Things You Save in a Fire(42)

I winced.

“Except that Tony was the drunk driver.”

“Poor DeStasio,” I said. No wonder he never laughed.

The rookie nodded. “He’s had a tough few years. Add the back injury, and he’s a superhero for just getting out of bed every morning.”

I found myself wanting to come up with ways to fix his loneliness. “Maybe we could set him up on a date,” I suggested.

“Would you want to go on a date with DeStasio?”

“Maybe we could start a Friday night barbecue club and just start showing up at his place for dinner,” I said.

“Have you seen DeStasio’s place?” he asked. “It’s like a war zone.”

“We could clean it up.”

“He’d hate that. He’d chase you out with a broom.”

I gave the rookie a look. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Some guys don’t want to be helped.”

“We can’t just let him suffer.”

“I said the same thing to the captain. But he said DeStasio’s got too much pride.”

“So we ignore him?”

“The captain’s going to take him fishing next week.”

“That doesn’t sound like a long-term solution.”

“Neither does tossing him into the dating pool.”

This might sound strange, but as sad as the topic was, I found myself enjoying talking to the rookie.

Some—maybe even most—conversations are hard work. With the rookie, it was the opposite. I didn’t have to think about what to say next; all I had to do was decide between the options that popped into my mind as I listened. The conversation didn’t happen so much as blossom.

My mom and I used to have conversations like that, I remembered suddenly. In general, though, in life, they were pretty hard to come by. It made me almost sad to enjoy the conversation so much. I found myself missing it already, even as it was happening.

Bittersweet, for sure.

When it was time to clean up, I wanted to do all the dishes. The rookie had cooked; I should clean. But it was hard for him not to help. He hovered, and kept turning the water on and off for me and handing me the soap.

“You’re not supposed to help me,” I said.

“I like washing dishes,” he said, stepping right up next to me, so close I could feel him there even without touching.

Then the rookie added, “But I always listen to music.” He leaned forward to flip on the little radio by the sink. DeStasio kept it tuned to an oldies station. Marvin Gaye came on.

And so I gave in and let him help. We listened to Smokey Robinson and Diana Ross and the Temptations, and scrubbed to the rhythm, and swayed, and occasionally bumped into each other. Which I enjoyed.

When we were done, and there was no good reason left to stay there, and it really was time to go back to bed, the rookie dried his hands with a dish towel and said, “I want to say something to you, but I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, either. I glanced over. “Okay.”

“I think I know why you avoid me.”

“I don’t avoid you.” Lying.

“You know you do.”

“Fine,” I said. “When the captain is not ordering you to stick me with needles, I sometimes avoid you. A little.”

“Sorry about the needles,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“It’s fine.”

“The thing is,” he said then, “and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—”

“I’ll try not to.”

“You’re tough and strong and capable and totally fearless…”

I waited.

“But I wonder if you need a hug.”

What? “A hug?” I said, stepping back.

He hunched into a shrug. “Of everybody on the crew, I always feel like you’re the one who most needs a hug.”

“You think I need a hug?”

He winced a little, like he knew how dumb it sounded. “I do.”

“A hug is like the last thing I need, dude.”

“Just—because you’re so self-sufficient and you never need any help and you just keep to yourself all the time.”

How dare he tell me I needed a hug. What the hell? “Are the guys all going around at work hugging, and I just haven’t noticed? Did I miss a bunch of hug-fests?”

“No, but—”

“Because I’m not sure what you’re saying, but it sounds like there’s an insult in there somewhere.”

He shook his head. “I’m not trying to insult you.” He knew he was fumbling this conversation. “I think I’m just saying…” He didn’t know where to go. “I think I just want you to know…” He shook his head again while I waited. “There’s just something about you. Something I feel about you. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s a powerful thing…”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m just saying that … pretty much every time I see you, all I want to do is to put my arms around you.”

I held still. That was a hell of a statement. “Well,” I said at last, “you can’t.”