I rub Sabin’s back. His T-shirt is drenched in sweat, but I touch him without caring. I want him to feel, even in sleep, that I am crazy about him. I am unfailingly devoted to him.

Maybe someone else would be too disgusted with everything that he did last night to be near him, but I’m not. I know that he should never have touched me the way that he did. I hate that he forced that unwanted kiss on me and that he violated the safe friendship we have, but I forgive him. Easily. The way that he lashed out, the way he did what he could to push me—push all of us—away was a test. He was trying to prove that we would leave him.

None of us will do that. That’s why we are all here together—because you don’t run after devastation. You stay and hold one another close. At least, that’s what you’re supposed to do, I’m learning.

I kiss my fingertips and touch them to his forehead before wiping the clammy sweat from his brow. My phone vibrates next to me. Funny how I keep it close to me at all times as though I am always waiting for … I don’t know what. Something. I take it from the bed and read the text.

Good morning, sunshine.

I look to Estelle’s bed. Chris is sitting up as I am, with Estelle sleeping across his lap. He is caring for her the way that I’m caring for Sabin. He looks as wiped out as I surely do, but he also looks peaceful. I give him a small wave. He gets that adorable half smile that I love so much and sends me another text.

Sorry about last night. Probably not the way to finish a holiday.

I write back. Ending the day with a giant fight? It’s a classic. Well done to all of us.

He shakes his head as he types. I’m sorry. For so many things.

It takes me a minute to respond to this. You only have one thing to be sorry for, I write back. I pause before I finish my thought, and I know he is watching me. Don’t ever say that I’m too good for you. Say, “Not now.” Say, “Maybe never.” But don’t ever say that shit again.

I meet his eyes and wait until the smile reappears and he mouths okay to me.

Despite the nature of last night’s mess, one thing has become crystal clear to me overnight: I have never felt as close to anyone as I do to Chris. It is not from the amount of time we have spent together, but from the strength of the unquestionable bond we share.

Gently, I move Sabin off my lap and ease my body between his and the Zach/Eric lump. I take my robe, a towel, a change of clothes, and my bath basket. I motion to Chris and, although he looks questionably at me, he eases out from under Estelle, setting her head on a pillow.

Wordlessly, he follows me down the hall and around the corner to the bathroom. I leave the lights off and hang my towel on the hook outside of the shower stalls and set the basket on the floor of the shower. I turn the water on and then step into him.

It doesn’t matter that we both are covered in the stench of last night’s war. He holds me, his hands cradling my waist while I tuck my arms against his chest and rest my head against him.

“If anything had happened to you last night …” Chris does not move; he just keeps me in his arms, protected.

“Nothing was going to happen. You were there.”

We stand together in the mist that emanates from the shower. The wine is out of my system, my thoughts are clear, and I am hit with the enormity of the impact this family is having in my life. They, and mostly Chris, are saving me. Or teaching me to save myself. He is my port in the storm, and that’s why I feel comfortable with what I’m going to do. Chris is going to have to be strong, but I have hope that the story I’m about to tell him will help me, free me even. He is the one person with whom I will remember what I have forgotten.

I pull from his arms just a bit. “I want to tell you about the fire. About how my parents died. And I need to … to wash it away while I tell it.”

He rests his head on top of mine. “Blythe. This is what you want?”

“I have to get this out. If I can tell someone, maybe …”

“I understand,” he says.

“You’re the only person I can do this with.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. Are you? You have to be sure, too. I’m going to have a meltdown; I know that much. So I need to know that you can … that you can tolerate this. I’m asking a lot.”

“Anything you need.”

The clearest memories of the fire that I’ve ever had happened while I was with Chris, the day I met him at the lake. Before that, I’d only had flashes of images, but images without a sequence. I hope that telling my story to him, with him, will help me put together the pieces. Remember a more complete version. If I can get this, maybe I can heal.

I start to slip my shirt over my head, but Chris takes over before it’s off. Because of this, I know that he is really going to be with me and not just act as a witness. Together we push down my sweatpants, and I step out of them. I may be standing in front of him in only my bra and underwear, but I’m not self-conscious at all. This isn’t about sex or lust. It’s about closeness, and safety, and purging myself of the night when my life fell to shit.

I push the shower curtain aside and start to step in. I can’t look at him now.

“You’ll stay?”

“Always,” he says.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just stay.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

He leans one hand against the tile outside of the shower as I move under the water with my back to him. I hear the sound of the shower rings as they slide back, closing me in. I feel myself shutting down, something that I need to do if I’m going to start this story.

I put my face under the showerhead and loosen my hair from my ponytail. I wait until I am drenched, until the little clothing I’m wearing is clinging to my skin.

I turn around so my back is to the water and, speaking very slowly, start.

“It’s a really simple story. I don’t know why I’ve never told it. Maybe there was no one to tell. I don’t even remember all of it. Is that normal? The days right before and after are gone. And what I do have from that night is patchy and messy.” I place one hand on the wall next to me because I can feel that I am already getting unsteady. “It was summer, and we were all at a vacation house on the ocean for a couple of weeks. My parents and my brother and I. Mom and Dad had just bought a house about an hour away, where we were going to spend summers. The owners were still in that house, though, so we had to rent this other place for a little while. Pretty cool that my parents could take summers off work, right? We went boating, and swimming, and fishing. We played all those stupid board games that you find in summerhouses. Sorry, and Scrabble, and that shit. I hate those games, but they’re fun with the right people, and my family was the ‘right people.’ James and I would swing in the hammock on the porch and read thrillers out loud to each other, seeing who could give the most dramatic delivery.” I sigh. “Sometimes we’d all go clamming at low tide.

“The reason we were at that house is my fault.” This is the first of my confessions. “I chose it. You know how lots of vacation houses have silly names, like … Oh, I don’t know. The Captain’s Lodge, or Rising Tide, or whatever. I liked the name of the house. For the life of me, I can’t fucking remember what it was. I’ve tried and tried because I feel like that’s important to know, but the name won’t come back to me. I’m sure I could find out easily enough, but I don’t want to be told. I should know it.

“I do know that I chose the house from a list my parents printed out. It was an old house. Wood everywhere. Gorgeous, knotty wood on the floors and the walls. Beams that ran across the ceilings. A fireplace downstairs. James and I had really nice small rooms on the first floor right across the hall from each other. The beds had awesome carved headboards and big quilts. The master bedroom was upstairs on the backside of the house, and it had a view of the trees and the water. I’m sure it was …” My arms are trembling now, and I lean my head against the tile for more support. “The house had a special feel to it. Everything felt perfect that summer. Too perfect.