Page 67 of Sparking Sara

I shake my head, knowing it’s wrong of me to think such thoughts.

Sara gazing out the window reminds me what a nice day it is today.

“How about we blow this popsicle stand and go have lunch outside?” I ask when I walk into the room.

“Yes,” she says excitedly.

I put down the bags on her bed. “But first, you have a very important decision to make, Sara.”

“What?” she asks apprehensively.

I pull out the two shirts I bought. “Nighthawks or Royals?”

She looks more than a little relieved, and I wonder what she thought I was going to ask her.

“I noticed your clothes are a bit baggy. So until we can get more meat on those bones, I thought you might be more comfortable in something that fits better.” I pull another shirt out of the bag. An FDNY shirt. “I brought this one, too. Just so you’d have choices.”

She studies all of them and then looks at me with soft, grateful eyes.

“I’m sorry if you don’t like baseball,” I say. “Or standard-issue FDNY shirts. But these are the only things I could think of to get you. Because I don’t do girl clothes.”

She laughs. “They’re perfect.”

“Which one do you want?”

“Can I have all of them?”

I hold them out to her. “They’re yours.”

Her finger traces the logo on one of the baseball shirts.

“Maybe we could watch a game together,” I ask. “I think there’s one on later this afternoon if you’re interested.”

“That would be nice,” she says. “Thank you, Denver.”

When she says my name, something inside me shifts. She’s never said my name before. And I realize I may like the way it sounds coming off her lips a little too much.

“You must be happy to have gotten the trach out,” I say.

“I am.”

“You look …” I remember who she is and who she’s with and realize I shouldn’t finish the sentence.

She reaches up and touches the bandage self-consciously. “I look what?”

I wonder if she thought I was going to say she looks bad or ugly or sick. I wasn’t going to say any of those things. I was going to say she looks beautiful. But I don’t.

“You look great, Sara.” I pick up one of the pictures of her and Oliver. “I wonder where this was taken,” I say. “It looks like maybe the Swiss Alps. You sure did a lot of traveling.”

“I don’t remember,” she says sadly.

“I know you don’t. It’s okay, Sara. It’s not your fault.” I put down the picture. “Do you realize you’ve spoken more words in the last thirty seconds than in the last week?”

I pick up another picture. This one I recognize as being taken in their apartment. “Your apartment is pretty great,” I say. “Especially your studio.”

She looks over at the paint supplies in the corner. “I wish I could see it.”

“Maybe you can,” Donovan says, coming into the room with a wheelchair. “Sorry, I have a habit of eavesdropping and I heard Denver say you should go outside. So, here’s your ride, young lady.”

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