Page 71 of Ashes of Us
This was ridiculous. I should leave and go home. Daniel was fine, and Liam was in surgery, and there was nothing I could do here except sit in this uncomfortable chair and?—
"Piper?"
I looked up.
A woman in her late fifties was standing there, purse clutched in both hands, eyes red. Next to her, a man about the same age, wearing a Riverside Fire Department t-shirt.
Liam's parents.
Oh God.
"Mrs. Sullivan," I managed. "Mr. Sullivan."
His mother’s expression faltered. "You're here."
I stood up, not sure what to do with my hands. "I just… I heard what happened. I wanted to make sure he was okay."
"They said surgery." Her voice broke. "They said his shoulder, and his ribs, and?—"
Mr. Sullivan put his arm around her. His eyes met mine over her head. There was no anger there, just exhaustion and worry.
"He went into a burning building," he said quietly. "Alone. They told us he saved two people."
"I know," I said. "I heard."
One of them was Daniel. One of them was my ex-boyfriend who I broke up with just hours before this happened. But I wasn't going to say that to Liam's parents.
Mrs. Sullivan wiped her eyes. "Of course he did. Of course he went in." She looked at me, really looked at me. "I didn't think we'd see you again."
The words hung there between us.
"I didn't think I'd be here either," I admitted.
We sat down together. It was awkward and stilted, three people who used to be something like family and now didn't know what to say to each other.
Mrs. Sullivan twisted a tissue in her hands, Mr. Sullivan stared at the wall, and I counted the tiles on the floor.
This was a mistake. I should just leave and give them space. This wasn't?—
"He talks about you," Mrs. Sullivan said suddenly.
I looked up.
"Not to us, of course, not directly. But your name comes up. Especially when he’s talking with Scott. How you're doing. If the bakery's successful." She met my eyes. "He keeps track."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"He's trying," Mr. Sullivan added. "To be… to do better. I don't know if that matters to you?—"
"It doesn't," I said quickly. Too quickly. "I’m sorry."
Mr. Sullivan nodded slowly, like he'd expected that answer.
We went back to silence.
An hourand forty minutes later, a surgeon in blue scrubs emerged through the double doors.
We all stood at once.
