Page 115 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Gray
“Once the construction team is able to take down these two walls,” the engineer hired by Faye’s insurance company says, “then you’ll be able to go through and search for any items you might be able to salvage. For now, though”—he lifts the police tape back up, secures it over the skeletal remains of Faye’s front door—“I’m asking that you resist the urge to walk through the space. Things are unstable and dangerous.”
It’s impossible to miss the pain rippling through Faye’s face.
And the frustration.
This shit has been taking too damned long, but the amount of red tape we’ve—well, really, she’s—cut through over the last couple of weeks has been insane.
But they’ve finally identified the cause of the fire—faulty wiring on her heater—and the insurance adjuster has come out, started the claim process.
And today, the engineer was here to survey the wreckage.
Though he hasn’t brought great news.
Faye still can’t search for her belongings.
I shift closer, some part of me still unable to understand why she lets me near her after what I’ve said, what I’ve done, but though what happened a couple of nights ago is still a sharp slice of shame that threatens to extinguish the kernel of hope in my heart, what I feel more is…her love.
And her strength.
This time will be different.
This time I won’t waste it.
Won’t allow it to be ruined.
Mostly because she won’t let me.
On the heels of that thought, she straightens her shoulders and nods in response to the engineer, and fuck, that solid steel spine is beautiful.
“You have the list of contractors?” he asks.
“Yes, I’ll begin meeting with them this afternoon.”
“Good.” He passes her a card, tells her to keep in touch, and then we’re watching him walk back to his car, get in, and drive away.
“You good?” I ask, smoothing my hand down her back.
Another nod, but this time it’s a little jerky, as though she doesn’t need to have a shield with me, as though she doesn’t need to hide her pain from me.
As though she doesn’t always have to be strong with me.
That kernel in my chest grows.
“I’ve been avoiding coming over here,” she says softly before her eyes come to mine. “And you’ve been letting me.”
“You’re living right next door. It’s not like you can avoid seeing it.”
“That’s true enough.” A breath. “But it’s not the same as being right here.”
Near the ashes, the scent of smoke soft but still seeping out of the charred wood.
“No,” I agree, “it’s not.”
She exhales and looks at the remains of her life. “Part of it still doesn’t seem real.” It’s a whisper. “It doesn’t feel like my house any longer.”
“It will again.”
