Page 65 of No Take Backs

When she doesn’t say anything, I hold out a protective hand, motioning for Lyla to come to me.

As soon as she steps within my reach, I have her by the hand and pull both her and Richard out the door to safety.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Laura cries again. “That little girl. I didn’t mean for her to die. But the fire department, Josh. You’ve seen them. They deserve every single bad thing that happens. Nothing good.”

“You’re wrong,” I tell her. “I liked you, Laura. You were good people. What happened to you?”

I say the wrong thing. I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth, but I can’t stop them from coming out.

As soon as I see the lighter in her hand, I shake my head. “Don’t do it, Laura. Just don’t.”

Laura’s eyes hold a hard glint. One that I recognize as acceptance and determination. “It was always the plan, Josh.” She smiles. “Thank you for making sure I’m not going alone.”

For one brief second I think I’ll get through the door in time before the flames chew through the air and bite into my skin.

I don’t move fast enough.

During a fire, there are multiple stages. But the most dangerous is called the flashover. Before the flashover, you have a solid chance of getting out. Of making it to safety. But you get stuck in the flashover, and you don’t stand a chance.

All the chemicals Laura poured in that old camp, combined with years of neglect and the dry wood that is ready to go up, and flashover happens immediately.

When the fire slams into my side, my head slams into something hard.

I won’t make it.

But Laura won’t be hurting anyone else.

I’m fine with dying.

I’ll miss Nia.

Miss the life we could have together.

But…

Both Richard and Lyla are safe.

At least I gave her that.

25

NIA

“Stupid man and his stupid penis and his stupid, stubborn, pighead,” I mutter, each word punctuated by a sharp slap to the side of Josh’s hospital bed. The metal and plastic frame rattles slightly under the force of my frustration, but it’s nowhere near the satisfying thwack I imagine landing across his thick skull. The ridiculousness of it all is killing me slowly.

Standing here, seething with anger, while he lies unconscious, does nothing to dull the edge of my emotions. If anything, it sharpens them, cutting through the thin veil of calm I’ve been trying to maintain.

How dare he lie there so peacefully, as if he didn’t just put himself in the line of fire. Literally. How dare he risk everything—risk us—for a job, for his sense of duty. I know it’s what makes him who he is, but right now, all I can see is the terrifying possibility of losing him. I’m so fucking scared that he’s not going to wake up, and it’s all his damn fault. Stupid, reckless man.

If I weren’t so worried, I might laugh at the absurdity of the situation. But instead, I’m left with this swirling mass of anger and fear that has nowhere to go but out. It’s like a storm brewing inside me, with no outlet but the futile slaps against the side of his bed.

I draw my hand back again, but the thought of actually slapping him in the head gives me pause. The image of his pained expression, the way his eyes might flutter open in confusion and pain, stops me cold.

“Stupid man,” I grumble under my breath, the words losing some of their heat as my gaze softens. I hate that I can’t stay mad at him, not when he’s lying here so still, so vulnerable. But the anger is easier to hold on to than the fear that threatens to swallow me whole.

My mother’s calm voice cuts through my thoughts. “You really shouldn’t be so rough with him, Nia. He probably has a concussion.”

“Well, good,” I snap back, a little too quickly, my irritation flaring up again. “If he’s got a concussion, then I’ll be happy to wake him up every single hour for the next week. Just to make sure he knows that he’s stupid.” The idea of watching him struggle to wake up over and over feels like some small, petty revenge for the scare he gave me.

---