Page 8 of Undeniably Perfect
“My apartment,” she whispers. I jerk my head to stare down at her. Her apartment? I’m about to ask this when the firefighter answers me.
“There was some sort of fire stemming from a unit on the top floor. There was a fair amount of damage to the unit. As you can tell, we are still containing the fire, but the rest of the building is intact. What unit is yours, miss?” he asks, looking down at Tabitha.
“Three-twenty-five,” she says with hope in her voice.
His look tells us the answer before he speaks. “I’m sorry to inform you, but that’s the unit where the fire originated.” He motions for a police officer.
“This is the resident from the apartment.”
I feel Tabitha’s body trembling, and I pull her against me on instinct.
“It’s going to be OK,” I assure her.
“Miss, I need to get some information from you,” the officer starts as he ushers us to the side. There’s a bench outside the building, and I lead Tabitha to it. I sit next to her as the officer explains what they know so far, which isn’t very much. He fills out some paperwork, asking about insurance, which Tabitha has. He explains that once the firefighters have the fire contained and the area secure, she will be able to go inside and assess what can be salvaged.
“Do you have a place where you can stay?” he asks her.
Before she can answer, I turn and announce, “Yes, she does.” I have no idea why I just said that.
I don’t have time to ponder my actions, as she looks up at me in confusion. “You can stay at my apartment. I have one near the stadium. I only use it when I’m too tired to drive home. It’s not much, but you’re welcome to it.”
“I-I…that’s, uh…I…” She trails off.
“I can call the Red Cross to get you into a hotel for the night,” the officer offers her.
Tabitha looks between him and me. “I’m OK,” she finally states. He nods, hands her his card, and some paperwork and walks back over to check on the status of things.
“Thank you, but that’s really not necessary. I can find somewhere to stay.”
I ignore her comment. “You live here?”
She nods and sighs, her lower lip trembles. “I should call my brother.” I nod, and she pulls her cell phone out of her pocket. I stand and walk a few feet away to give her privacy.
“Brix?” I hear her say, her voice breaking. The fixer in me wants to make this all better, but I know that’s not possible. From the amount of fire personnel here, I’m guessing the damage is pretty significant. And why the fuck is she living in this building. It can’t possibly be safe. It’s questionable for a studio let alone a home.
I study Tabitha as she talks softly into her phone. She blinks away some tears, and something in me wants to hug her. I only catch every few words. Grandma and PopPop. Bad. Server. A client.
She nervously chews on one of her nail polished-chipped nails. Her eyes constantly scanning her surroundings. She is cute, but not in a girl-next-door type of way. She’s cute like the artsy girl at the coffee shop on Main Street. The type of cute that you want to shelter from the world because there’s something unique about her. She’s intriguing as fuck, and I’d love to get to know her better, all of her. I practically slap myself in the head. Pull yourself together, Kent. This isn’t the fucking time to sexually analyze this woman.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I realize that I’m late. I should have left ten minutes ago to head over and start warming up in the gym. Ugh, every second of every day is planned for me. But here I am running late as I try to fix things for Tabitha. I just wish I could fix myself. I need something or someone to knock sense into me. I half-laugh at Di’s earlier suggestion. As I watch Tabitha on the phone, waving her hand around the air as she speaks, it dawns on me. Maybe, Tabitha could break my monotonous schedule.
I look down expecting to see a text from my teammate Ward, but instead, it’s a text from Mom.
Mothership: Honey, are you sure you’re OK?
I groan and run a hand over my face. I love that woman but she’s a little overkill at times. If I was a betting man, I’d wager that Lanie or Di called her post-coffee shop chat.
Me: Yes. All is good.
Mothership: I have an appointment this week in D.C., want to grab food?
I smile. My mom is always trying to feed us. Maybe it’s her part-Italian heritage or maybe it’s just her, but she forces food upon us at every chance she gets.
Me: Sure, Ma. Text me deets.
Mothership: OK, sweet cheeks. Love you!
I can’t help the smile. Something about my mom using an old family nickname forces levity upon me in any situation. I shoot a quick text to my pitching coach, explaining the conundrum.
