Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
“What can I help with?” I ask, because he seems a little scattered.
“Grab some serving spoons. Second drawer over there.”
As I wander toward the drawers, I try to make conversation. “So this thing with you and Dr. Marsh—is it serious?”
“None of your damned business,” is the response.
I promptly stop making conversation.
The timer on the oven beeps.
“Get that, will ya?” he says and tosses a dishrag at me.
I open the oven and a blast of hot air smacks me across the face. I don’t even have a second to consider my eyebrows may have been singed off before the fire alarm blares.
23
Conor
“Fucking hell!” Coach thunders, lunging toward the oven.
I’m not sure what stops me from just throwing the door closed. Probably the thick cloud of smoke pouring out and distorting my field of vision.
“Oh my God! Dad! THIS IS WHY I DON’T LET YOU COOK!”
Brenna bursts into the kitchen shouting over the piercing alarm with her hands over her ears, just as Coach grabs an oven mitt and picks up the roasting dish, burning his other hand.
He jolts, tilting the tray, which splashes scalding hot juices onto the bottom of the oven that ignite on the red-hot heating element.
Flames burst out of the ferocious black mouth.
While Brenna runs her dad’s hand under the cold faucet, I heroically beat the flames back with the dishrag, trying to get close enough to shut the damn door. But the heat is almost suffocating and the fire is only getting bigger.
“Babe, move,” someone orders, and suddenly Taylor rushes in front of me and tosses a heap of mashed potatoes on the source of the flare-up.
The oven coughs out a plume of smoke and we all rush outside to the sound of the fire engine approaching and the sight of red lights bouncing off the trees.
“Who’s up for Thai, am I right?”
“Not now, Brenna,” growls Coach. Cradling his injured hand, he watches as firefighters run into the house to survey the situation.
The flashing lights twinkle across the worry on Iris Marsh’s face. She pries Coach’s hand from his chest to inspect the damage.
“Oh, Chad. You should get the EMTs to look at that.”
Before he can protest, she waves her hand and a woman with a big duffel bag comes rushing over to tend to his burns.
Beside me, Taylor entwines her fingers with mine and cradles my arm for warmth. We’re pathetic, a shivering and embarrassed spectacle on the front lawn of 42 Manchester Road. Neighbors peer out their windows and stand in their driveways wondering what the commotion’s all about.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” I tell him, wincing at his red palm. “I should’ve tried to close the oven door.”
He barely flinches while the EMT pokes at his burn. “Not your fault, Edwards. Turns out I’m the dumbass.”
“You know,” Iris says, “Thai sounds great.”
A couple hours later, we’re the last ones in the Thai restaurant that just reopened a few months ago after—appropriately—a fire.
Coach has ditched his coat, Taylor let me leave my tie in the Jeep, and Brenna is still wearing the bright red lipstick she dons for all occasions.
“I appreciate the quick thinking,” Coach tells Taylor while reaching for another spring roll with his good hand. The other one is now bandaged up like a boxing glove.
“I don’t know what made me go for the potatoes,” she says sheepishly. “I went in there thinking about looking under the sink for a fire extinguisher. That’s where they always put them in apartments. But then I saw the bowl of potatoes and was, like, let’s see what happens.”
“I might have killed us all,” he says, laughing at himself. “Good thing you were there.”
The damage to the Jensen kitchen wasn’t too bad, thankfully. Scorch marks being the worst of it. It’ll be a hell of a mess to clean up after the firefighters went in there to make sure it didn’t flare up again, but I told Coach I’d get the guys to come help out after the insurance people have their say.
“Taylor’s experienced with all sorts of pyrotechnic disasters,” Iris informs the group.
“Mom, please.”
“Really?” I slide a glance at Taylor, who’s slumping down in her seat. “Was she setting these fires?”
“There was a period of, I don’t know”—Iris mulls it over—“maybe two or three years from elementary to middle school when I’d be in my office grading papers or in the living room reading, while Taylor was in her room with the door closed. A terrible sense of quiet would descend over the house just before the smoke alarm went off, and I’d rush upstairs with a fire extinguisher to find a new charred hole in the carpet and a puddle of melted Barbie dolls.”
“She’s exaggerating.” Taylor smirks despite herself. “Mom, you’re so dramatic. Change of topic, please.”
“No way,” I object. “I want to hear more about the pyro-anarchist of Cambridge.”