Things You Save in a Fire(20)

“It’s right next door,” she said, gesturing. “At my friend Josie’s house.”

“I don’t crochet.”

“You don’t have to crochet. You could knit. Or wind yarn balls.”

“You want me to wind yarn balls?”

“It’s very soothing. Or sew something. Maybe a little potholder?”

“I don’t sew potholders either.”

“The point is, it’s more about hanging out and visiting.”

“I’m just not really a joiner. Of clubs.” That was true. Human connection had its upsides, but it sure was a lot of work. The risk-reward ratio was low, at best.

“You joined the fire service,” she pointed out, as if she might win this conversation.

“That’s not a club. That’s a job.”

“Pretty clubby for a job, though.”

She wasn’t wrong. “I avoid the clubby parts.”

“Just come for ten minutes. You’ll love it.”

Did she really think she could tempt me with the phrase sew a potholder?

“And it’s not just crochet,” she went on. “We usually put on a rom-com, too.”

She was not helping her case. I shook my head. “I have one day left to finish memorizing all the streets and fire hydrant locations in Lillian.”

“Good grief,” she said.

“It’s called knowing the territory.”

“You have to memorize them all?”

“I’ve been working on it ever since I got the job. I’ve got flash cards. Maps.”

She nodded, sighing with resignation.

I took my plate to the sink, rinsed it, and put it in the dishwasher. She watched me the whole time. Did she really think I’d come here to crochet? Or watch rom-coms? This was exactly what I’d feared. She wanted to bond. But I didn’t bond. With anyone.

I walked toward the staircase.

She followed me.

“It’s not going very well, is it?” she said, as I started up.

“What?” I asked.

“This. Now. Tonight.”

“It’s an odd situation. We’re suddenly living together after ten years of…” What to call it? “Not living together.”

“Feels kind of like a first date or something. An awkward one.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said then, hoping to shut the conversation down. “I don’t go on dates.”

She peered at me. “What does that mean?”

Oh God. Now I’d started a conversation. “My generation doesn’t really date,” I said.

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “I guess it just seems kind of artificial.”

“What do you do instead?”

I kept thinking each answer I gave would be the last one, and then I’d be released to go on up. But she kept stopping me—snagging me there on the staircase. “We hang out. Usually in groups.”

“But then how do you ever get close to anybody?”

“I guess it depends on how you define close.”

“How do you have conversations? Get to know each other? Fall in love?”

“I told you,” I said. “I don’t fall in love.”

“Surely you do, a little bit.”

“Nope,” I said. “Love is for girls.”

“You are a girl,” Diana pointed out.

I didn’t even try to hide the scorn in my voice. “That doesn’t mean I have to be girly.”

Did we really have to have this conversation? I lifted my foot to the next step. I just wanted to go memorize fire hydrants. I sure as hell didn’t know how to explain it to her if she didn’t get it already. “Love makes people stupid,” I said at last, hoping to cut to the chase, “and I’m not interested in being stupid.”

“Not always,” she said.

“Women especially,” I added, not bothering to hide my impatience. “It makes them needy and sad and pathetic. And robs them of their independence.”

“Independence is overrated,” my mom said.

“Love is overrated,” I countered. Then my notes from Captain Harris popped into my head, and I added, slapping the banister for emphasis, “Love is for the weak.”

I needed that on a bumper sticker.

She wasn’t letting that stand. “Love is not weak,” she said, like I couldn’t have shocked her more. “It’s the opposite.”

I took another step up. “We’re just going to have to agree to disagree.”

But she wasn’t releasing me. The wind creaked the house. “Choosing to love—despite all the ways that people let you down, and disappear, and break your heart. Knowing everything we know about how hard life is and choosing to love anyway … That’s not weakness. That’s courage.”

I have to give myself credit here for not snorting and saying, We can talk about courage after you’ve walked through actual fire. She wanted to talk about courage? I could talk about courage all day. And you weren’t going to find it in a rom-com.

But I really just wanted to go to my room. “Okay,” I said in a pleasant voice. “Whatever you say.”

Now she pinned me with her stare. “It’s my fault,” she said, after a second. “For leaving.”