Page 152

Yeah, it’s cheesy—but it’s true. That’s why I can’t walk away, why I can’t let her go even when I know I should.
So why can’t I commit? Why can’t I give her what she deserves? I honestly don’t know. All I know is, I’m scared of losing her, but even more scared of screwing it up again.
Until me, Camdyn didn’t know what it was like to love selflessly and get nothing in return. Now she does, and it’s my fault. I didn’t make her better—I made her hurt. Now all I feel is useless. Helpless. Completely unworthy of her.
I slam the mouse down, plastic cracking against my desk. “I gotta get out of here.” The door bangs shut behind me as I take the stairs two at a time, trying to outrun the truth.
Yeah,I’m pissed Jameson went for pizza with her. There. I said it. I know I shouldn’t be, and I have no right, but fucking sue me. I am.
Not wanting to stay at school and be reminded of her, I take the bus to my dad’s work because I know he’s on a tour thisweek. He’s a firefighter. I’ve probably mentioned that once or twice. He just made chief at Station 25.
Rain streaks down the bus windshield, wipers beating a frantic rhythm as we crawl through downtown Seattle, past Pike Place crowds and neon bars. By the time I get to Station 25, it’s almost dark, red bay doors glowing like beacons in the gloom.
Thank God Camdyn’s dad doesn’t work here anymore. He’s chief at Station 17 now. I still have a good relationship with Dalton, but I don’t know if he read that blog post before it was taken down, and if he wants to cut my balls off. He might. I wouldn’t blame him.
I spot Dad in back, clipboard in hand, barking orders. Authority looks good on him—not gonna lie. Caleb Ryan, my dad, is what I imagine Kevin Costner would be like in Yellowstone if he wore turnout gear. He demands respect and gets it. If there’s anyone I trust with my life, it’s him. He taught me respect and trust are earned, not given. Success only comes to those who work for it; failure is feedback. Maybe he was disappointed I didn’t become a firefighter, but he’s done everything he could to make my baseball dream real.
Dad sees me before I can wave, tips his chin, finishes up with his guys. The smell hits me—diesel, old coffee, the sharp tang of wet turnout gear, and something scorched from the kitchen. It’s comfort and memory, the kind of scent that sticks to your clothes and somehow makes you feel safe.
Growing up, when Camdyn and I weren’t causing trouble at my mom’s hotel, we spent Friday nights here with our dads, eating spaghetti with the guys, learning cards, listening to stories about blazing fires and rookie screwups.
Dad glances at me, reads my face. “Firehouse on a Tuesday?”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “Just needed a change of scenery.”
Owen, my dad’s best friend and still a captain here, grins when he sees me, ruffling my shoulders. I won’t bother describing Owen. Just picture Thor from Avengers. Twins, maybe. I don’t know.
“Hey, my man, Cam was here the other day.”
My heart pounds. “She was?” I glance at my dad, but he gives nothing away, just smiles, like he was glad to see her too. Did she tell him? Does he know everything? Does he hate me as much as I think she does?
Owen grins. “Yep. I got a hug.”
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “Of course you did.”
“Hey, I’m not about to pass up a hug from a pretty girl.”
“Mhm. Still a dirty old man.”
I shove my hands in my pockets, eyeing the fire truck Owen’s hosing down. I remember being four, begging to go on a call with him and my dad. The first time I saw Dad in action, saving lives, I thought he was a superhero and wanted to be just like him—until I went to a Mariners game a few weeks later. After that, I knew my place was on a baseball field.
I still respect the hell out of what Dad does. The selfless way he runs into burning buildings or shows up first at an accident—there’s something almost godlike about it.
Dad leads me past the rigs, air thick with engine grease and the sweetness of soap from freshly washed gear. In the kitchen, it’s chaos. Lights hum, making everything too bright. Pots clatter, water hisses, and the air is thick with tomato sauce, browning beef, garlic, and something definitely burning in the oven.
“Brown it slow or it gets tough,” Jay says, wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon. Jay, big beefy dude with jet-black hair and Italian vibes, has been here longer than I’ve been alive and still wants nothing more than to run into fires.
“You want flavor, you need more fat,” Owen argues, already slicing a stick of butter so thick it could clog an artery.
A battered pot bubbles over, steam fogging the window. Someone’s yelling about burning the garlic again, and a rookie’s frantically fanning the smoke detector.
There’s a ritual to spaghetti night at Station 25. It starts with a salad my grandma made when I was a kid, piled high in a giant metal bowl she still drops off—iceberg lettuce, cherry tomatoes, a lot of fucking black olives, and her secret vinaigrette no one can replicate. The spaghetti’s not fancy. Cheap noodles and ground beef simmered in enough sauce to feed an army. Meatballs are for special occasions. Breadsticks—almost definitely Olive Garden knockoffs—sit in a heap, glistening with butter and parmesan.
The kitchen’s loud with arguing and laughter, air thick with garlic, tomato, and cheese. A radio blares classic rock. A rookie trips over a mop bucket and almost takes out the breadsticks, earning boos and threats to make him do all the dishes.
Owen is still arguing with Jay, waving a half-melted spatula. “I’m telling you, the secret’s in the butter. At least a stick. Maybe two.”
Jay rolls his eyes. “You’re just trying to kill us and make us run in turnout gear tomorrow.”