actually speak. She was too busy trying not to cry, not to drop to her knees and sob like a child.
She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it hadn’t been what she’d found. Thanks to their efforts, the firefighters managed to keep the fire from spreading to the surrounding houses, but hers . . . was little more than a burned-out shell. They’d had to cut holes in the roof in order to contain the fire, and what was left of it had collapsed. If she lifted her gaze, she could peer up at the sky. There was nothing above her but a blanket of cold, gray clouds.
She swallowed, managing to force the words past the lump in her throat, and wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “Nothing specific. I just wanted to see it, see if there was anything here at all.”
“I’m afraid there’s not much. Fire burned pretty hot. It’s lucky you and your daughter weren’t in here when it started.”
Becca could only nod. One step inside what was left of her house and a vise had closed around her chest and hadn’t released since. All around, the neighborhood was filled with signs of activity, sounds of people living normal lives. Cars moving down the street. Children laughing as they played outside. There were several dogs somewhere close by. Their ping-pong barking almost resembled a conversation.
Yet here she was, standing in the remains of her life. Out of all the rooms in the house, she’d loved the kitchen the most. It always caught the morning sun. She’d taken this house in large part because it reminded her of the one she’d shared with Jackson. The breakfast nook in their place—
his
place, she firmly reminded herself—had always been bright and open, flooding the room with light. And she missed it. She’d taken one look at this place and had fallen in love. Now, the house no longer resembled the quaint little home she’d fallen in love with when she’d first seen it a year ago.
The sound of footsteps approaching caught her attention and she turned. Jackson appeared beside the fireman. His hands were empty, and the dejection written on his face answered the question before it could leave her mouth, but her heart drummed a hopeful beat anyway.
“Anything?” She turned to fully face him and clasped her shaking hands together. Something, even a small trinket, was better than nothing. She was hoping for things like Allie’s baby books. The belts she’d earned over the years. At least some of her pictures. . . .
But Jackson shook his head, remorse rising in his eyes. “I’m afraid he’s right, darlin’. There’s nothing left.”
She nodded again and bit her wobbling lower lip, determined not to allow the tears burning behind her eyes to fall. She wasn’t a crier, damn it. Crying didn’t solve anything. But looking at this place, her heart just broke. She’d loved this little house. Had been so proud of the life she’d built for herself and Allie. Her whole life was in this house, but now it was all little more than a pile of ash.
Seeming to understand what she was feeling, Jackson closed the space between them. He hesitated, then draped his arm around her shoulders. She wanted, needed, to pull away, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. His arm around her was support, and she ought to be angry with him, because he was doing it again. Unseating her. He was kind and caring and it occurred to her again to wonder why.
Except he did what he did best—he took charge when she didn’t have the strength. He’d kept her focused for a while.
At least until she’d stepped into what was left of her kitchen.
“It’s a shock, sweetheart, I know, but all this”—he waved his free hand in the air, indicating the room around them—“is just stuff. I know you don’t see it that way right now, but that’s all this is. Stuff. Seeing this place scares the hell out of me, Beck. To think y’all could have been in here? That Allie could have been in her bedroom alone . . . Christ.”
She
She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it hadn’t been what she’d found. Thanks to their efforts, the firefighters managed to keep the fire from spreading to the surrounding houses, but hers . . . was little more than a burned-out shell. They’d had to cut holes in the roof in order to contain the fire, and what was left of it had collapsed. If she lifted her gaze, she could peer up at the sky. There was nothing above her but a blanket of cold, gray clouds.
She swallowed, managing to force the words past the lump in her throat, and wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “Nothing specific. I just wanted to see it, see if there was anything here at all.”
“I’m afraid there’s not much. Fire burned pretty hot. It’s lucky you and your daughter weren’t in here when it started.”
Becca could only nod. One step inside what was left of her house and a vise had closed around her chest and hadn’t released since. All around, the neighborhood was filled with signs of activity, sounds of people living normal lives. Cars moving down the street. Children laughing as they played outside. There were several dogs somewhere close by. Their ping-pong barking almost resembled a conversation.
Yet here she was, standing in the remains of her life. Out of all the rooms in the house, she’d loved the kitchen the most. It always caught the morning sun. She’d taken this house in large part because it reminded her of the one she’d shared with Jackson. The breakfast nook in their place—
his
place, she firmly reminded herself—had always been bright and open, flooding the room with light. And she missed it. She’d taken one look at this place and had fallen in love. Now, the house no longer resembled the quaint little home she’d fallen in love with when she’d first seen it a year ago.
The sound of footsteps approaching caught her attention and she turned. Jackson appeared beside the fireman. His hands were empty, and the dejection written on his face answered the question before it could leave her mouth, but her heart drummed a hopeful beat anyway.
“Anything?” She turned to fully face him and clasped her shaking hands together. Something, even a small trinket, was better than nothing. She was hoping for things like Allie’s baby books. The belts she’d earned over the years. At least some of her pictures. . . .
But Jackson shook his head, remorse rising in his eyes. “I’m afraid he’s right, darlin’. There’s nothing left.”
She nodded again and bit her wobbling lower lip, determined not to allow the tears burning behind her eyes to fall. She wasn’t a crier, damn it. Crying didn’t solve anything. But looking at this place, her heart just broke. She’d loved this little house. Had been so proud of the life she’d built for herself and Allie. Her whole life was in this house, but now it was all little more than a pile of ash.
Seeming to understand what she was feeling, Jackson closed the space between them. He hesitated, then draped his arm around her shoulders. She wanted, needed, to pull away, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. His arm around her was support, and she ought to be angry with him, because he was doing it again. Unseating her. He was kind and caring and it occurred to her again to wonder why.
Except he did what he did best—he took charge when she didn’t have the strength. He’d kept her focused for a while.
At least until she’d stepped into what was left of her kitchen.
“It’s a shock, sweetheart, I know, but all this”—he waved his free hand in the air, indicating the room around them—“is just stuff. I know you don’t see it that way right now, but that’s all this is. Stuff. Seeing this place scares the hell out of me, Beck. To think y’all could have been in here? That Allie could have been in her bedroom alone . . . Christ.”
She
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