The Fireproof Girl

by Loretta Lost

  This last one bothers me a little. Cole hated therapy. After losing his parents, he was forced to go through grief counseling, and he also had mandated therapy several times as a teenager. He complained that it only made things worse. After being diagnosed with various disorders and pumped full of medications that made him feel like a zombie, he grew stubbornly independent and decided he didn’t need any more professional advice.

  Cole thought he could do anything, all by himself. He thought that the only medicine anyone ever needed, for any ailment, was just simple, good ol’ fashioned hard work. And he did work hard. He healed himself by making forward progress, and never losing that momentum. No matter what went wrong, physically or otherwise, he cured himself of everything with a positive attitude and proactive measures. I wonder if he could somehow cure himself of death?

  “What’s this about?” Zack asks, pointing at the screen where I have some of Cole’s emails open.

  Distracted from my thoughts, I look back at the work I’ve been doing. At the start of this flight, I began examining all the correspondence with Benjamin, but I eventually started to drift toward some of Cole’s more personal emails. Maybe I was sick of seeing Benjamin’s name, or maybe I was curious about what Cole’s life has been like lately, but I feel a little guilty when I see that I have opened several emails and text messages from one particular woman.

  “I don’t know who she is,” I explain quietly.

  “Annabelle Nelson,” Zack says, squinting and looking closer. “Is she one of his employees? It sounds like they were close. They are talking about going for drinks, dinner… a weekend trip. Oh. Do you think they were… together?”

  For a moment, my anger is blinding. The laptop screen explodes into various colors and shapes that hurt my brain. My head swivels sharply toward Zack. “How the hell do you expect me to know that?”

  “Sophie,” he says gently. “You need to look at the letters. We only have about an hour left until we land in California. You can’t really understand his life from scanning security camera footage and emails—all of that could be a lie. The face he showed to the world. You need to look deeper than the surface. You need to see what was inside his head.”

  I find myself scowling. “If everything I’ve found about his whole life is a lie, why do you think his letters to me were truth? Everything you’ve been saying to me for months has been a lie. Why would the other men in my life be honest? And how are you even able to imagine someone being honest?”

  Zack clears his throat. “Partially because I read some of those letters, and they felt raw. They felt real. And partially because I trust you, and you say that he’s never lied to you.”

  “He hasn’t,” I say softly. My hand hesitates for a moment before I begin closing Annabelle’s emails to Cole. I shouldn’t be prying into his personal life like this. If he was romantically involved with this woman, it is none of my business. I should be focusing on Benjamin. I haven’t found anything so far, but the senator always was a sneaky bastard.

  I am upset at myself for letting jealousy distract me from my task. There are dozens of emails from the legal department about various lawsuits against Cole’s company, and I have begun to compile a list of people who have made threats against him. I know of at least two major competitors who despise him for stealing their business.

  “The girl could be helpful,” Zack suggests. “She could know details of his life that we can’t find otherwise. Maybe we could talk to her when we get to Los Angeles?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or you could see if he wrote to you about her. Or Benjamin. Or anything,” Zack says. “Come on, Sophie. If you keep putting it off, you’ll never read them.”

  I feel sick. “Maybe you shouldn’t have hidden them in the first place, if you wanted me to read them so badly.”

  “Do not get distracted and focus on your anger at me when we have more important things to do.” Zack grabs my backpack and unzips it, pulling out the letters. “Come on, Sophie. Read.”

  He hands me the first letter on the top of the pile.

  My fingers shake as they close around the envelope. I see my name written in Cole’s careful, masculine penmanship. I can imagine his hand holding the pen as he addressed this letter to me, so clearly that I could almost reach out and trace the olive veins on the back of his hands, running down to his wrists and forearms. I can imagine feeling his heartbeat in those veins, as they pulsate with his blood, and with his energy. His life force. I see him so clearly that it causes everything in me to ache.

  Turning the envelope over mechanically, I lift the flap and withdraw a few lined pages that are folded over twice. When I move to unfold the pages, I feel like I can almost detect the scent of Cole’s skin. Just in case I’m imagining it, I hug the letter against me and inhale deeply, until the faint musk pervades my senses. His scent is comforting. I feel like he could be right beside me, smiling and reaching for my hand. I can feel him close, and hear his breathing.

  I can feel him all around me.

  He once tried to tell me that life was short, and I didn’t believe him. As usual, he was right.

  It’s funny how death makes every morsel of a person precious. Every strand of hair, every skin cell, is a treasure. He won’t be making any more. There must be something of him on this letter, more than just the thoughts on the page. He touched it, when he wrote it. Some of the oils from his body were surely transferred, or a few droplets of moisture from his breath when he sighed. Maybe, if I’m really lucky, he scratched his head while writing, and there are a few infinitesimal flakes of dandruff sprinkled somewhere around here.

  Cole’s hands were always in his hair when he was thinking, and he was always thinking.

  The paper might be infused with his feelings and fears, but it also holds remnants of his physical body, and it’s all that I currently possess of him. It might be all I ever possess.

  I don’t want to open any more envelopes, for fear of letting these relics escape.

  “Sophie,” Zack says, leaning over. “Look, he mentions Annabelle there, several times.”

  My hands tighten around the pages. Oh, god. Do I have to read about how he’s found someone else and he’s happy? I don’t think I can bear it right now. But what right do I have to be sad or upset? I told him to move on. I told him I had a boyfriend. I told him when I started dating Zack.

  I started dating Zack specifically for the purpose of creating a barrier. I can’t be upset if I succeeded.

  If you put up enough walls, and tear down enough bridges, eventually, it’s going to stick. People will give up on you. All relationships, no matter how solid, can be burnt to ashes and destroyed.

  What am I really afraid of? What is the worst thing that could be in these letters?

  Cole telling me that he is done with me. He’s exhausted with waiting, and he doesn’t have the strength to hold on any longer. He wants me to sign a few documents so he can move on with his life, and separate me from his business and his heart. He wants to be done.

  Does that mean I wanted him to keep waiting for me?

  Yes, of course I did. I’m just a liar. I’m just a petulant child. I’ve just been throwing a five-year temper tantrum. It was all a test. A test to see if he really meant all those ridiculous things he always said, about forever. No one ever means those things, right?

  But Cole did. He meant every word.

  I could never really let go of the one person who makes this world good for me. The person who renews my faith that people can be true. The person I dream about every night, and try my best not to think about every day.

  I also couldn’t hold onto him.

  I wonder if it would have been easier to go through life if I had never met Cole. Growing up with him and spending every day with him for so many years allowed him to get deep under my skin. Getting him out of my system would require draining my own blood, until I was completely dry.

  That’s how I feel right now. Empty.

  It’s
too late. There is nothing left to let go of, or to hold onto.

  “Here,” Zack says gently, taking the letter from my fingers. “Let me read it to you.”

  Only when the letter is removed from my hands do I realize that I have been staring vacantly into space for several minutes.

  “Dear Scar,” Zachary begins. “Where the hell are you? I miss you so much that I’m going insane.”

  “No,” I hiss, ripping the papers out of his hands. “Don’t ever call me that. And don’t look at my letters. Just don’t…” I want to curl up into a little ball. I want to lift my knees so I can push my forehead against them, but the laptop is on the tray in front of me, blocking my ability to move.

  I suddenly feel very cramped in this plane. It’s such a small cabin to stuff so many souls into, but more importantly, their bodies. There are so many people all around, in front of me, behind me. If the plane were to crash, we’d all be smashed up together into a little people sandwich.

  To calm my racing mind, or possibly make it worse, I reach out and grab my Styrofoam coffee cup. I put it to my lips and chug the contents greedily, hoping that it will give me serenity, or at the very least, superpowers.

  Finishing it off, and putting it down, I look at the damn letter.

  Dear Scar,

  Where the hell are you? I miss you so much that I’m going insane.

  Are you even getting my letters? I refuse to believe that after all these years, you’d stop replying to me. This can only mean one thing: something terrible has happened. Or the letters just aren’t reaching you. God, I hope that’s all it is. You know how my mind always goes to the worst possibility first.

  I am so close to just hopping on a plane and flying over there right now, even though I promised you not to. Is someone intercepting these letters? If you’re reading this, and you’re not Scar, I don’t care who the fuck you are. I’m going to find you someday, and fuck you up. You don’t think I’m serious? Check my criminal record.

  These letters had better reach their intended recipient, if you value your mediocre life.

  I glance over at Zachary with a raised eyebrow. “Did you just want to show me these letters to save your mediocre life?”

  “Kind of,” Zack says with a weak smile. “It has been weighing on my conscience. By the way, what’s his criminal record all about?”

  “He… went to prison for a while.”

  “For what?”

  “He saved my life.”

  “From who? It could be important.”

  “No. It’s ancient history. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I turn back to the paper in my hands.

  So if you’re not Scar, why am I even still writing this? I guess I’m just desperate. I guess it’s just habit. I guess I just need to try—if there’s any chance at all that I could reach her, I have to try.

  I need you, Scar. As pathetic as it sounds, I don’t know how to live without telling you every little detail of my day. Everything is a mess. I’ve made so many bad decisions lately and gotten in over my head. You’re the only one who can help me now. When I started this company, you were by my side, and you saw me through every bump in the road. Things were just so much easier when we were together. Now, it’s all spiraling out of control, and I don’t know what to do.

  I want to tell you more about Annabelle, who I mentioned in a previous letter. We’ve been spending a lot of time together lately, and she’s become very important to me. She reminds me of you, in many ways—mainly her intelligence. She’s beautiful, in an innocent, simple sort of way, like the sort of girl who doesn’t even brush her hair or look in the mirror most days. She doesn’t need to. She’s very wise, fascinating, and kind. I don’t know why I feel so drawn to her, but I’ve just needed someone to talk to when everything’s been falling apart, and she’s really been there for me. She’s an amazing listener, and I feel like her advice has been invaluable.

  Don’t get upset, but there is something comforting about being able to pick up the phone and call someone in the middle of the night, when I can’t sleep. I would give anything to be able to call you. The nightmares have been coming back lately, and some nights, I need you so much that it hurts. I just wish I could hold you…

  I quickly fold the letter closed and put it down on the laptop. I feel like I’m going to be sick. There is no way I can deal with reading this here, in front of Zack, and on an airplane filled with people. I need a soundproof room, so that I can scream and cry and beat my fists into the walls.

  Reaching for one of the vodka bottles, I unscrew the little metal cap. The material is so flimsy that it gets crushed between my fingers as soon as I manage to rip it from the plastic bottle. I lift the little serving to my lips and pour the clear liquid into my mouth, letting it burn my insides as it trickles into my empty stomach.

  “Sophie,” Zack says, moving to stand up and grabbing the laptop from my tray. “You should probably use the facilities. It’s been hours and you are obviously in pain. All that coffee and liquor needs to go somewhere, and I think you’re just ignoring your body.”

  I look down at my bladder in dismay, wishing that I were a machine. Computers and technology are so efficient, while the design of living beings is often flawed. That must be why I constantly abuse my system in small ways, out of sheer annoyance at its failings, and the inconvenience of its functions. I like to prove to myself that I can conquer the petty whims of my body by choosing mind over matter.

  Besides, no one likes to use airplane bathrooms. They are gross.

  “Go,” Zack tells me, pointing firmly. “I see you clenching your thighs together and hunching over in discomfort. You need to pee.”

  Wow. Have I been doing those things? I examine my posture and see that he’s right. I guess Zack is rather perceptive, and once again, I think to myself that it’s not so terrible that he came along on this trip. I’m obviously too messed up to even be able to tell that I need to go to the bathroom. I might need reminders to sleep and eat as well. Thank heavens for autonomous functions, like blinking and breathing. Maybe the body isn’t as useless as I thought.

  But I am. It just occurs to me that I should have been able to figure out that Zack was hiding these letters. I’m a code breaker, for fuck’s sake! Why couldn’t I see the signs of him lying to me? And why did I automatically assume that Cole didn’t want to talk to me?

  I guess my abandonment issues run pretty deep, and leave me blinded to the truth about people. I might be able to create or decipher complex cryptograms, but god help me, I’m a complete dunce when it comes to human emotions. Or urination.

  When I try to stand, I realize that I do really need to go, and it is painful to move. I went from thinking about almost everything but peeing, to only being able to think about peeing.

  And for a few minutes, I feel peaceful. I am distracted from all the other, emotional pain.

  I move into the aisle and past Zachary. “Thanks,” I tell him softly, heading toward the bathroom at the front of the plane.

  When I reach the door, I stop. Staring warily at the “vacant” sign for several seconds, an eerie feeling of dread washes over me. A small shiver jostles my shoulders and causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up like needles. I am not sure why, but I have the unshakable sense that airplane bathrooms are among the worst places on the planet. Something dreadful must have happened to me in one, in a past life.

  Once I’m in the tiny room, I lock the door behind me and look at myself in the mirror. I’m a mess, and pale as a ghost. I guess I haven’t been hiding my heartache as well as I initially thought. A sudden feeling of claustrophobia seizes me, and the walls of the tiny bathroom seem to move inward by a few inches. I stare at them very hard, until they move again by another few inches. They are definitely closing in on me. I reach up with both hands to hold the bathroom walls open, as I gasp for breath.

  I’m not usually afraid of small spaces. I don’t really care. But this airplane bathroom feels like th
e smallest space I have ever been in. It’s so small that there is hardly any air, and it is difficult to breathe.

  It’s the first time I’ve been alone since I found out that Cole died.

  There is a strange kind of pain behind my eyes, and I realize that I want to cry. But I’m not ready for this. I clench my fists and continue to hold the walls as I gasp for breath, and struggle not to cry. The effort causes my stomach to lurch.

  The worst part is, I don’t know if I’m emotional or upset because he’s gone, or because he might have been happy with another woman. Someone else got to spend time with him, and receive his phone calls in the middle of the night. Someone else got to hold him after his nightmares.

  Annabelle didn’t take him from me. I basically threw him at her.

  It should comfort me that he wasn’t alone, and that he had someone to take care of him. He was a sensitive boy, and he never liked to be alone. Clutching my stomach, I tell myself that he deserved to be happy, and I am happy for him.

  Leaning over, I vomit into the bathroom sink. See, this is a prime example of the human body malfunctioning. I think I’ve been holding back my tears so hard that they came out in the form of vomit.

  As our car drives along a sunny avenue, lined with palm trees, it seems bizarre that we are heading to a morgue filled with dead bodies. But that’s just California for you. The perfect temperatures and the cheerful sunlight are almost insulting in a bleak situation. Couldn’t the sky show a little decency and muster up a few clouds, at least? A bit of rain, even just a drizzle? Nope. Even misery, death, and grief need to be felt while being bombarded with pure paradise.

  I must admit that I miss living on this side of the continent, on the shores of this gentler ocean. Back home, I barely spend any amount of time outside. I enter my car and drive to work, and exit my car to enter work. That’s about the extent of my exposure to the sun. And even in those few minutes, I manage to get sweaty and burned, or frozen stiff, and it has led me to developing a great annoyance for the brutal elements.