right now. “It’s okay. I know what you meant. I’m just wallowing.”
“No, honey,” he says with force. “You say whatever the hell you want.” He looks like he wants to say more, but simply rests his massive hand on my shoulder, engulfing it with warmth. “You all clear to go?”
I nod toward the clipboard on the rolling table. “I have to fill out some forms first.”
He glances at my hand, half encased in the cast, then picks up the clipboard. He rests his butt against the bed, pen at the ready. “Give me the answers.”
A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow with difficulty, tasting ash. Slowly, I answer the questions and he diligently writes them down.
The next thirty minutes swirl like a fog around me: Finn going off to talk to the nurse, give her my forms; Finn collecting my broken laptop, his hand at my lower back, guiding me out; the slap of fresh air when we leave the ER; Finn opening the door of his SUV and helping me climb in.
It isn’t until we’re driving, my bruised body softly embraced by luxury leather seats, that I find it in me to talk. “Where are we going?”
“Home.” His grip tightens on the wheel. “My home.”
I nod, not knowing what to say. I’d planned to go to a hotel. A small voice inside me cries that it wants to go home. I’ve never been homeless before. It feels like I’ve lost a huge piece of my identity. I take a deep breath and focus on the road before me. If I don’t, I’ll think about all my things now burnt or water logged, and I will lose it.