Page 86 of Look on the Bright Side

“Four…four eighty f-five Chequessett Neck Road,” she said.

At the light, he tapped it into his phone, as talking was not her current strong suit. She tried to slow her breathing, but it was easier to just let her head fall back against the headrest and panic. She could smell the smoke from that day, hear the crackle and roar of the fire. The feeling of Dante Santini putting his arm around her so she didn’t fall, him lifting her into the battalion chief’s SUV. His hand on her shoulder. She heard her own anguish, coming out as keening sobs.

Dante pulled into her driveway. She tried to open the door, but her arms were rubbery, so she waited while Dante came around to help her.

“Easy does it,” he said, holding her upper arm.

“This way,” she whispered, listing up the path toward her little guesthouse, glad for his steadying hand. Otherwise, she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her.

“Key?” he asked.

She handed him her bag, and he opened it, found her keys and chose the right one, then opened the door and steered her to the couch. Her legs did give out then, and she flopped against the back.

The blips and beeps from the vehicle. The siren. Sickly sweat making her shirt and jeans stick to her skin. There was a high-pitched staccato sound, here or in her memory, she wasn’t sure.

“Looks like your dog wants to see you,” Dante said.

Oh. Right. That sound was Connery barking. A second later, the dog jumped on her lap, whining, his little paws pushing against her lap. She petted him vacantly, but her arms felt weak and loose. She’d run as fast as she could from the fire chief’s car to the hospital door, but every step had been in slow motion, her legs unpredictable and weak, Theo, gray faced, waiting for her by the elevator. The rasping sound of her own breath in the here and now.

“Here’s some water,” Dante said. He pressed a glass into her hand. “Go on. Drink.”

She chugged the entire glass. Looked around. Inhaled deeply, exhaled on a sob. Another big inhale, a shuddering exhale.

“Nice and slow, nice and slow. Breathing, when done correctly, is really good for you.” He smiled at her. “You’re safe. You’re home. You’re okay.”

Those were good thoughts.

He went into her bathroom and came back with a wet facecloth. “Put this on your forehead,” he said.

She did as he instructed—it was cold—and closed her eyes.

You’re safe. You’re home. You’re okay. Connery snuggled against her hip. The painful buzzing feeling in her feet and hands slowly subsided, and her breath slowed incrementally.

Seven years was a long time. She’d had seven years since that horrible day. A lot of hours. She was safe. She was home. She was okay.

She reached up and pressed the cooling facecloth against her eyes, then set it on the coffee table and looked at Dante.

“It was you,” she said.

“Yeah.” His beautiful brown eyes were sad. “Sorry for the bad memories. I was hoping you wouldn’t connect the dots.”

“You knew? You recognized me?”

“Yep. The second I saw you.” He took her hand, and his was so nice and warm. “And since you were Lorenzo’s girlfriend, I did the math.” He looked down. “I’m really sorry for your loss, Lark.”

“Thanks,” she whispered. She inhaled slowly, calm now, then shook her head. “I knew I’d met you before. I just…didn’t want to place you, I guess.”

“Did you get there in time?” he asked, and his voice was so soft and deep.

Her throat closed. “No,” she whispered. “But thank you for trying.”

His hand tightened on hers, and he sat back against the couch, his shoulder against hers. “Well, that really sucks,” he said, and she sputtered on a surprised laugh.

“It really does,” she said. Then she started to cry. Not the ugly, heaving sobs from seven years ago, not the panicked gasping in the car…just sad, normal crying. “I was ten minutes too late.”

Dante pulled the throw blanket from the back of the couch, tucked it around her, then took her in his arms and let her cry, her head against his chest.

He didn’t feel like Justin. Didn’t smell the same way. But it felt nice all the same.

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