Authors: Missy Fleming
“Son of a bitch.”
Anger and grief filled the man’s voice. Olivia followed his gaze to the spot where, half an hour ago, two giant skyscrapers had soared into the sky, ringed by numerous fire trucks and police cars. It was unbelievable. They were gone and it was difficult to make sense of the emptiness that replaced them. The truth hit her with the force of those two planes. Her parents were dead. No longer there. Same as the seemingly indestructible steel structures. Lost. Reduced to nothing more than ash and grime.
She released her grip on him and sank to the ground, ignoring the sharp bits of steel slicing into her knees. Once again, sobs tore from deep inside. The fireman knelt and held tight. She was vaguely aware of his shaking shoulders, telling her she wasn’t alone in her grief. All the energy, all the life, had been sucked out of her.
Eventually, she heard him ask, “Can you walk? I’ve got to find my crew.”
She had no strength left to answer, her body had frozen into a solid mass of nothingness. He picked her up and carried her, but Olivia kept her eyes closed. She couldn’t bear to view the destruction one more second.
A
s Olivia exited the meeting, sunlight chased away the dark and she checked the time on her cell. Five o’clock. Between going to VDB, strolling through Central Park, and attending the meeting, she’d lost an entire afternoon. She stood on the corner and battled over whether she was going to dart across town to meet Natalie and her boyfriend for dinner as originally planned. It’d be nice to spend an evening laughing and catching up, so she strode towards a waiting cab. A fire truck sped by, the shrill sirens halting her progress and the firefighter popped back into her thoughts.
All these years, he had stayed with her. Even when she hit rock bottom, it was his voice telling her it would be okay, just as he had during that nightmarish hour. She never thanked him, never had a chance to. Not many people understood the trauma she had gone through. He would. Did he experience the same recurring night terrors? Shaking hands when a plane passed too closely overhead? The therapists assigned to her in rehab had barely scratched the surface of what she dealt with on a daily basis. She stood apart from other people with a wall of dust and falling buildings closing her off. Post traumatic stress syndrome—four words that didn’t come close to describing her lasting mental scars.
Stop dwelling on that, Olivia chided herself. She slid into the yellow sedan and told the driver, “Spice, in the Village, please.”
Gnawing guilt almost had her telling him Catherine’s address instead. Tomorrow, she vowed. Tonight she wanted to be with her friend, the only one who’d been there for her through everything. Although she’d done it a million times before, she needed to thank Nat face to face, especially here, in New York, not fragile and broken following another rehab stint.
After paying the driver, Olivia strode in and spotted Natalie at the bar, cozying up to a gorgeous Italian man. He had a strong jaw, the kind that begged to be kissed, but her friend was too busy laughing as she played with his spiky hair.
A split-second hesitation tripped her up. They looked so happy, untainted, and as Olivia caught a glimpse of herself in the glass, the gauntness that still accented the lines of her face filled her with self-doubt. True, Nat had seen her worse, but Olivia wished her wrists weren’t as frail as a bird’s or that her collarbone had filled in a little more. Her friend turned her head, her already blissful expression brightening as they made eye contact, and Olivia’s stomach rolled with nerves. She hadn’t realized how huge a moment this was, reuniting with the person who had never failed with her stubborn desire to bring Olivia back from the edge. Drawing in a steadying breath, Olivia lifted her hand and waved.
“Liv!” Natalie strutted over, her exotic beauty demanding the attention of those she passed, and hugged Olivia. When Natalie pulled away, tears glistened on her lashes. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Olivia caught her friend’s pointed look. “Okay, maybe not so fine, but we can talk about it later.”
“I’m sorry your homecoming has to be under such shitty circumstances, but I won’t lie. I’m happy to have you and don’t plan on letting you go for a while. Not without a fight.” Natalie studied her. “You look good, really good.” She embraced her tightly again. “Come meet my man.”
Natalie led Olivia to where her boyfriend sat and snaked an arm around his waist as he rose to his feet. “This is Alex. Alex, this is my oldest and dearest friend, Olivia.”
He offered his hand and smiled, an alluring dimple appearing in his left cheek. “Nice to finally meet you. Nat talks about you nonstop.”
“That’s a scary thought,” she joked. “I’d say don’t believe a word, but it’s all true.”
“I hear you're an amazing baker. I haven’t gotten a chance to sample any of the stuff you send to this girl.” He squeezed Nat. “She eats it all.”
“Can’t help myself.” Natalie grinned wickedly. “And it’s organic, so I pretend it’s okay to inhale three cupcakes in one sitting. Those overnight packages are the highlight of my week. I never knew you had it in you, Liv.”
“Me either. Cookies and cupcakes have been essential in regaining my weight.” She broke eye contact, shifting nervously. Why had she mentioned her weight? Now it was all they’d see. Clearing her throat, she rushed on, “When I try new recipes, there is never anyone else to test them on.”
Alex laid a hand on his chest. “I’m more than willing to be your guinea pig.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Olivia told him, soothed by his charming smile and forcing herself to relax.
“He eats like a horse,” Natalie said.
“I have to if I want to keep up with you.”
“Oh please, you run ten miles every morning. I’m still working on three.”
“But you look so cute doing it.”
Olivia grinned as she listened to their flirting, feeling like an intruder. And a little jealous, if she was honest. The blush on Natalie’s cheeks was the most beautiful and honest thing she’d seen in a long time.
“We didn't expect it to be this busy so we have to sit in the bar instead of the restaurant side.” Natalie signaled to the maître d who showed them to a high-top table. “Sorry. It's either hit or miss with this place. You know how it is in the city; hot one week, gone the next.”
“This is great.” Olivia sat on a stool and scanned the room, taking in the dark wood and muted lights. “Very New York. Not as plastic as L.A. I’m sick of synthetic body parts.”
She ordered lemon water from the waitress and settled into her seat, actively keeping her gaze from the bottles behind the bar, old friends competing for her favor. Most of her problems revolved around drugs, but alcohol had played a factor in her decline. When she partied, she used anything with the ability to numb her, from booze to pain killers. In the beginning of her recovery, she avoided bars. These days, they were a test.
“So, how’s the
New Yorker
treating you, Nat?”
“Ugh, don’t get me started.”
“Oh, come on, Miss Hotshot Reporter.”
“Annoying at the moment.” Natalie rolled her big dark eyes. “My editor is riding my ass. Assigned me a story on this shady politician. The guy is a complete slime ball. I need to shower after talking to him, it’s that bad. He winks every five seconds, probably believes he’s some Casanova. Plus, he has already been involved in a couple sex scandals, and he isn’t even thirty-five. He’s making a bid for the Democratic ticket in November which makes him big news.”
“One of the many perks of your job, huh? And the book?”
“Slow.” Natalie fiddled with her large hoop earring. “Apparently, writing a book about the architectural history of New York isn’t as easy or as unique as one might think. Lots of competition.”
Listening to Nat’s entertaining stories and the relaxing cadence of her voice made Olivia feel more at home with each passing minute. She turned her attention to Alex.
“What about you, Alex, what do you do?” Despite his jeans and polo, everything about his clean cut appearance screamed Wall Street or hedge fund hipster, something professional and fast paced.
“I'm a firefighter, FDNY.”
Olivia jerked, momentarily light-headed, but she pulled it together. After spending part of the afternoon remembering the man who'd saved her life, his answer surprised her. She studied him closer, noting the thick muscles and calloused hands she missed earlier. Nat hadn’t mentioned his profession before and Olivia wondered why. Probably to protect her, she reasoned, ignoring the flare of annoyance.
“I owe my life to a fireman on 9/11.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You didn’t tell him?” she asked her friend.
“Nat told me the basics about what you went through,” Alex supplied. “Nothing specific.”
“It’s your story to tell, Liv. I respect that.”
Olivia nodded absently. It made sense. September 11th wasn’t the best subject for anyone to discuss at length and she imagined it was even more sensitive to a firefighter.
“You were there?” she asked him.
“Yeah. I was very new, still green, but that shit doesn’t fade. I see it sometimes, asleep and awake.” She recognized some of the ghosts crossing his face as her own. “I’m lucky, I got to stay with my original house even though the city was short-staffed for a long time. The job changed after.”
“A lot changed.” She took a deep breath. If she went down that road, she might find herself in another cab headed to another meeting or elbow deep in a bottle of vodka. “No depressing memories tonight. This is for catching up.”
“Exactly.” Natalie picked up her fresh drink as they were delivered. “Speaking of which, how’d it go at VDB today?”
“Pretty good, until I met the guy who's been filling in for Catherine. He jumped all over me for neglecting her, saying I couldn’t waltz back into her life and expect forgiveness.” Her guilty conscious pricked again, recognizing the truth.
“This clown said that to your face?” Alex asked with raised eyebrows. The protectiveness in his tone had her fiddling with her napkin. The more she talked to Alex, the more she liked him, but she wasn’t used to being around someone so charismatic. And male.
“He's probably judging me based off the office gossip.” She shrugged. “I have no doubt there’s plenty. It isn’t like I kept a low profile. The one positive I can take from our encounter is he seems protective of Catherine. I can appreciate that.”
“Yeah, well, he should cut you some slack.”
She smiled at Alex. “I’m sure he saw a stranger, groomed for his job since birth, suddenly back in the picture. Funny thing is, I don’t want any part of it. I’m not that ambitious girl anymore.”
“What about your super secret dream?” her friend asked, referring to the idea of opening an organic bakery.
“I still have it. The whole organic craze is really catching on and now is definitely the time to do it. I’m just not sure when or how. It’s a big commitment and kind of on standby until I decide whether to open it here or back in L.A.”
“Oh, here! Do it here!” Nat begged.
“We’ll see,” Olivia answered slyly, still unsure of the future.
Alex glanced over her shoulder. “Hey, it's the guys from my firehouse. Let me introduce you, Liv.” He waved them over.
Olivia turned as a loud group of men sauntered over to their table, an odd mix of young and old, seasoned and rookie. A couple checked her out with avid curiosity, and she hunched her shoulders, wishing for more layers to hide under. She wasn’t here to flirt. Wasn’t ready.
Then, from the rear, stepped a tall, black-haired man. He was older, but even without a face covered in dust, she recognized him and her world tilted on its axis.
T
he voice on the other end of the phone faded as Duncan walked into the loud, overcrowded bar. Spice. Even the name of the place annoyed him. Some new yuppie hangout, as if New York needed any more.
“Where are you?”
He ignored the shrill question. “Just let me come by to see the kids.”
“Are you at a bar?” his soon to be ex-wife, Leslie, demanded. Duncan groaned. She didn’t understand as usual. After today, after the little girl, he needed to see a happy, living child. His.
“Can I come over to see my kids?” he repeated through gritted teeth.
“No, and you know why. If you’re at a bar I can only imagine the state you’re in. I don’t trust them with you when you’re drinking, or worse. Clean yourself up, Dunc. Then, maybe, we’ll talk about it.”
He stared at the phone after she disconnected. Clean himself up? She had no idea what the hell she was talking about. He was fine. A woman passed by, too close, nearly choking him with the cloud of perfume following her. Well, he would be fine once he got out of here.
“I’m leaving,” he said, turning towards the door.
Frank grabbed his arm. “Nope. No way. You need to let loose after the shift we had.”
His friend was wrong. He needed to be at home, alone, not socializing and pretending everything was okay. The senselessness of death clung to him. Losing those they were supposed to save was defeating, especially when one was a little girl with blond curls. Anger burned in his gut, begging to be numbed with cheap whiskey. Shrugging, he figured he may as well stay or else he’d never hear the end of it. A couple drinks, mixed with a handful of pills he swiped off the nurse he hooked up with last week, sounded perfect. He intended to stop the self-medication, someday, but right now it helped keep him numb and numb was good.
A sharp-dressed man in a suit bumped into him and Duncan clenched his jaw to lock down the angry words itching to be let loose. He hated places like this. The air inside was cloying, thick with the tantalizing allure of alcohol, and the walls seemed to be closing in on him, pressing the bodies of the other patrons into his space.
Another asshole, younger this time and laughing with his buddies, lurched into him. “Watch it,” he growled.
“Sorry, dude,” the kid tossed over his shoulder, barely pausing his conversation.
“Relax, Duncan.” He cut a narrowed glance at Frank. The urge to wipe the smirk off Frank's face flared, hot and bright, but he refrained. Didn’t want to ruin the guys’ fun like last time.
Then, he saw her, sitting with Alex, and their gazes locked. He grabbed a nearby table for support, knocking glasses askew, and went freefalling into the past.
The single constant in his life the past few years, other than the pain, had been the girl he saved on 9/11. He never forgot her face, those piercing brown eyes, the way she trembled in his arms, the grief and fear they had shared. In the midst of all the ghosts he retained from that day, she was his talisman—proof he’d been able to do something right even as everything else went wrong.
He blinked, trying to clear his vision. The woman in front of him had to be a dream. He approached slowly, taking in her bare, tan arms and full lips. Her vitality frightened him, drawing attention to his aching muscles and tired, aging body. With fists clenching and unclenching involuntarily, Duncan battled whether he should run towards her or out of the bar. His feet made the decision for him and he stepped closer.
“You,” she said breathlessly.
Alex broke the silence. “Do you two know each other?”
Neither spoke, only stared at each other.
Alex's girlfriend gasped, “Olivia, is he…?”
Olivia, the name fit her perfectly.
“What’d I miss?” Frank leaned in. “When did you save her?”
Duncan cleared his throat and found his voice. “9/11”
Vaguely, he heard Frank say, “Okay, move along, nothing to see here, boys.”
Half a beat of silence passed before his crew started talking again, turning away to give him privacy. Most of them knew the story, the bits and pieces he let slip over the years, and understood who she was and how huge a moment this was for him.
Olivia slid from the booth and approached him. Her hair, dark brown with some red mixed in it, flowed past her shoulders in waves. She was tall, about five-ten, and a tiny scar bisected her chin and another cut into her eyebrow. He swallowed hard. For a long time, he’d convinced himself she was dead, like so many others from that day, especially considering how many times her dust covered face haunted his dreams. Seeing her flooded him with memories and emotions he fought to keep buried on a daily basis. He didn’t know if he should hug her or shake her hand. Hell, he still wasn’t positive it really
was
her. Considering the day he had, he wouldn’t be surprised if he was hallucinating.
She shattered that theory by throwing her arms around his neck, proving she was real. He did the same, holding on tight. He was the tough guy on the job, the one they all looked up to, and here he was clinging to a woman he barely knew, afraid to let go for fear of drowning in visions of the past.
What a pussy.
Olivia stepped out of his arms, reaching up and wiping her damp cheeks. “I’ve thought about what I’d say to you if we met again, which I never imagined would happen. Now that you’re here, I’m at a loss.”
“I've done the same thing.” They fell back into staring at each other and panic grabbed him by the throat as he struggled for something to say. Anything. Jesus. “Want to sit over there?”
She nodded and Duncan led her to the end of the bar, away from the crowd. As the silence returned, he fidgeted. His clothes felt too small, making it uncomfortable to breathe, and he wondered when his heart would stop racing. He should have listened to Frank and worn something besides a ratty FDNY t-shirt still doused with smoke.
“The most important thing I need to know is your name.” She grinned at him. “Not letting you go this time without it.”
“Duncan McMurray.”
“Olivia.” They shook hands. “I guess thanks would be a start, but it doesn't come close to covering what’s running through my mind.”
Duncan cleared his throat again. “I could give you the normal line, about how it's my job, but that's a lie. It was one of those moments in life where every exact detail is seared on my brain for eternity.”
“How have you been?”
He opened his mouth to answer then clamped it shut, turning to stare at the bottles behind the bar. Anything he said would probably send her running.
“What a stupid question.” She thrummed her fingertips on the bar, a restless rhythm that matched the thumping in his chest. “I used to hate when people asked me the same thing. Still do. Answering never gets any easier.” A fleeting shadow crossed her face, there and gone, almost too quick to catch.
“It’s not a pretty story.” He kept his eyes trained on the bar as he spoke. The bartender shifted over to them and Duncan ordered a double whiskey.
“Water is fine for me,” Olivia said. When they were alone again, she returned to their conversation. “Are you married?”
He shook his head. “Separated. Soon to be divorced.”
“Kids?”
“Boy and a girl. Don’t see them as much as I’d like.”
“Why?”
“My ex is afraid.”
“Of what?” He snuck a glance at her, seeing only curiosity.
“Who knows.” The server set their drinks in front of them and Duncan took a deep gulp of the amber liquid, relishing in the familiar burn. She traced a tattoo on the inside of her wrist—words, but he couldn’t read what they said.
“Do you sleep at night?” he asked.
“I’m getting better.” Olivia offered him a weak smile. “Once upon a time I needed help to make it the whole night.”
“Same here.” He reached into his jeans and pulled out his pill bottle, rattling it. “The nightmares and guilt make it impossible to function. These help.”
Olivia snatched the bottle, studying the label. Her thin fingers trembled as she handed it back to him. “This is serious stuff.”
“The shrinks passed them around like candy afterwards—pills to help you sleep, pills to help with the anger, ones for depression, PTSD. I guess I got used to having them.” Duncan shifted uneasily. “Any of this sound familiar?”
“No prescription drugs for me.” Olivia hesitated, as if gathering her nerve, unable to meet his stare. “I didn’t want to numb the pain, I preferred oblivion. Cocaine helped at first. Later, heroin.”
“And now?”
“In about a month and a half I’ll have been sober for a year. This time.”
Looking closer, he identified lingering traces of her addiction; the gauntness of her face, how her arms were still a little too thin, the lines radiating from her eyes. Regardless, he found her beautiful, maybe more because of it.
“Congratulations.” Duncan raised his whiskey to her. “Unlike you, I continue to fight it.”
“I fight it, too, Duncan.” She touched his wrist briefly. “Every damn day.”
“I have decent stretches and bad,” he said in defense. No way he’d admit to her how terrible the bad stretches were, though. He did have some pride left.
“Not the best way to cope, considering what you do for a living.”
He weighed his reply. “I try not to while I’m working, but sometimes it can’t be helped. The guys in my crew pretend it’s okay, as long as I get the job done and we all go home at the end of the shift.”
“I find that hard to believe.” She pinned him with a doubtful look. “What happens the day someone doesn’t make it home?”
He deflected her unsettling question. “It’s dysfunctional and dangerous, but it works.” There weren’t many people in his life who could call him on his pill usage and not be met with his wrath. Why was it okay for her? And why in God’s name did he even tell her? “I know I put them at risk every time we go on a call. I do. But I also deserve to forget about shit that would have a normal man going fetal. I say, who gives a rat’s ass, I need it after what I witnessed today.”
“Rough call?”
He simply nodded. No matter how intense the connection they shared, no one needed to hear the details of his job. It was hard enough for him. Instead, he asked, “Do you live in New York or are you visiting? Hell, did you live here before?”
“Born and raised. I was a junior at NYU, double major in business and marketing. Three days after 9/11, I ran away and stayed as far from this life as I could. Too many memories. I became pretty good friends with my cowardice.” She shook her head. “I drove across the country, can you believe it? Too scared to take a plane.”
“Why come back? If I were you, I would have stayed away forever.” It was a novelty he’d entertained once or twice. If it hadn't been for the kids, he might have done it. His gut twisted in response, recognizing the lie. No. He’d never abandon the job or his city.
“My grandmother is dying. She's the only family I have left. It's complicated.”
“Will you stay after she’s gone?”
“No clue.” She sighed, then her eyes grew moist. “It sounds callous, but it’s a lot of pressure. She has big plans for me.” Suddenly, she gathered her purse and slid off the stool. “I should go. Seeing you, these memories are, it’s jarring. I need air.”
Duncan stood with her, concerned about her quick mood change, desperate to keep her around. He was not ready to say goodbye. “Are you okay? Can I walk you? You shouldn’t leave when you’re upset.”
She considered, for the longest few seconds of Duncan’s life, then her lips tipped up in a wobbly smile. “Company does sound nice. We can take a cab to the park and walk to my place from there.”