Hands under my arms.
Cold grass.
I pressed my fingers against my mouth.
Caleb’s voice broke.
“I tried to get your mom too, but by then firefighters were there. I ran because my father was shouting from the alley. He told me I had ruined everything.”
I looked up.
“You were nine.”
“I know.”
“No, Caleb. You were nine.”
His eyes filled.
“I’ve told myself that. It doesn’t help.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when you moved here?”
He laughed once, bitter and small.
“What was I supposed to say? Hi, I’m Caleb, my father burned your house down, my mother helped bury it, and I’ve been dreaming about your screaming since fourth grade?”
The words hit hard because they were ugly and true.
I looked away.
“You asked me to dance.”
His face changed.
“That was selfish.”
“Was it pity?”
“No.”
“Guilt?”
He swallowed.
