Second home
1073 Words
The drive to Damian’s place was quiet, except for the occasional low rumble of a purr from the bundle in Justine’s lap. Jeremiah had finally decided that the soot-stained blanket was a comfortable enough throne, though he still looked personally insulted by the entire ordeal.
When they stepped into Damian’s apartment, the contrast was jarring. His place was clean, smelled faintly of citrus and coffee, and—most importantly—wasn’t filled with white fire-extinguisher dust.
"First things first," Damian said, gently taking the cat from her. He set Jeremiah down in the bathroom with a bowl of water and a makeshift litter box. "He needs a wet-wipe bath, and you need a real one."
Justine caught her reflection in the hallway mirror and winced. The "sexy red dress" was now a smudged, tragic mess of silk and ash. Her face was streaked with grey, and her hair smelled like a campfire gone wrong.
"I look like a chimney sweep," she muttered, her shoulders slumping.
Damian walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the top of her head despite the soot. "You look like a hero who saved her own apartment. There’s a clean oversized hoodie on the bed. Go. I’ll figure out some food."
The hot water felt like a miracle. As the grey suds swirled down the drain, the adrenaline finally washed away, replaced by a dull ache in her chest as she thought about her ruined curtains and the scorched wall. When she emerged, swallowed whole by Damian’s gray hoodie, she found him in the kitchen plating up some ham and cheese sandwiches.
"It’s not bolognese," he said, sliding a plate toward her as she sat at his small dining table. "But it’s 100% fire-proof."
Justine took a bite, realized she was starving, and finished half the sandwich before speaking. "The fireman said the air would be okay tomorrow, but the living room is a disaster, Damian. The soot is everywhere."
Damian sat across from her, reaching over to take her hand. His expression was steady, that same grounding look he'd given her on the sidewalk.
"Here’s the plan," he said. "We get a solid night’s sleep. Tomorrow morning, we hit the hardware store. I’ll get the heavy-duty shop vac, some TSP cleaner for the walls, and a few gallons of 'eggshell white' paint. We’ll strip the scorched drywall, scrub the floors, and by tomorrow night, we’ll have the first coat on."
Justine blinked, feeling a weight lift. "You’re going to help me scrub soot off a wall on your day off?"
"Justine, I'm the guy who watched you tackle a fire in red lingerie," he teased, a playful spark returning to his eyes. "I’m not letting you handle the renovation solo. Besides, you owe me a dinner that doesn't involve a 911 call."
Justine laughed—a real, tired laugh—and squeezed his hand. "Deal. But I'm banned from lighting candles for at least a year."
"I was thinking more like a decade," Damian joked. "Now, finish your sandwich. We’ve got a big day of being manual laborers tomorrow."
The morning after the fire, the apartment smelled like a campfire that had been extinguished with old gym socks. Damian and Justine were already knee-deep in soot-stained towels when the doorbell rang—a rhythmic, aggressive ding-ding-ding-ding that could only be one person.
Justine opened the door to find Gale standing there in a designer tracksuit, oversized sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat. She was holding a massive, gold-flecked gift bag in one hand and a tray of four iced coffees in the other.
"I’m here to save the day!" Gale announced, marching past Justine before she could even say hello. She stopped dead in the center of the living room, her jaw dropping as she took in the blackened curtains and the white powder coating every surface. "Oh my god. It’s like a charcoal grill exploded in here. Justine, honey, you look like a Victorian orphan."
"Nice to see you too, Gale," Justine sighed, wiping a smudge of ash from her forehead.
Damian emerged from the kitchen, wearing a bandana over his face and holding a heavy-duty scrub brush. "Hey, Gale."
"Damian! My favorite brooding waiter-turned-firefighter!" Gale thrust the tray of coffees toward him. "Drink. You look like you’ve been inhaling carbon. Also, I brought supplies."
She reached into her gold gift bag and started pulling items out with a flourish. "I stopped at that boutique lifestyle shop on the way. I got you: organic lavender-scented surface mist, a set of silk-threaded microfiber cloths, and—this is the piece de resistance—a 'New Beginnings' sage smudge stick to get rid of the 'bad fire energy.'"
Damian looked at the tiny bottle of lavender mist and then at the five-foot charred streak on the wall. "Gale, that's for cleaning a dusty nightstand. I think we’re going to need industrial degreaser and a power sander."
"Details, details," Gale waved him off, already snapping a selfie with the scorched curtains in the background. #FireSurvivor #NewStart. "I’m here for the moral support and the aesthetic direction. Justine, we are not repainting this 'Eggshell.' It’s boring. We’re going with 'Champagne Shimmer.' It says 'I had a disaster but I’m still expensive.'"
Justine couldn't help it; she started to laugh. It was the first time she felt the heavy knot in her chest loosen since the smoke alarm had gone off. Gale was ridiculous, completely unequipped for manual labor, and currently trying to "smudge" the smell of smoke out of a sofa with a bundle of burning herbs, but she was exactly what the room needed.
"Okay, Gale," Justine said, taking an iced coffee. "You’re on 'Smell Management.' Damian and I will handle the actual scrubbing."
"Perfect," Gale said, perched precariously on a soot-free corner of a chair. "Now, tell me everything. Did the firemen at least look like the ones in the calendars? Was there a 'save the cat' moment? I need drama, people!"
Damian caught Justine’s eye and winked. The cleanup was going to take all weekend, and they’d probably be picking soot out of their hair for a week, but with Gale’s relentless energy and Damian’s steady hand, the "nightmare dimension" finally felt like it was closing for good.
- Writer
