Chris turns down the radio. “Blythe?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever happened to the summerhouse that your parents bought? The one you never got to stay at?”

It seems like such a funny question to me, maybe because I haven’t thought about it in so long.

“Oh. Well, James and I own it, I guess. The last I heard, it was pretty much shut down, and a maintenance guy checks in on it a few times a year. My aunt has been paying the taxes and stuff from our account.”

“You haven’t been to it since that summer?”

“No. It … this is going to sound crazy … but it’s never occurred to me. It wasn’t even officially ours yet when my parents died. They’d bought it, but we’d only walked through it; we’d never moved in.”

“But you haven’t sold it.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“How long has it been? Four years?”

“Four years last July.”

“July?” Chris squints into the bright sunlight. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just … It’s nothing. Well, maybe you’ll go to the house one day.”

“Maybe.”

For a moment he takes his hand from mine and moves his fingers over my forearm. “How badly were you hurt? You said your arm was bleeding a lot, and with all the smoke … Were you in the hospital long?”

I like that he’s not afraid to ask me more about that night. “I was treated for smoke inhalation, but it wasn’t too bad. My arm was … messy. No permanent injury except for the scar, of course. We were not exactly in the big city at a top hospital. I was stitched up and otherwise put back together, but James needed more help than I did.”

“James? So he was really hurt,” Chris says.

“Yes. He severed a vein—or, I guess, I severed his vein—and some muscle, which is why there was so much blood.” Even though I’ve just relived the trauma of that night a matter of hours ago—and I now have new, sharp, graphic memories—the clarity and full understanding of what happened makes this easier to talk about. I have the complete story and the complete truth, and that is already freeing me. “They were concerned about shock because of all the blood loss.”

“You said that he hates you because of that night. Why?”

“So many reasons. He nearly bled to death and was in the hospital for weeks. Before, he’d been a serious soccer player. Incredibly talented, and it seemed clear that he’d go on to play professionally. It seems crazy that he was only going into his sophomore year of high school and going professional was already something on the table, but that’s how that stuff works.”

“Yup,” Chris agrees. “I played sports in high school, and a couple of guys on my team were good enough to attract that kind of attention.”

“You did? What’d you play?”

“I ran track. Not very well, but I liked it.” He flips down the visor to keep the sun out of his eyes. “So after the fire, your brother’s soccer career was blown, I assume.”

“Yes. Months of physical therapy. Months of pain. Some muscle damage. He was devastated. He was the one who was good at something, not me. I was never good at anything. I don’t have a … a special skill or talent. An injury like his wouldn’t have been as big a deal for me.” I realize it feels so good to talk about it. I’ve spent four years having conversations with myself, and now I get to have them with someone else. It’s a relief because there are no longer secrets. “So he lost his parents and his potentially amazing future in soccer. He thought that I was stupid and careless in getting him out of the house.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, maybe not, but he wasn’t that coherent for most of it, so I don’t think he can understand. He thinks he would have had the sense to get us out safely. It’s easier to think that way when you weren’t the one responsible. All he remembers is that I fucked up in every capacity, and he cannot forgive me.”

“It’s probably easier to blame you, because then there is somebody to blame.”

“He’s welcome to blame God,” I say, half joking. “If he still went to church, our priest might insist that he forgive me because that’s what a good Catholic should do. ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.’”

“You grew up Catholic, too?”

I nod. “Well, my dad was Catholic, and so we all went to church mostly to keep him happy. James and I never took it all that seriously, but … I guess there were pieces of it that we liked. Mom was more agnostic than I think my father knew,” I say, laughing. “She was famous for flashing major eye rolls to me and James during Communion. Dad caught her once, and she pawned it off as being irritated by an especially dry Communion wafer. She and I secretly shared a wish that they’d instead feed us small bites of the delicious bread from the French bakery down the road.”

Chris laughs. “Very sensible. So you hated every minute?”

“Sort of. I guess I liked the idea that … well, that there might be some kind of larger meaning to life or whatever. My mother was into that. She had a nonreligious spiritual side to her, if that makes any sense. She believed in the idea of fate and destiny. An interconnectedness and purpose in life.” I fidget with the zipper on my jacket. “Do you believe in that?”

“Not at all,” he says immediately. “Estelle was hooked from the first time she went to church. Which was mostly after my mother died, by the way. My father took us on holidays and whatnot, but Estelle made me take her every Sunday. I’d wait outside. Here’s the truth: We want to read too much into life because it’s convenient. Or fun. But there’s no imaginary, invisible man in the sky who makes things happen. There is no magical reason that we’re dealt what we’re dealt.” Chris has the same unromantic view of the world that I do. I suspect that neither of us wants a predictable march through life that includes marriage, kids, and a white picket fence. We both have histories that preclude us wanting to seek out tradition.

“Take this man who brought you off the ladder,” Chris continues. “I know you well enough to say that you don’t think he was sent by God to save you.”

“No. He wasn’t. I don’t know who he was, and I have never seen him since that night, but it was him, not God or any other … illusory power … who tore me away from that fire. I give credit where credit is due. One human being made a choice, he acted, and I owe him my life. No god killed my parents, nearly killed James, and spared me. I know that, and I can’t go back and believe in things that I used to believe in … or that I used to want to believe in. I don’t know how much faith I had to lose that night, but whatever I had is gone now.” I take an incredibly refreshing deep breath. “And you understand that.”

“I do.”

“Yes,” I agree. I put my hand on top of Chris’s so that I am holding his between mine and look at him while he focuses on the road. “We want what’s real. Heroes are real.”

“Some,” he concedes, “but not all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sure many people would consider my father a hero, but—”

“But not you,” I finish for him.

“No. Never me. And that, Blythe,” he says without taking his eyes off the road, “is reality. What is also reality is that I don’t have to see him again. I can make that choice.”

“What does your father do?”

“He’s an artist. All sorts of mediums. Sculpture, painting, you name it. The house was always filled with materials. Paint, plaster, sheets of metal. Wire. Lots of copper wire.”

Chris tightens his grip on my hand. I turn to face him and rest my leg on the cushioned bench seat. “What about winter break? If you don’t go home, what do you do? Thanksgiving is one thing, but you can’t stay on campus over winter break.”

He checks the backseat quickly and then says in a low voice, “Hawaii. But don’t tell anyone. They don’t know. It’s our new family tradition to go away for the month. Last year I rented us a place in Huntington Beach. I don’t tell them where we’re going until we get to the airport.”