Page 20 of Missed Sunrise
“You are such a menace.”
“As a Libra should be.”
She laughed. “Love you, sweetie.”
My chest warmed. “I love you too.”
“Don’t miss the sunrise.”
“Never,” I vowed.
And I hadn’t, which was good. It was a glorious one.
So splendid that italmostmade page after page of my sketches of grief, smoke, and shattered glass into something else. Something kinder,softer.Something other than devastating.
I closed the sketchbook, sealing away the dawn’s work, and then creaked across the floor to the gazebo’s opening. Leaning against it, I crossed my arms and ankles and practiced my breathing exercises while watching for several minutes as the sun rose higher and turned the green space from blue-green tones to warmer ones.
It never got old.
“Ahem.” Someone cleared their throat nearby. “I’ve, uh… been watching you.”
“That’s one way to start a conversation,” I said lightly, glancing at a guy in uniform to my right.
Ah. He was back.
“Hello, Jeremiah.”
He approached then, stepping into the light and causing me to fight—and lose—the urge to cringe away.
I didn’t feel good about the reaction, as it wasn’t his fault that he was connected to one of my worst memories—the sliding glass door of Bree’s grandmother’s house exploding—or thathe’d shown up here so soon after I’d been working to exorcise them. He wore the same cloak of nervous energy now as he had when I’d first met him a few months back. Onthatday. That terrible day when he’d had the unfortunate job of being one of the first emergency responders on the scene of the fire.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he murmured so quietly that I could have easily feigned not catching it.
But I didn’t. Everyone deserved to be heard, even if they didn’t believe it.
“What was that?” I inquired as I stretched my limbs, shaking off the dregs of ill feeling and turning to face him fully.
He fidgeted with the belt of his uniform with one hand and gestured randomly with the other as he struggled to find his words. “Make that…facewhen you see me.”
I inclined my head to the side, my hair swinging freely and tickling my upper arm. “Oh dear. What’s wrong with my face, Jeremiah?”
He blanched and his mouth dropped open as I gestured to his EMT badge. “Surely you’ve seen more difficult visages in your line of work.”
He wet his lips and dropped his gaze to his work-issued boots for a moment, then glanced back at me hesitantly. “Do you think if we talked about that day, it maybe would, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Help, or something?”
I studied him, taking him in more closely than I had on our brief previous encounters around town. He was around my age—early twenties—though with his bare face, short brown hair, and flighty demeanor, he could have easily passed for a teenager.
It really seemed like the universe was trying to constantly remind me of that day, even as I made conscious efforts in the same vein, just in healthier, more controlled ways.
Combined, it seemed excessive.
Jeremiah had been the EMT assigned the task of cleaning the superficial wounds on my arms and face inflicted by the sliding glass door exploding from the heat.
I’d been rather ornery with him then. Bree had just gotten hurt on my watch, and the pain of that was sharper than any shard of glass or first-degree burn could ever be.
And now I was being rather rude by doomsday reminiscing instead of answering his question, so I remedied that. With the truth.
“I do not.”
