Things You Save in a Fire(29)

“Exactly. That’s your answer, right there.”

“What is?”

“If you wouldn’t do it with DeStasio, you can’t do it with me.”

“Fair enough. Good tip.”

“Just pretend I’m a gross old dude.”

“I will do my best.”

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the metal pole. A dog barked. A car honked. We sat in silence for a while, biding our time and doing exactly what I hated doing most—sitting still. Alone with my thoughts was my least favorite place to be. If I had to be alone, I always had the radio going, or a book to read, or something else to distract me. Here, there were no distractions. I couldn’t even fall asleep. I had to just let my own consciousness gather around me like a thickening fog.

“Can I share something else with you?” the rookie asked after a while.

“Only if you have to.”

“I kind of need to pee,” he said.

I shook my head. “Going to be a long night, rookie.”

“It definitely is.”

The crew came out to free us at six thirty with blankets and hot coffee, just as the next crew was arriving for shift. I opened my eyes to a delighted crowd of firefighters standing around us, the captain announcing we’d gotten off easy. “In my day,” he told the crowd, “they stripped you down naked, greased you up with Crisco, and taped you to a backboard out in front of the house for all the neighbors to gawk at.”

“They did that to you, Captain?” Case asked.

“Buck naked,” the captain confirmed with pride. “Except they made a little splint for my johnson with tongue depressors and sterile gauze.”

“Well, that’s a visual you can’t unsee,” Six-Pack said.

“You’re welcome,” the captain said, and—again—I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

The moment they cut us loose, the rookie sprinted to the bushes to pee. I caught an accidental glimpse of his naked back before I looked away.

Too late. Those broad shoulders—and that little butt in those red boxer briefs—were burned permanently into my corneas. I blinked my eyes over and over on the drive home, trying to blot the image from my memory.

I left that first shift completely flummoxed. And it wasn’t the hazing, or the sleeping in the supply closet, or even the mental visual of the captain’s johnson in a splint made of tongue depressors.

It was the rookie.

I’d just spent an entire night with the guy, and he hadn’t done even one annoying thing. He hadn’t farted, or hocked a loogie, or even snored. The worst thing he’d done was try to come up with ways to keep me warm in the cold night air. I already suspected he was easygoing, and then last night he couldn’t seem to stop being considerate, and now, as of first thing in the morning, I knew for certain that he had an adorable butt.

Disaster.

I needed some flaws on this guy, stat.

Otherwise—seriously—I was in trouble.





Eleven


WHEN I GOT back to Diana’s after shift, it was eight in the morning, and I was exhausted. In many different ways.

Diana was having coffee at her kitchen table with a friend—a cute African American lady with poofy hair, maybe ten years older than me. Their cups were full, with steam rising, and they both cradled the mugs in their palms, savoring the warmth. They looked up and smiled when I walked in.

Diana had changed her patch to a blue-and-white gingham.

“Meet my friend Josie,” Diana said. “She owns the yarn shop next door, and she reviews movies on her blog.”

I had the weirdest feeling they’d just been talking about me.

It’s strange to say, but it surprised me for Diana to have a friend. I’d created an idea of her in my head as a lonely old lady, isolated in her house, making pottery all day with her eye patch on. Like, if I’d been mad at her for ten years, the rest of the world must have been, too.

I lifted my hand. “Hello.”

But Josie was already plunking her coffee down on the table and scooting back her chair and launching into an excited jog—almost a prance—to come over to me. She held her arms out and up, and her whole face was a smile. “OMG!” she said. “It’s you!”

Getting a good look at her, I suddenly wondered if she might be a little bit pregnant. Just a hunch. I had a knack for spotting pregnant people. Though, if she was, it was only barely.

I didn’t ask.

Then she was hugging me—tight, and with no hesitation, the way you’d hug a dear friend, even though we’d never met before.

I wasn’t a fan of hugging, but I held still and endured it, anyway.

She let go but kept smiling at me. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m a hugger.”

“You’re good at it,” I said. “I can see why.”

Then she hugged me again.

I didn’t protest—even mentally. Who could resist all that enthusiasm and warmth? Plus I loved her style. She had a polka-dot bandana and blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Big, bangly bracelets, too.

She was, in a word, adorable.

“I love your shirt,” I said.

Her smile got bigger. “I made it,” she said.

“You made it?” I said. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a piece of homemade clothing.