Enflame

by S. Layne

  I blink and lean forward. His hand tightens further.

  Excitement and fear tumble inside me and my pulse immediately begins to thrum.

  “Dad?” I brush his cheek with my fingertips of my free hand. “Daddy?”

  Shaking my head, more tears forming in my eyes. I haven’t called him Daddy since I was just a young child and could crawl into his lap.

  His hand tightens again and I gasp.

  This is not an accident.

  Not like the other times.

  Slowly, I watch as his eyes open to narrow slits and close. I wait with bated breath for more movement, silent encouragement bursting forth from my heart. His eyes open again, lids fluttering with strained weight.

  His gaze is unfocused as his lips part.

  “Bae...”

  My shoulders shake, and tears of relief and surprise run down my cheeks.

  “Dad.” I lean forward, turning his face so he’s looking directly at me.

  He blinks again and a sob escapes my throat.

  “Hey, Daddy.”

  His lips twist and push, as if he’s fighting words. I have to fight the urge to run into the hallway declaring that he can talk.

  He can see me.

  I stay still, my breath in my throat, watching him struggle.

  “Baby girl.”

  My head collapses onto the bed. My shoulders shake violently.

  His voice is muffled. The words slurred. The left side of his lips droops more than the right.

  It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life.

  His eyes close and he moves his head. On his own.

  I have never been so excited in my life, and just as I’m about to jump up and shout for joy, his unfocused gaze is back as his eyes open.

  But his hand squeezes mine one more time.

  And I don’t care that he can’t talk.

  He’s coming back to me.

  Finally.

  When he looks as if he’s falling asleep, I finally remember that the nurses or doctors will want to know what just happened. Reaching over his bed, I begin slapping with ferociousness the emergency red call button that is mounted on the side of one of his bed panels.

  I don’t stop until his nurse hurries through the door, her eyes wide with concern.

  “Is everything okay?” Amanda asks. She’s young and cheerful. I liked her immediately, the first day I met her.

  “He talked to me,” I sob again, my shoulders still shaking as I say the words out loud. “And he squeezed my hand. Tightly. Several times.”

  Her lips stretch into a gentle smile. “That’s excellent news.”

  I spend the next forty minutes watching and waiting while nurses and Dr. McCarry examine him. He seems to have slipped back into his dark world, and even though by the time I leave, I long for him to wake up, take my hand, and call me his baby girl all over again, I finally leave Rolling Oaks feeling full of joy.

  All my insecurities from earlier forgotten.

  My dad is coming back. He’s improving.

  There is absolutely nothing that could ruin the excitement of this day for me.

  My hands are still shaking as I pull into my parking spot at the center. Before exiting the car, I try one more time to call Donovan.

  I’ve been attempting to reach him for the last thirty minutes, but every phone call has gone directly to voicemail.

  It’s strange. He always answers when I call, even having Patrick transfer me immediately.

  But today, he’s simply unavailable. And not returning my call.

  There is no other person in the world I want to tell about my dad’s progress besides Donovan, and I can’t reach him.

  I’m still overwhelmingly thankful to Donovan for moving my father, for throwing his weight and getting him a room at Rolling Oaks. My heart believes it’s made all the difference.

  “…Donovan Lore, CEO of Lore Enterprises. I’m unavailable at the moment. Leave a message—”

  I hang up before the recording finishes.

  If his phone is on, he’ll see that I’ve been calling. And I know I shouldn’t be worried. He’s probably in a meeting, closing deals and making money. But with his unavailability and distance this morning, I can’t stop the small flutter of nerves in my stomach from taking flight.

  Sliding my phone into my purse, I do my best to shake off the feeling.

  Today is a great day. My dad saw me.

  I blink away the tears that want to fall, exhale a calming breath, and step out of my car.

  The cool wind instantly whips my hair into my eyes and I brush it back, pushing a chunk behind my ears as I quickly make my way inside.

  “It’s freezing out there today,” I say as soon as I enter, shaking the cold off me.

  Marisa looks up and shakes her head. “It’s October.”

  “I heard we might get snow in a few weeks.”

  Marisa simply laughs. “I don’t know how you can be so shocked by this. It’s Michigan, for Pete’s sake.”

  I scrunch my nose. “I hate the cold.”

  After removing my coat, I run my hands up and down my arms, trying to erase the chill. It’s true: I hate cold. Some days, I dream of moving south. Marisa caught me searching for homes in Texas in the middle of last year’s brutal winter, dreaming of places where snow never falls.

  I hate it. And it doesn’t matter that I grew up in the land of ski slopes and snowmobiles; my blood has never gotten used to bitter cold temps. Today’s cold front only reminds me that it’s coming. And it’s coming sooner than I’d like.

  “How’s Ben?” I ask, not seeing him in the living room.

  “He’s been in his room all day. Hasn’t come down except to eat breakfast.”

  I frown. He’s been here for five days, which isn’t uncommon for kids awaiting foster care placement, but this is the longest he’s ever stayed. I’m just thankful that he hasn’t left for the streets yet. I hate the idea of him outside in the cold.

  “I should go talk to him, but I don’t know what to say.”

  If he won’t press charges, and if I refuse to call the cops, we’re at a standstill.

  Marisa must see my distress, because she lays a gentle hand over mine. “But there’s good news today.”

  “Yes. There is.” I smile just thinking about my dad. When I couldn’t get a hold of Donovan, I immediately phoned Marisa, telling her I’d be late getting back to the center. She cried happy tears with me and declared we celebrate with champagne.

  I had to turn her down since I promised Donovan dinner.

  I tap my hand on the desk once and move toward the stairs. “I’ll go talk to Ben. See if I can coax him downstairs for a late lunch.”

  As I do, the phone rings and Marisa reaches to answer it.

  It’s well past lunchtime, and it makes me sad that Ben hasn’t come down to eat. He’s thin from spending so much time on the streets. He’s sixteen and should be cleaning out our pantry. The fact that he hasn’t seemed to be able to make himself comfortable here worries me. It’s as if he’s just waiting for the right time to leave.

  “Ben?” I ask, knocking on the door to the boy’s room.

  The door opens almost immediately, and I frown when it’s not Ben who answers.

  “Hey, Spencer,” I say, drawling the words slowly. “How are you?”

  Spencer, a boy the same age as Jeremiah, has been staying with us for the last two weeks in between foster homes. He’s angry, like so many of the other kids who come through here, and likes to show that anger by punching walls and the face of anyone who gets in his way. He’s not entirely strong enough to do physical damage, but his temper makes it difficult for foster parents. We haven’t yet found the right home for him.

  I reach out and ruffle his wild, copper hair. I’m one of the few people whose touch he doesn’t shy away from him.

  “He’s not here.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my blood instantly heating with concern.

  “Dunn
o.” He shrugs. “Said he was going downstairs a couple hours ago and didn’t come back. I figured he was watching TV.”

  A heavy weight sinks in my gut and I swallow, too afraid to let my emotions get the best of me.

  “I see.” I take a step back. “Thanks. You doing okay?” I ask, because I can’t let him think I came just for Ben.

  “Same shit, different day.” His eyes widen when my mouth opens. “Sorry. Same stuff, different day.”

  “I know.” I smile sadly. God. Some of these kids are so awesome. I hate their struggles. Unfortunately, I’m unable to focus on Spencer when my mind is swirling with a sudden, unnamed fear for Ben. “We’ll find you a good place, though. Okay?”

  He shrugs, that same feigned nonchalance I see in so many of these boys. “Whatever.”

  Before I can reassure him, he closes the door, and I know our conversation is done.

  Most days it would upset me, but I’m turning around, Spencer not forgotten but pushed to the back burner while I go figure out what in the hell happened to Ben.

  “He’s not here,” I tell Marisa as soon as I see her. She’s on the phone but her mouth drops in shock.

  “I’ll have to call you back, Mrs. Jones. Yes, I know. I’ll see what we can do for you.”

  “Mrs. Jones?” Damn. This day is getting out of control, quickly.

  “Yes, she has a girl, an eleven-year-old in an emergency foster care placing, but they haven’t been able to find a long-term care for her yet.”

  That’s younger than we usually take, but damn it…I hate turning away kids. “That’s young,” I say, hesitating.

  Marisa reads my thoughts. “I know. But we don’t have a lot of girls right now.”

  She’s right—we only have two staying with us right now. Usually the younger ones are at risk of being bullied and bossed around, but the other two are younger teenagers anyway.

  “Have Mrs. Jones bring her by. We’ll figure it out.”

  Marisa nods, scratches a note, and then remembers why I’m here in the first place. “How do you know he’s gone?”

  “Spencer said he came down here hours ago.”

  Marisa frowns. “I never saw him.”

  Her desk is at the bottom of the stairs, and she knows everything, sees everything. Between her and our two weekend guards, we know where every child is at all times.

  “He must have slipped out while I used the restroom or something.”

  Damn it.

  I can’t help the tears. So much crying today, I’m almost tired of it. These tears are for a different reason, though. I hate this.

  “He’s gone.”

  “We’ll find him,” Marisa assures me.

  She’s right.

  The problem is that I have no idea what type of condition he’ll be in when we do.

  “You’re distracted.”

  So are you, I think.

  As far as dates go, tonight is a bust. Donovan came home from work promptly at six o’clock, sending me a text when he was on his way for me to be ready.

  I received it just as I walked in the door to his house, frowning at the lack of even a basic friendliness in his words: Home at six. Be ready.

  As if I’m someone for him to order around.

  My hackles instantly spiked, and even though I did change into an appropriate dress, tights, and my favorite brown heeled riding boots, I did it under duress.

  I want nothing more than to curl up in my sweatshirt, stare at a fire, drink wine, and wallow.

  Celebrate my dad and mourn Ben. I hate that I can’t shake this kid off. He’s so much more than just a regular boy who comes to our center.

  Looking out the window of Donovan’s Mercedes, I watch the streets, the shops, the restaurants go by without truly seeing any of them.

  I also ignore his question, my sassy response still on the tip of my tongue.

  We’re on our way to dinner, to a destination he won’t mention, and we’ve barely spoken except for this.

  “Thinking about your dad?”

  I wish. Ben, Spencer…sometimes it’s difficult for me to shake a crappy day of work.

  “No.”

  His sigh is heavy and fills the space in his luxurious vehicle, the leather smooth like butter, more expensive than anything I could ever own…would ever want to buy.

  “Help me out here, Talia.”

  His hand drops to my thigh and he squeezes to get my attention.

  I turn to him, notice the concern in his eyes. Questions immediately surface.

  “Did you finish the deal?”

  A line appears in between his brows and he glances at me before focusing on the road. “Still working on it.”

  “I thought that’s what we were celebrating tonight.”

  “I had hoped so. Maybe we can celebrate the news about your dad, instead.”

  He flashes me a quick grin but it’s different. That same coldness…that same wall of control that he had slowly begun shedding is back in place.

  I scowl at him, turning to look back out the window. “If you’re not going to talk to me, I don’t know why we’re doing this.”

  By “this,” I mean dinner.

  But the air chills instantly. “I could say the same.”

  “Jesus, Donovan. I’ve just had a bad day. There’s too many kids, there’s too few of us trying to help them. Too many are slipping through the cracks, and with winter coming it always stresses me out. Ben’s gone…somewhere…more kids need places to stay…”

  And you’re keeping something from me, and I only have one week left in your house, and I have no idea what’s going to happen come Sunday.

  Who is this needy, uncertain, and scared girl? My reflection in the window looks to be me, but I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before, and I hate it.

  I drop my head to the headrest and close my eyes before tears form.

  “I’m not used to being in this position.” At my sideways glance he arches a brow and then fixes his eyes back on the road. “Wanting to help someone, and not knowing how.”

  “You’ve helped enough.” I admit, my voice softer. “Your funding for the center will help with a lot of the stress I’m under right now. It’s just never enough. There’s always more kids in bad places who need help.”

  “Have you ever thought about doing more? Taking kids into your own home?”

  Yes. All the freaking time. Unfortunately it’s a huge step over appropriate boundaries, and while I’m running the center, I have to make do with what I can. Besides, even for me—at my age and as a single woman—it’s not easy to become a foster or adoptive parent.

  I explain all this to Donovan, watching as he bristles with the mention of me being single. He’s quiet while he finally pulls into a restaurant in Corallville, the town just north of Denton where I live. Lived.

  I don’t even know where my home is anymore.

  “What if you could?” he asks after he parks the car. One of his hands drops from the steering wheel to my thigh and he squeezes. He turns to me and watches my expression morph into something that’s probably close to peace.

  Contentment.

  I smile. “I’d take them all.”

  “Maybe with the funding you could start working in that direction, then.”

  “I can’t stop my work.”

  “I’m not talking about stopping your work. I’m talking about hiring the people you need in place to keep the center going, maybe taking a hands-off approach and being behind the scenes so you’re not conflicted professionally. That way you can take the steps to do what you really want.”

  My heart flutters with his praise. His confident look tells me that he does remember the dreams I used to whisper to him, telling him what I wanted to do when I grew up. Not only that, but he believes I can do anything I put my mind to.

  “Donovan…” My voice trails. I don’t know what to say to him, what that means to me.

  “What if you weren’t single?” he asks, and I jolt slightly. As if he knows wh
at I’m thinking, his hand on my thigh tightens, and he shifts in his seat until he’s facing me. “What if you had a home that could hold as many kids as you want? A husband who cares?”

  Tears burn my eyes.

  “You already know I want you in my home, Talia.” His hand reaches out, brushes hair off my cheek, and pushes it behind my ear.

  Everything in me awakens from that simple touch.

  “It’s too soon.”

  “For what?” He frowns. “Moving in with me? I love you, T. I want you with me all the time. I’ve already told you this and you didn’t answer.”

  The insecurities I’ve been feeling all day bubble to the surface, somehow becoming smoother…less scary.

  “I didn’t think you still meant it. You hadn’t brought it up.”

  “I was giving you time to think. To accept what’s happening here.”

  I lean into his hand, his warmth heating my cheeks and spreading it down my neck to the tips of my toes in a pleasurable sensation.

  “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  His hand slides to my neck and he tugs me forward. Our foreheads press together before he runs his cheek along mine. “Never. I knew what I wanted the moment I saw you, when I came to get Jeremiah. I’ve just been waiting for you to figure it out, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Forever.”

  His lips press against mine, his tongue sliding into my mouth, rolling with mine before I’m able to fully consider the impact of that one word. But as I lean into him, I revel in the taste of him—the feel of him and his scent.

  He tastes like my home.

  Wherever it is.

  “How about we go eat now?” he asks when he pulls back.

  I lift my thumb, rub smeared lipstick off his bottom lip.

  “Forget about the hard stuff for a while.”

  Dinner ends up delightful, as we talk about nothing and everything. I tell Donovan stories of my dad, we talk about his sister and Jeremiah.

  It’s lighthearted and fun. The warmth of a couple glasses of Pinot Grigio and a belly full of delicious lobster and scallops help me to laugh easily and often.

  I do my best to set aside the revelation Donovan provided in the car.

  The fact that he wants me with him. That he was giving me space. He’s essentially said if I want to bring children into our home, he’s with me.