Page 64 of Rain After Fire (Balsam Ridge 3)

“What’s this?” he asks.

I don’t move. “My momma used to love the rain. She said it was calming and God’s way of washing away all the bad in the world, and when I was born, I was her own personal rain,” I whisper.

“She was right,” he murmurs before bending and kissing the ink gently.

“You think so?” I ask.

I look over my shoulder to meet his gaze.

“Yeah. I’m a fireman. We pray for rain. Tell me about your mother.”

I sigh.

“She was beautiful but broken. Strong but weak.”

“How so?” he asks.

“Love,” I reply, cryptically.

“Love, what?”

“Love made her strong and love made her weak. Her love for me and my sister made her strong. Strong enough to fight. Strong enough to protect us. Strong enough to stay. But her love for my father made her weak. Weak enough to put up with more than she should have. Weak enough to give up everything she ever wanted in life. Weak enough to stay,” I whisper.

There is a hint of admiration and sadness in my voice.

“I think that sometimes we are strongest in our weakness. You can’t have one without the other.”

I turn to him and smile.

“That sounds like eloquent bullshit.”

“Or poetic truth. I bet if you were able to ask her she’d say both those loves were worth it in the end because they brought her her rain,” he explains.

“She would,” I agree.

“Then you have to believe it. She’s your mother and a mother’s word is gospel.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I fight to keep the tears that are threatening to fall at bay.

“You want to watch a murder documentary?” he asks.

“Duh,” I say and reach for the remote on the nightstand.

He rolls over and stuffs a pillow against the headboard behind him. He clicks on the television that is perched on my dresser and findsForensic Files.

I curl an arm around his middle and lie against his chest, letting the sound of the narrator lull me to sleep.

I awaken to the sounds of Corbin clanking around in my kitchen. I get up and make my way to the bathroom. Throw on my T-shirt from last night and go in search of him.

I find him in nothing but his jeans, standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open, staring at the contents—or rather, the lack thereof.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He looks over his shoulder. “I was trying to find food for us,” he says.

“Yeah, sorry. I don’t cook. At all.”

He grins. “Apparently, you don’t grocery shop at all either.”

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