Page 12 of From the Ashes

“Yeah,” Zahir says, looking at me like he’s surprised that was my first and main concern.

I can’t say I blame him. He doesn’t know me anymore. He probably wonders if he ever knew me back then. The image of a cutthroat lawyer isn’t improbable. Therefore, I don’t have any right to be offended that he potentially thinks so little of me as I’ve given him every reason to. It still stings. But all that really matters is that Nevaeh is all right.

I’d forgotten her name, but I did hear it at the time. I’m glad I can stop thinking of her as ‘the girl,’ not to mention cease fretting about what happened to her after she left the beach. Apparently, she’s making colorful, squashed cupcakes. That’s a good sign, right?

“Thank goodness,” I say as I move around the room, gripping the back of a chair and avoiding eye contact with him. “I tried calling the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell me anything, which makes sense, but I was worried. So…thank you, I guess.” I finally look up at him. “For putting my mind at ease.”

Carefully, he places the plastic bag down on the table, the cupcakes sagging a little and the frosting smooshing against the transparent side. “You’re welcome,” he says softly, meeting my gaze.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

He was always slimmer than me with slightly narrower shoulders and hips. But in the years we’ve been apart, he’s clearly bulked up. I noticed it somewhat at the beach, but he was wearing his uniform, and I was buzzing with the rush of having just pulled Nevaeh from the water. Now, though, he’s wearing black jeans and a white V-neck tee that are both clinging to his muscular form like a prayer. He used to wear his dark, curly hair down to his shoulders, but now he has a fade around the back and side with a thick mop at the top that I desperately want to run my fingers through and?—

Nope. Stop that right the fuck now.

I clear my throat and look away. “So, uhh…”

“Yes, right.” Zahir pulls a scrap of paper from the pocket that’s hugging his pert ass. I manage to keep my expression neutral, but apparently my mind is determined to live in the gutter. “This is Mrs. Adams’ number—Nevaeh’s mom. They really want to thank you for what you did. How you helped.” He points at the food bag. “Probably make you some fresh, less mangled cakes.”

I laugh at his sweet little joke, probably louder than is appropriate, but I don’t care. Just hearing him talk to me again is a relief I didn’t know I was waiting on all these years. But the apprehension has always been there, gnawing away, that the memory of this person who once meant the world to me was going to fade completely into oblivion.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the piece of paper from him.

Our fingertips brush. Electricity jolts through my heart, but unsurprisingly, he snatches his hand away then grimaces, no doubt wanting to ignore the moment ever happened.

The shiver down my spine tells me it did. So does my racing pulse and throbbing cock. Christ, it’s like I cantastehim. As if chasing that taste, I lick my lips before taking a breath and trying to make my mouth utter coherent words. It’s difficult with myhands and knees trembling with adrenaline. It’s a different kind to what I experienced on the beach, but no less overwhelming.

“Zahir,” I say, my voice full of reverence for simply being allowed to say his name again. To see him. To be so close if I just reached out, I could…

The conference room door bursts open and my father blusters in. For a man supposed to be taking it easy after major surgery, he certainly does seem to enjoy stomping around the place still.

“Colton, there you are. I need you to—” At the sight of Zahir, the words die in his mouth but not for long. “Oh, my apologies. I didn’t realize you had a meeting. I did check your calendar.”

Of course he did. The implication that I forgot to enter an appointment is clear. Because in his mind, I’m still a child that he has to run around after to make sure I’m not embarrassing myself or the family name. If this actuallywasa client that he’d undermined me in front of, I’d be mortified. As it is, irritation that’s been brewing for a very long time bubbles up in me.

“I don’t have a meeting, Dad,” I say coolly. His eyes widen at my informality. He made it clear that when I’m in this building, he’s not my father, but my boss. However, I get a thrill from my micro triumph, and plow forward before he can interrupt me. “This is my friend, Zahir Delacroix. You remember? From San Clemente Academy?”

His expression smooths out. “I see,” he replies, matching my cool tone.

He either has no earthly idea who I’m talking about…or he rememberexactlyhow much he hated the two of us running around together all the time. He and Mom never said it out loud, but I was always acutely aware that they saw Zahir as brown, poor and Muslim before anything else. They weren’t even aware he was gay, but I know that wouldn’t have helped the situation in their eyes one bit.

“Your son saved my patient’s life this weekend, Mr. Ross,” Zahir says with genuine respect despite the fact that my father never earned it from him. “I was passing on the girl’s appreciation.”

“A girl, hey?” my father cries, his eyes lighting up. I can tell the inappropriateness that’s going to spill from his mouth before it happens, but I can’t do anything to stop it. “If she’s that grateful, maybe she’ll give you her number for a date, hmm?” He winks and chuckles at his own gross humor.

“Yeah, she’s eight, Dad,” I drawl, dropping all pretense of respect in that moment. I love my parents, I do. But their obsession with me meeting a ‘nice girl and settling down’ is getting obnoxious. Even if Nevaeh was my age and not a child, why does he think it’s okay to crack jokes about a hypothetical womanowing me a datebecause I helped her?

I can tell I’ve embarrassed him by the way he harrumphs and wrings his hands, puffing out his chest. I’ll pay for that later, no doubt. Never mind that he was the one out of line. All he’ll see is that I was disrespectful.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” he grumbles.

“I should go,” Zahir says, and suddenly I don’t give a shit about my father and his nonsense. I can’t let Zahir slip away yet again.

“I’ll walk you out,” I say, nipping around the table to open the door as Zahir approaches. He slows his walk and narrows his eyes like he wants to tell me where to shove it. But he simply nods and exits the room.

Not wanting my father to undermine me any further, I nod cheerfully at him before following Zahir across the lobby and out into the sunshine. The practice is part of a small but nice parade of stores that is too fancy to call a strip mall. In between the two rows that host an independent coffee shop, a fashion boutique, a hair and beauty salon, and a florist is a burbling fountain andwell-maintained shrubbery. I pause to speak, grateful that he does as well.

“Sorry about that,” I say with a rueful chuckle. “You probably remember what he’s like.”

---