Page 21 of Burn Point

I studied her for a moment, my heart cracking just a little. I couldn’t imagine losing everything I owned, everything I had worked for, everything that defined me.

My own emotions about her situation had me swallowing uncomfortably.

“Um, I also found a photo. The frame is broken, but I tucked it into your purse.”

She dug through the bag and lifted the frame. A single tear spilled down her cheek as she stared at the photo.

“Is that you and your dad?” I asked gently, wishing I could reach out and wipe away that tear instead of watching as she brushed it away with the back of her hand.

“Yeah, that was a long time ago.” Her voice broke and, in turn, nearly broke me.

Seeing her upset was torture. I’d give anything to make her smile again.

“I have the same phone and an extra charger around here somewhere.” I blurted, needing to make her hurt go away. “Let’s get it powered up and see if it still works. Tomorrow, we’ll try to get back over there and see if we can find anything else.”

The next few hours, we washed her clothes, and she went through her purse while I cleaned up from dinner. She was so easy to be with and grateful for every little ounce of kindness. I still felt bad for her, but at least I’d been able to improve her reality a little. I went to bed while she was still sorting her things and lay there tossing and turning.

Coming home to find her taking care of my house had been nice in that moment. But now, the whole situation left me confused.

For as long as I could remember, I’d vowed that I’d never get married, that I’d remain alone, that I didn’t need anyone. Growing up in a loveless household had shown me that just because you were married, didn’t make everything magically wonderful. You could be a part of a family and still be lonely. And outward appearances were often deceiving.

Still, despite my discomfort at the domesticity, having Jordan here felt… right.

I’d been able to make her situation more bearable, and that was a reward in itself. Yet it bothered me how much I liked her being here—this unusual pull toward her had me unsettled and out of my comfort zone.

Could I stand letting her stay here when every little thing she did affected me? But could I stand it if she left?

Chapter 5

Jordan

The scent of coffee filtered into my sleep-addled brain—the best smell in the entire world. Well. Almost. Actually, the best scent was that of clean laundry.

Rolling over, I buried my face in the pillow next to me, drawing in the scent of clean linen, with a hint of sandalwood to it. I stretched, long and satisfying, then opened my eyes to a room that wasn’t mine. The past two days—or was it three at this point? I couldn’t recall—came back in a rush. The tornado, the hospital, the shelter, Nate.

I glanced around the cozy room. Even if it was sparsely decorated, I was in a new friend’s home, thankful for the roof over my head, the comfy bed, and clean clothes. Laying around moping would not help me move forward, and that was my only option.

I ran a hand over the sheets, such a far cry from the uncomfortable cot at the shelter. Nate was so generous in helping me out. I honestly didn’t know where I’d be without him. Sure, I’d tidied and cleaned for him to show my gratitude. The simple act was the least I could do after all he’d done for me.

I climbed out of bed and hit the bathroom before shrugging on a cardigan over my T-shirt and PJ bottoms. Thank goodness I’d been lazy putting away my laundry before the storm and Nate had been so kind to retrieve my things.

I plucked my phone up and checked my messages. I still needed to call my mother, but that would have to wait until I was sufficiently caffeinated.

Her over-the-top reaction would require way more energy than I currently had.

“Jo honey, your father is gone…” was how she’d delivered the news of their divorce. The grief in that moment of thinking my father had died was all-consuming for a twelve-year-old girl. Who did that? Why phrase it that way rather than having a rational conversation?

No, I’d wait until I at least had some answers before I subjected myself to the particular torture of calling my mother. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d be of any real support to me anyway. She’d always been judgmental about every little thing I’d done.

I picked up the photo of me and my father, brushing my thumb along the edge. I’d hidden this photo in my dresser because it had been too hard to look at on a daily basis. Memories of that last backpacking trip remained bittersweet.

Time had not healed the hurt. And seeing the photo, now, with older, wiser eyes shifted that hurt to guilt and regret. Being trapped in that house, in that storm, fearing for my life had changed me. Brought into sharp focus all the important things, people, I’d been neglecting.

I should’ve gone to see my dad.

I should’ve been there for him.

But seeing him in those first few weeks after his accident had been so hard that I’d taken the easy route and run away.

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