Page 24 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
So suddenly it feels as though my torso has been flayed open, my insides torn out, leaving my wounded heart to bleed out on the floor.
Because it hits me right then.
What the fire means.
What I’ve lost.
Not just my computer or my favorite pair of cozy lounge pants or my special edition hardcovers.
But Nana’s recipe book and my baby album and the pictures of my parents and the necklace my mom had intended to put on me just before I walked down the aisle at my wedding but never got the chance to because instead she gave it to me on her death bed.
And Fluffy’s—my grandma’s pup, who really became my dog when I moved in to take care of her after Nana got sick—collar and her ashes because she passed not long after Nana did and the tiny clipping of hair the vet saved so I would never forget the exact golden shade of her fur.
I didn’t just lose my home.
I lost everything.
I close my eyes against the sudden onslaught of emotions, the tears burning the backs of my eyes, clogging my throat. I clench my teeth, trying to hold back the sobs, and I don’t even realize I’m clenching my hands into fists too until I feel warm fingers on mine.
“What is it, Red?” he murmurs.
“Red?” I ask quietly.
“Your hair.” He tugs a strand, and my eyes fly open to see him wearing a rueful smile. “Not very original, I know.”
Baby had phantom fingers sliding down my spine.
But Red…Red is more.
Red is different.
Red is a nickname personalized for me (however original or not). But it’s not just a token endearment.
It’s…
Yeah, it’s more.
“What is it, baby?” he presses.
There those phantom fingers go again, stroking, caressing, drifting carelessly up along the insides of my thighs.
“Why do you keep calling me, baby?” I ask, ignoring the sensation.
Definitely ignoring the shiver that wants to skate over my skin in response to his husky question.
Instead—and I’m not saying this is remotely healthy—I slap a lid on my past and stare up at him, waiting for him to answer me.
Waiting and watching.
There’s an interesting play of emotions crossing his face.
I’m not sure I can tease them out—maybe a bit of guilt, maybe some fear, perhaps some resignation. But there is one I’m certain of…
Heat.
And that seems to be the emotion he settles on.
Mostly because he murmurs, “You know why.”
