Page 11 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

CALLOWAY

T wo days later, the battle inside me still had no victor.

Guilt fought with shame, fear with hope, sadness with pain, to the point where I wasn’t even sure anymore what I felt.

All I knew was that I’d walked out on Fraser without an explanation…

and had not responded to his texts, asking me if I was okay.

Of course I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t been okay in a long time. I hadn’t been okay for seven years, three months, and twenty-seven days.

The text from Rick, Marcus’s college roommate, had arrived like a sucker punch, complete with a photo from eight years ago of Marcus and me at the dinner party we’d thrown for my fortieth birthday.

We were laughing at something off-camera, his arm around my shoulders, my face turned toward his with an expression of such uncomplicated joy it made my chest ache.

Rick

Found this in my Facebook memories! Miss you guys. Hope you’re well.

Hope you’re well. As if I could be well when half of me was buried in a Queens cemetery.

No, I wasn’t well. I’d fled Brianna’s like a spooked cat, leaving Fraser sitting there with his kind eyes and patient confusion.

The man deserved better than my disappearing act.

He’d been nothing but kind, sharing his own losses, making me laugh with stories that turned firefighting from something heroic into something human.

And I’d repaid that by bolting the moment my carefully constructed walls showed a crack.

My phone sat on the coffee table like an accusation. I should reply to his texts. Apologize. Explain. But explaining meant acknowledging the photo, and acknowledging the photo meant admitting that seven years hadn’t dulled the edge of grief like everyone promised it would.

In those horrific days after Marcus died, people had assured me they’d be there for me. “You’re not alone,” they kept telling me. “I’m here if you need me.”

But soon, other clichés had replaced those. “Time will heal,” was one of them. Or, “Marcus wouldn’t want you to be sad forever.”

The message had been clear: I needed to move on.

Except I couldn’t. Time hadn’t healed anything, and my grief hadn’t lessened like everyone had assured me.

Every morning when I got up on my side of our bed, it hit me all over again that he was gone.

Instead of half of a whole, I would always be broken, missing a part of me I wasn’t sure I could live without.

How could I move on when I couldn’t let go of what I’d lost?

And then, when I finally made an attempt at having a life without Marcus, one stupid text was all it took to remind me I hadn’t healed, hadn’t processed, hadn’t moved on.

Had it cost me the friendship with Fraser? The thought was more painful than it should’ve been, definitely more than I had expected. We barely knew each other, yet we were closer than I’d been with anyone since Marcus. And I’d ruined that by walking out on him.

I needed to fix this, and a text wouldn’t do.

If I wanted to salvage this friendship—and I really did—I had to show up in person.

Before I could talk myself out of it again, I walked over to one of my bookcases and grabbed a book.

I still had some wrapping paper, a remnant of my former life.

If I was going to grovel, the least I could do was come bearing gifts.

Twenty minutes later, I stood outside Fraser’s house, clutching the book like a shield. I’d managed to keep it dry in the endless drizzle dripping from the dreary skies by keeping it under my jacket.

My knock was barely audible, even to me. If he hadn’t heard it, maybe I could leave the book on the porch with a note and retreat to safety. But then footsteps approached, and the door opened.

Fraser stood there in soft sweatpants and a worn forest service T-shirt, wearing thick woolen socks. He looked painfully homey and comfortable. His expression shifted from surprise to something warmer, though concern lingered in the creases around his eyes. “Calloway.”

“I—” The words tangled immediately. I thrust the book toward him instead, hoping the gesture spoke for me.

He took it carefully, his fingers brushing mine, then unwrapped it. His face lit up. “ The Art of Memoir …”

“F-for your stories,” I managed. “The ones you sh-should w-w-write.”

His smile could’ve powered the whole street, and something inside me unclenched. “Come in? I put water on for tea.”

I should’ve said no. Should’ve maintained the safety of the porch, the easy escape route. Instead, I nodded, following him into a house that smelled like something woodsy.

I took off my wet jacket, which he hung for me, and then my boots.

His living room was exactly what I’d expected.

Comfortable furniture chosen for function over form, a stone fireplace with photos along the mantel, and bookshelves that looked handmade.

But there were surprising touches too, like a vibrant original painting of mountains, a collection of smooth river rocks arranged on a wooden dresser, a well-used guitar propped in the corner.

“You p-play?” I asked, grateful for something to focus on besides the domesticity of being in his space.

“I know the basics.” He headed for the kitchen, gesturing for me to follow. “I learned around campfires, so my repertoire is limited.”

The kitchen was small but efficient, everything in its place. He moved around it with easy familiarity despite the slight hitch in his gait.

“How do you take your tea?” he asked, pulling down two mugs.

“L-little sugar.” I hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to sit, stand, or flee. “Fraser, I’m s-s-sorry about T-T-Tuesday. I was r-rude.”

He turned, leaning against the counter while the kettle heated. “You weren’t rude. Something upset you. There’s a difference.”

The simple acceptance in his voice made my throat tight. “M-Marcus’s friend sent a photo of M-Marcus and me. It caught me off g-guard.”

“Ah.” Like it explained everything. And maybe it did. “Those ambush memories are the worst. Like emotional landmines you forgot were buried.”

The kettle whistled, and he turned to pour water over the tea bags. I watched his hands, marred by scars but so steady and sure despite everything they’d been through. There was something calming about the ritual, the careful attention to simple tasks.

“Let’s sit down,” he said gently, nodding toward the small kitchen table. “Unless you’d rather use the living room?”

“H-here is good.” The kitchen felt safer somehow, more contained. I pulled out a chair, noticing the way he moved, favoring his right leg more than he had before. “Your l-leg’s b-bothering you.”

He sighed. “I did too much yesterday. Tried that path along the river you mentioned, but of course, I didn’t stop when I should have.

A stubborn old fool, that’s what I am.” He set a mug in front of me along with the sugar bowl, then eased himself into the opposite chair with a barely suppressed grimace.

“I g-get it,” I said, stirring sugar into my tea. “Sometimes the r-reminders that we’ve ch-ch-changed are worse than the p-pain.”

He took a sip of tea. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About finding who we are underneath the roles. Made me realize I’ve been so focused on no longer being a firefighter that I forgot to ask who else I might be.”

“And?”

“Still figuring it out. But talking with you helps.” He smiled. “Turns out I like telling stories. Never thought of myself as a storyteller before.”

“You’re g-good at it. You make people want to l-listen.”

“You make me want to tell them,” he said simply, and something warm unfurled in my chest.

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound the tick of a clock somewhere in the house. This was dangerous territory, this easy domesticity, this sharing of space and quiet truth. But I couldn’t make myself leave.

“The photo. It was from m-my birthday p-p-party. Eight years ago. We looked so…” I couldn’t finish.

“Happy?”

“Unaware. L-like we had all the t-time in the w-world.”

“Maybe that’s the gift. That you didn’t know. That you got to live those moments fully instead of bracing for loss.”

I’d never thought of it that way. “D-do you have photos? From b-before?”

“Boxes of them. Can’t look at most of them yet. Too many ghosts in uniform.” He traced the rim of his mug with one finger. “Sometimes I think about throwing them out. Clean slate. But then I remember the good days too, and I can’t.”

“The g-good days matter. Even when they hurt to r-remember.”

“Speaking of good days…” Fraser shifted, reaching for the book I’d brought. “This was really thoughtful. Thank you.”

“I m-meant what I said. Your stories matter.”

“Maybe we could read it together. Compare notes on memoir writing. Seems like we’re both stuck on the same chapter.”

The idea of regular meetings, of having a reason to see him, was too tempting to resist. “I’d l-like that.”

His smile was worth every stutter. “Good. Fair warning, though, I’m a terrible student. Always asking too many questions.”

“I’m a l-librarian. Questions are my f-favorite.”

We moved to the living room as our tea cooled, conversation flowing more easily now.

Fraser showed me the painting, done by a fellow firefighter who’d taken up art after retirement.

I told him about Marcus’s failed attempts at painting, how he’d discovered he was better at appreciating art than creating it.

He picked up the guitar at one point, playing a simple melody that he hummed along to, voice rough but pleasant.

I leaned back in my chair, the easy domesticity both a comfort and a threat. Marcus had been an extrovert, and he’d always brought excitement with him. I’d loved the laughter and loudness, but sometimes, I’d missed the silence and solitude.