Page 32 of No Room in the Inn

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Page 32 of No Room in the Inn

Nixon jolts into action, andmandoes he move.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I say, watching as he rushes around the kitchen, jaw flexing and tightening as he opens cupboard after cupboard.

“Burn cream” is all he says, and it’s spoken in a terse voice I haven’t heard from him before.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m fine. Look.” I hold up my hand. “Just a little burn. It’s fine.”

He doesn’t answer; he just keeps searching. After another second of looking, he rakes his hand through his hair and swears. “I don’t know where it is. I don’t know where she kept it.”

I wave one hand. “I don’t need it,” I say. I go to the sink and turn on the faucet, holding my burned finger under the cold water. “See?” In truth, it hurts a decent amount, but Nixon definitely doesn’t need to know that. Not when he’s so on the edge for whatever reason.

He runs his hand over his hair again. “Are you sure?” he says. “I could go buy some—”

“For the love, Nixon—no. Thank you, but no.” I soften my voice, because right now he’s reminding me of a rabid wolf or something, an animal that needs to be approached with caution and talked gently off the ledge. “It’s fine. Honestly. See? Look.” I hold out my hand, and he steps closer, looking hesitant, as though he’s not sure he wants to see. I wave my fingers in his face to show him. “I’ll put Vaseline and a Band-Aid on. It will be fine.”

My hand in his face seems to be the proof he needs to relax. He exhales roughly. “Okay. Yeah. That’s good.” He walks over to the table and slumps into one of the chairs.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I dig through the cupboard above the fridge and pull out the Vaseline. “You okay?” I say.

“I’m fine,” he says.

He is not fine. It’s in the curve of his spine as he rests, the tic in his jaw, the restless drumming of his fingers on the table.

“Mm-kay,” I say. Then, “Wanna tell me what that was about?” I keep my voice mild as I speak.

Nixon grunts, resting his forehead on the table. “It was the smell of the smoke,” he says grudgingly. “It freaked me out. Sorry.”

Interesting. “Bad experience?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a fluid movement; it’s a forced action that he’s trying to make casual. “You could say that.”

“Wanna talk about it?” I figure it’s okay if I ask, since he asked about my parents earlier. He can say no if he wants.

But to my surprise, he doesn’t shut me down. He looks uncomfortable, but he speaks. “I sort of…well, I sort of caused a fire once. Indirectly,” he adds quickly. “And accidentally. But it was still definitely my fault. I mean, if it hadn’t been for me…well. Yeah. I guess the smell of smoke just…you know. Took me back to that place, or whatever.”

“I’m sorry,” I say gently. “Was it a long time ago?”

He shrugs, a more natural movement this time. “A year,” he says.

His words register belatedly since I’m focused on spreading Vaseline over my burn, but when they do, a wave of cold suspicion washes over me. “Wait a minute.”

He looks up at me with a look of mingled resignation and dread. Like he knows what I’m going to say but isn’t going to stop me from asking.

I point in the direction of the other end of the inn. “Thisfire?”

I watch him nod slowly, and my heart plummets to somewhere in my stomach.Don’t jump to conclusions,I tell myself.Hear him out.

I take a deep breath. “Okay,” I say. I hesitate, then take another deep breath just to be safe. “How did that happen?”

Nixon rubs one hand over his face, and when he meets my gaze again, his mask has fallen away. My breath catches in my throat at the sight.

Because I have never seen such broken, hopeless eyes. Gone is the sparkling amusement. Gone are the lips twitching into a smile. The man before me seems to truly loathe himself.

“It was all my fault” is all he says, his eyes darting away from mine.

“What does that mean?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice calm.

He lets out a huff of frustration. “What itmeansis that it’s all my fault. I was driving the car that went through the dining room wall, Willow,” he says, gesturing in the direction of the dining room. “That was me.”