Page 24 of Keep Me Safe

I swallow hard, the memory clawing at the edges of my mind. I haven’t told anyone about him—not since it happened. Afterward, I shoved it down, locked it away in some dark corner of my mind, hoping it would stay buried. But it doesn’t. It resurfaces at the worst moments. Like today.

My chest tightens, the weight of it threatening to crush me, and I try to breathe through it.

“Noah,” she says again, her hand reaching out, fingers brushing my arm like a lifeline. “You can tell me.”

I flinch at the touch, the hesitation hanging between us thick enough to choke on.

chapter seven

kira

The pain in his eyes tells me that there is more to this than he’s letting on. The gears turn in his head as he decides how much to tell me, and I get it. Everyone has their demons, but I can’t bear the idea that he’s hurting with no one to lean on.

“There was a fire early on in my career that was very similar to the call today,” he starts, and I think he’s going to stop there, but he sits in one of the chairs and continues. “There was a little boy stuck inside, around the same age as Jared at the time. He must have heard his parents yelling for him and thought he was in trouble because he hid.”

Noah sucks in a breath, and tears well in his eyes. My heart breaks for him and for where this story is going.

“I was the one who was sent in to find him, and I searched as fast as I possibly could, calling his name. By the time I found him, it was too late. He wasn’t breathing.”

A tear slides down his cheek, but he wipes it away.

“All I could think was I should have found him sooner. I could have saved him.”

I can’t take it anymore. I kneel in front of him, wrapping my arms around his torso as he sits in the chair. He freezes at the contact, his body tense. I ignore his hesitation, nuzzling my head into his chest.

“That wasn’t your fault,” I tell him, needing him to believe me.

He gives in, hugging me back, his chest expanding as he sighs.

“Logically, I understand that. I did what I could in that moment, and it wasn’t enough, but that doesn’t stop the guilt.”

I relate to that more than he will ever know.

We sit like this for a while, neither of us ready to let go.

A few weeks have passed since I moved in with Jared and Noah. I’m still adjusting, but something about this place feels like it could eventually be home—though I can’t shake the feeling of being an outsider. I’m careful not to overstay my welcome, so I’ve been putting as much into savings as I can, but it’s a struggle, the balance between feeling at home and not wanting to impose.

Today is my first class at Lakeside Pottery, and nerves twist in my stomach. I’ve been doing pottery for four years now, but teaching? That’s new territory.

I arriveat the studio an hour early, hoping the time alone will give me a moment to collect my thoughts. The smell of fresh clay and the quiet hum of the room help me center myself. But the flutter of nerves is still there, gnawing at the edges of my calm. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I’ve done this thousands of times on my own; now, I just need to guide others through it.

I glance around, taking in the space—workstations lined up with neatly arranged supplies, the pottery wheels gleaming under the soft lighting. Satisfied, I head over to the refreshment bar Darla set up, grabbing my favorite mug and filling it with coffee. It’s warm against my hands, the familiar comfort of caffeine working its way through my veins.

Ten minutes before the class begins, people start to trickle in. I smile, greet everyone, and introduce myself. The group is a mix of ages, from a young girl who can’t be older than ten, to a woman in her sixties. It’s a little overwhelming, but I’m excitedtoo. This is exactly what I wanted—a chance to teach and share my passion with anyone who’s interested.

“Okay, everyone,” I say as the last student takes their seat,“Let’s get started.”

I demonstrate the first step, wedging the clay, then move on to centering it on the wheel. Some of the students get it right away, but others struggle. I move between them, offering gentle corrections, my voice steady even though my heart races. Watching their bowls start to take shape, I can’t help but smile. This is what I love—guiding them through the process, seeing their progress.

Among the group, one girl, maybe a little older than me, finishes her bowl first. She steps away from her wheel and wanders over to my workstation. Her platinum-blonde hair shines in the soft light, and her cerulean eyes are bright with curiosity. I catch her eye, and she flashes a smile.

“You’re really good,” she says, leaning over to look at my piece in progress. “I’m Maddie by the way.”

I’m about to say something when we’re interrupted by the last student finishing their bowl. I show everyone how to remove their pieces from the wheel, and we set them aside on a shelf to dry before trimming them next week.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming. This was so much fun! I will see you all in a week for trimming.”

As they’re all packing their things and leaving, Maddie stops in front of me.

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