I remember the fire better than I remember being in love.
It was five years ago, on the highway outside the city. I was a surgical resident then, twenty-six, with steady hands and a whole career in front of me. Arthur Sterling was the man I had been dating for eight months, a billionaire with a reckless habit of driving fast cars too fast.
The collision woke the whole block. I had been following him home in my own car when his Porsche hit the barrier and rolled, and by the time I reached it, the hood was already breathing flames.
I don't remember deciding to run to the passenger side. I remember the tire iron in my hands, the glass shattering over my forearms, the seat belt that would not give. I remember Arthur's face, pale and slack against the airbag, and the heat of the fire like a
