Page 37 of Iron Heart

A fuse blows when there’s too much heat flowing between the two sides.

It’s supposed to keep you safe.

There’s too much heat between Tori and me. A current too strong to ignore.

I’m starting to wonder if there’s an explosion coming. And there sure as hell ain’t a fuse between us to prevent it.

15

Tori

The latest issue of thePost-Gazetteis waiting for me on the bottom step of my front porch when I get home from work. Somehow, I’d forgotten today was Wednesday, which is weird. Maybe it’s because Frank was out sick today. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been preoccupied wondering whether Dante would be here at the house when I got back.

I haven’t seen much of Dante since I ran into him in the parking lot last week. He’s been here at the house mostly when I’m at work.

I’ve been more disappointed than I should be on the days when I come home and he’s already gone for the day. I’ve tried to tell myself it’s because I’m anxious to have this wiring project finished, but that’s not really what it is. The fact is, I like seeing him. And even though he still makes me nervous as hell, I like talking to him, too. Especially when he’s finished up for the day and he relaxes out of work mode a little. Sometimes he’s even kind of funny, when he wants to be.

And like Savannah said, he isn’t exactly hard on the eyes.

I pick up the paper as I trudge up the front steps and glance at the front page. Right there, above the fold, is my story about Beulah, the local psychic. I stare at my byline for a second:By Victoria Lowe.Pursing my lips, I inwardly cringe at the fact that this story, like the others I’ve written for the Ironwood paper, will soon be online, as well. There for all posterity.

My career, ladies and gentlemen.

The front door is unlocked, and I push it open and step through into the foyer. “Dante?” I call.

“In the basement!”

Reassured, I try to ignore the little flip of excitement my stomach does, and head up to my bedroom to change out of my work clothes. I grab my comfiest pair of jeans from the chair where they’re hanging, put on a loose flowy tank top, and shove my feet into my flip flops. On the way back down the stairs, I feel something in my back pocket dig into my butt slightly. I put my hand inside.

It’s the fuse.

I finger it for a second, a little embarrassed that I’ve held onto it instead of just throwing it away. I glance over at my waste basket, and take a step toward it. But at the last minute, I quietly shove the fuse back into my jeans.

Back downstairs, I wander around a little bit, trying to decide what to do. It’s strange having someone else in my space, especially someone as distracting as Dante. Even though he’s downstairs, I still feel his presence as though he’s in the room with me.

I put a hand up to my face, and push a lock of my hair behind my ear — noticing that my movements are self-conscious. Like I’m trying to look casually sexy and graceful, just in case he comes around the corner.

Ugh.

Blowing out an irritated breath, I mentally curse myself for being such an idiot. I look toward the kitchen and consider starting some dinner for myself, but I’m not really hungry, and besides, I don’t know how much longer Dante is going to be here. I sure as hell don’t want him to come in and stand there watching me eat.

I can’t quite figure out what to do with myself. I’ve been on my computer all day, so staring at a screen holds no appeal. Besides, I feel strangely sheepish about him coming up here and judging my choice of TV programs. Maybe I should just go upstairs and hide out in my bedroom until he leaves? He never goes up to the second floor, since there’s no wiring to redo.

I stand in the middle of the living room, looking around at my surroundings. Having Dante in my house makes me consider everything with an outsider’s eye. I remember what he said the first time he was here, about the furniture not really looking like my style. He’s right, of course. None of this is stuff I would have chosen for myself. I haven’t changed anything since I moved in. Even my bedding and comforter are Aunt Jeanne’s. I guess it’s partly because this stuff is all in perfectly good condition, if a little worn.

But if I’m honest, the deeper reason probably has something to do with denial.

I know Aunt Jeanne meant for this house, this town, this job — thislife— to be a present to me. She liked old things — objects that have a history to them — but even so, she wasn’t particularly sentimental. She wouldn’t have minded if I changed things around. So it’s not that I’m trying to preserve the house as it was when she lived here. She would have hated for me to think of this place or anything in it as a burden or a weight.

But the fact is, even though this house was a refuge to me as a child, it now means something else to me. Moving into this house meant accepting the loss of my dreams. Accepting that I’m broken. That my life has to be different because of that.

Maybe leaving everything just the way it was when Aunt Jeanne was alive has been a way to pretend that this is all temporary — that thisisn’tmy life. Maybe subconsciously, I’ve been keeping it this way so that I can make believe I’m just visiting, like I used to do as a kid. I can pretend that someday soon, it will be time to spread my wings and fly. Time to go start living the life I always assumed I would have. As Victoria Lowe, the world-traveling foreign correspondent. Not Tori Lowe, resident of Ironwood, Ohio. Writer of stories about small-town psychics, and aspiring cat lady, except without the cats.

Absently, I wander over to the big bay window. This space has always bugged me. Aunt Jeanne put two spindly chairs here, on either side of a tiny tea table. The chairs themselves look like they would hardly support the weight of a full-sized adult. I’ve never sat on them in my life. It seems a shame to have them over here, with such a nice view through the window to the outside.

I pick up one of the two spindly chairs and move it over against the far wall in the back of the room. Then I do the same to the other chair, and the table itself. Finally, I go over to the not-too-uncomfortable fainting couch that’s stationed at the opposite corner, and drag it, shuffling, until it’s where the table and chairs were.

The late afternoon sunlight glows dappled through the trees, onto the stripy, dark red fabric of the fainting couch.

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