Page 3 of Born in Fire

Hand soap. The lingering scent of coffee on my clothes.

One thing you can taste.

Mint gum I slip from my pocket to my mouth.

By the time I return to the café floor, I’ve composed myself. The lilies remain in the staff room, but I’ll dispose of them before leaving. Lisa glances at me questioningly, but I shake my head slightly.

Not now.

I throw myself into cleaning tasks—organizing the syrups by height, restocking napkins with mathematical precision, wiping down every surface until it gleams. The methodical work settles my nerves. I focus on each task with complete attention, blocking out everything else.

“Hey,” Lisa says during a quiet moment. She slides a small plate toward me with a blueberry scone—my favorite. “You should eat something.”

The simple kindness nearly undoes me. “Thanks,” I manage, breaking off a small piece.

“Bad news?” she asks, not looking directly at me, giving me space to decline the question.

I hesitate. “Just… someone from my past who won’t stay there.”

She nods, understanding in her eyes. “My sister went through something similar. It sucks.”

The understated response is perfect—acknowledgment without pity.

“Yeah. It does.” I take another bite, using it as an excuse to end the conversation. I’ve given her a rough outline of my story. No details. I plan to keep it that way.

The afternoon shift arrives, and I check the time. My shift ends in twenty minutes. As I gather my things in the staff room, I dump the lilies in the trash, card and all. Then I think better of it, retrieving the card as evidence for the growing folder I keep in case I need to take this to a lawyer.

“Ed,” I say as I approach the security desk, “would you mind walking me to the station?”

He doesn’t ask why, just nods and calls for his relief to watch the desk. Outside, I scan the street, the parked cars, the faces of passersby. No sign of Tyler, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been here, watching.

“Thanks,” I tell Ed at the station entrance.

“Anytime, miss.” He tips his hat and turns back toward the building.

On the train home, I sit with my back to the wall, watching the doors at each stop. My phone buzzes with a response from my therapist—she can see me tomorrow. I’ll need to switch shifts, but my manager has been understanding about “appointments.”

It’s a relief when I get home. The door to my apartment is pristine white and well-maintained, just like the rest of the building. I’d been lucky to find this place when I moved here earlier this year. The move to Seattle had been a big one. Unnerving but necessary. It had taken me a couple of months to see that simply moving out wouldn’t be enough to keep Tyler at bay. But my landlord is great, and the place felt like home pretty quickly once I’d put my own touches on it.

Now, my apartment welcomes me with silence. It’s blissful after the bustle of the day. Not to mention the tension I’ve been carrying since the flowers arrived.

Damn him!

I wish he would just leave me alone. It’s been over a year, for God’s sake.

Heading to my bedroom, I shed my layers, hanging each piece carefully in the closet. Once in the bathroom, I stand under the shower until the hot water begins to cool, washing away the scent of coffee and anxiety.

Later, wrapped in my softest sweater and leggings, I set up my small easel by the window. The canvas I’ve been working on shows a coffee shop—not the Grind & Bean, but a place that exists only in my imagination. The customers have no faces,just suggestions of forms enjoying their drinks. In the corner, a woman with sandy hair works behind the counter. She looks confident, at ease.

My brush moves with sure strokes, adding depth to the scene. Tonight I paint the woman’s face in greater detail—a slight smile, eyes clear and unafraid. It’s me, but not quite me. Not yet. But maybe someday.

The anniversary is two days away. Tyler knows this, uses it as a weapon. But as I paint, I remind myself that my grief belongs to me, not him. My parents—their lives and their deaths—are my history to honor.

I add more light to the painting, streaming through imaginary windows. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but tonight, in this moment, my brush creates the world I want to inhabit. A world where I serve coffee to faceless strangers without scanning for threats. A world where lilies are just flowers, not warnings.

My phone remains silent for the rest of the evening. A small mercy. As I clean my brushes, I glance at the herbs on my windowsill—still growing, still reaching for light despite being cut back time and again.

“Look at us,” I whisper to the resilient plants. “Still here. Still safe.”

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