Hannah
I know with absolute certainty that this is a dream, because my life looks nothing like this. I don’t own my own bookstore. I’m not married to the man I’ve been pining after for at least fifteen years. And I most definitely am not the mother of the adorable fraternal twins being chased by the aforementioned smoke-show of a husband in said bookstore.
If this were my actual life, I’d be willing to open my eyes right now instead of desperately willing myself to stay wrapped up in this dream world for just a little bit longer. I don’t want to wake up to my lonely life in my derelict house that my landlords can’t be bothered to update or, at the absolute least, keep up to safety codes. I keep telling myself that those brown stains on the kitchen walls are from some kind of long-forgotten gravy explosion and not blood from a gory crime scene. I can look past all of the cracked tiles, the air conditioner that decides when it wants to work or not work, and the scurrying sounds in the attic morning, noon, and night. I can’t look past the “gravy stains,” but there they are, in my face, every single day, demanding my attention and begging me to look into the history of this horrible place. I wish I could move, but this is the only rental in my limited budget if I still want to save a portion of my pay to be able to open my bookstore someday.
Something in the back of my mind is telling me that I have to wake up and open my eyes. But that sounds like a horrible idea, so I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and ignore that niggling feeling just a little bit longer. It’s Saturday. I have nothing to do and no one to see all day. That’s how a lot of Saturdays are for me these days. It would seem I’m slowly turning into an awkward loner girl. Maybe I’ll get myself a bushel of cats and be Waverly’s crazy cat lady. Sounds like a solid plan, if you ask me.
Ever since my parents retired and moved away from Waverly, TX, more and more of my time is spent at work or alone. Sure, I have a brother and a few great friends here, but they’re all busy and wrapped up in their own lives. Millie is planning her fairytale wedding and taking care of her little sister, Tess has her two daughters zapping away all of her time and energy, and Colby doesn’t want his little sister hanging around all of the time. Truthfully, I don’t want to spend all of my time with him either, since he’s a grade-A grump supreme.
It’s fine. I’m not upset that everyone is off living their own lives. It just makes things boring and lonely for me sometimes, which is why I plan to spend my Saturday searching for job listings in Austin, TX…after I sleep and enjoy this spectacular dream for three more hours.
Who am I kidding? I’m totally awake now, dang it. Just relax. Close your eyes and think about the man of your dreams, I tell myself. This would be a lot easier if my throat wasn’t feeling so scratchy. I clear my throat, but it does nothing to help. Before long, I’m having a full-on coughing fit, and I finally open my eyes. It’s still dark outside, so I grab my phone to check the time. Four A.M. No wonder I’m still feeling sleepy.
I climb out of bed to go get myself some water to try to calm this coughing down, and that’s when my brain decides to fully switch on, and I notice the heavy smoke coming into my room from beneath the door. Don’t panic, don’t panic, do NOT panic, Hannah!
Okay, what is it that those firefighters taught me to do in elementary school? Stop, drop, and roll! Wait, no. That's only if you’re on fire. I look down at my body and confirm that I am not on fire. That’s good, at least. Get down low, right? I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to crawl to the door. I’m a dedicated rule follower, so I get on my hands and knees and crawl to the door. What now?
I’m staring at my bedroom door, debating whether or not it’s safe to open it or if I should just crawl out the window on the other side of the room. Sure, there’s a gigantic rose bush covered in evil thorns right under the window, but it’s that or risk fire. And seeing as how I’m fresh out of flame-retardant clothing, I’m thinking the rose bush might be the safer option. I throw on my favorite pair of jean shorts, Colby’s hoodie that I stole from his house last week, and my flip flops that are all conveniently on the floor where I left them after taking them off last night. I grab my phone and purse and take a deep breath that causes me to spend the next minute coughing before opening up the window.
Oh man, those thorns look a lot scarier than I remember. Why didn’t I ever chop that thing down like I wanted to? So much regret. Maybe pants would have been a better option for battling a thorny bush, but the smoke’s getting worse by the second, and my lungs and throat are burning. It’s now or never. I say a quick prayer and climb out of the window.
I consider myself a lady, but I may have just uttered a few words that I wouldn’t want repeated at church on Sunday. And by uttered, I mean shouted at the top of my lungs. The neighbor’s dog is now having a conniption fit, thinking that I’m about to come steal all of his human’s earthly possessions. That house is just as gross as mine is—or was, I guess—so newsflash, dude: I have no interest in anything residing there.
“Shut it, Brutus. If you were caught in this bush, I doubt you’d be any quieter,” I yell at the dog. He’s a rottweiler, and he’s absolutely terrifying. I didn’t know dogs could be that muscular. If he had opposable thumbs, I 1,000% believe he’d stab his best friend when they least expected it, just like his namesake. I wouldn’t want to be on the same side of the fence with him is all I’m saying.
I’ve got a million thorns poking my legs, hands, and back, and now I have to figure out how to get off of this bush without making it worse. There’s no way around it. I’m going to have to suck it up and get down. I take a few more deep breaths, trying to gather up my courage, right as a fire truck pulls up in front of my house, flashing lights and all.
I scramble out of the bush as quickly as I can, adding a thousand more scratches to my legs, and run around to the front of the house to meet the firefighters and let them know no one is left inside the house. I see my neighbors on the other side of my house, standing outside, watching that side of the house burn to the ground. They must have called 911.
How did I not even know the house was on fire? What if they hadn’t called 911? What if I hadn’t woken up and gotten out? It’s sobering to think about how close I’ve just come to dying alone in my house. Judging by the damage, it looks like the fire started in the kitchen—the opposite side of the house from my bedroom. But what if it had started closer to where I sleep? Would I have gotten out in time?
I’m startled back to reality when a pair of hands grabs hold of my shoulders and drags me away from the house. I stumble along, tripping over my feet, as I try to watch the inferno that was my home. There’s a flurry of activity going on all around me: neighbors coming out of their homes with messy hair and wearing pajamas to take pictures with their phones, firefighters rushing around to get the fire put out, police officers keeping everyone back from the fire. I can’t look away from it.
The hands move from my shoulders to cradle my face, and that’s when I notice who has me. It’s the man I’ve been hopelessly in love with since I was approximately six years old. The man I’ve spent half the night dreaming about, so maybe I’m not actually awake. Maybe this is still a dream. But no, he’s in his turnout gear. He’s working. His eyes scan over me to assess whether I’m okay or not. He passes me over to the paramedics, and then he runs over to the truck to get to work putting out the fire. I want to cling to his arm and beg him to stay with me, but he’s gone before I have a chance to expose my neediness to him.
The paramedics listen to me cough for a grand total of five seconds before shoving an oxygen mask in my face. I’m assuming that’s standard operating procedure after inhaling smoke for who knows how long, so I don’t fight it.
“Oh my goodness, Hannah. I’m so glad you’re okay. Barry was banging on your front door, but you never answered. We were scared out of our minds thinking you were a goner in there,” my neighbor says after rushing over to me. She monologues by herself for an eternity, not seeming to mind that I can’t respond. I tune her out and watch my house burn.
I watch for what feels like hours. The sky has started to turn pink. My neighbors have long since gone back inside. A few early morning joggers stopped to watch for a few minutes before continuing on their way. I just love that my life burning down around me is such a good show for everyone. Okay, not literally. There wasn’t much in that house that held meaning to me. Just an old beat-up couch, mismatched dishes from a thrift store, and a mattress on a cheap metal frame. I’m more upset about my clothes and my computer than anything.
It all feels so symbolic, though. Nothing in my life has been going the way I’d hoped or pictured, so why not just let it burn to the ground? If this isn’t a sure sign that it’s beyond time for me to get out of this town, I don’t know what is.
Seth, my brother’s best friend and the reason no other man has ever turned my head, appears in front of me again. He squats down so that we’re almost eye level and grabs both of my hands in one of his dirty, soot-covered hands. “Are you okay?” he asks me in a gravelly voice. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he sounds a little emotional.
Am I okay? What a loaded question in a moment like this. Physically? Sure. I mean, I’ve been better. I have scratches and cuts covering my legs from my escape, there are still a billion thorns embedded in my flesh, and my throat is scratchy from all the smoke…but overall, I’m fine. I could be a lot worse. Heck, I could be dead.
Mentally, though, I’m hanging on by a thread. It’s all too fresh. I’ll feel better once everything has calmed down. After I’ve had a few hours of sleep and time to process what just happened. But where am I going to sleep? I’m homeless.
“Hannah, are you okay? I can see your mind working a mile a minute,” Seth asks again. I nod my head in answer since the oxygen mask is still strapped to my face. “I’m going to call Colby,” he says as he gives my hands a firm squeeze and stands to his full height.
I pull the oxygen mask off and say, “No! Don’t call Colby. Please, Seth, you know what he’s like!” He looks at me completely baffled.
“Hannanah,” he says, and I cringe at the nickname. “He’s your brother! He needs to know that his baby sister’s house just burned to the ground.” He waves his arm toward the remains of my tiny rental house. “And you need somewhere to live.”
Oh gosh, is he implying that I should live with my brother? Ew. I can’t live with Colby. I can’t. He’s so bossy, and he’s such a neat freak that it borders on a mental health disorder. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, per se. I just can’t live like that. It was one thing to live with him in my parents’ home growing up. He mostly kept his obsessive cleanliness contained to his room and only yelled at me every other day about the state I left our shared bathroom in. He really hated all my hair that was left in the shower every time I’d wash it, so I made sure to leave it stuck to the shower walls as a nice surprise for him.
I don’t even want to imagine what it would be like to live in his house—the one he owns and has complete control over. He probably has rules like, no pink allowed, blankets must be folded and put away in between every use, and closets must be organized by color going in the correct order of the rainbow. I honestly wouldn’t put any of these past him.