Page 9 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

FRASER

T he coffee shop felt different on Tuesday—busier, louder, full of tourists clutching maps and asking Jamie about the “authentic local experience.” I’d arrived five minutes early, claiming our corner table before the lunch rush could steal it.

My leg was cooperating today, which meant I’d left the cane at home.

Pride was a stupid reason to endure pain, but some habits die hard.

I watched Calloway through the window before he saw me.

He stood outside for a full minute, hand on the door handle, visibly gathering courage.

The way Calloway approached difficult situations reminded me of scouting a tricky jump spot—careful assessment, multiple escape routes planned, never rushing into something until you’d read all the conditions. I could appreciate that.

When he finally entered, his eyes found mine immediately, and the smile that flickered across his face made my stomach flutter.

“H-hi,” he managed, sliding into his chair. Today, he wore a soft blue button-down that brought out the silver threading through his dark hair. “Sorry I’m l-late.”

“You’re not.” I pushed the coffee I’d ordered for him across the table—dark roast, no cream, just how Jamie said he liked it.

“Thought I’d save you the counter negotiation.

” I gestured at the plate between our coffees.

“I also got some spiced cake Brianna recommended. The smell reminds me of Christmas spices.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Th-thank you.”

“How have you been since Friday?”

“G-good. N-n-nothing sp-special.”

As usual, his stutter was worse as we started to talk.

“I really liked book club Friday,” I said, more than happy to carry the conversation for now. “You were right that we can discover new things, even in poems we know well. I loved your insights on Walt Whitman.”

What I had loved most of all was that he’d shown up. It had felt like a victory, like seeing him here again today.

“Th-thank you. I l-l-like his poems.”

“Same.” I took another bite of the cake. “I’m also liking this cake. It’s delicious.”

“It is. B-but it tastes m-m-more like fall?”

“You’re right. It does have a bit of a pumpkin spice vibe.”

We settled into the familiar rhythm of conversation, and I told him about my failed attempts at gardening back in Montana.

“Never could get the watering right. Either drowned them or let them dry out. You’d think someone who spent thirty years reading moisture levels in forests could manage a few potted plants. ”

Calloway’s lips twitched with amusement. “It’s d-different when they can’t tell you what they n-need.” He took a sip of his coffee, seeming to consider something. “Plants are honest though. They sh-show you exactly how they’re doing.”

“Unlike people,” I said, then immediately wondered if that was too heavy for a Tuesday afternoon coffee.

But Calloway nodded slowly. “Unlike p-people.”

There was a pause, comfortable despite the weight of unspoken truths between us, and then his expression shifted to something lighter.

“I t-tried to grow tomatoes,” Calloway said then, a rueful smile playing at his lips.

“In N-New York. Marcus thought I was c-crazy, but I insisted on trying.” He wrapped his hands around his mug, eyes distant with memory.

“Got these little p-pots, special soil, everything. Put them on our f-fire escape, even though the super said we w-weren’t supposed to.

Every m-morning I’d water them, check for bugs, t-talk to them like they were p-pets.

Marcus would laugh, said I was turning into one of those p-plant people.

” The stutter eased slightly as he got lost in the story.

“Four months of b-babying those things. Moving them to catch the tiny bit of sun that m-made it between buildings. And you know what I g-got for all that effort?”

I leaned forward, already charmed by the image of him fussing over pots on a fire escape. “What?”

“Three t-tomatoes.” He held up three fingers.

“Three! And they were so small, like ch-cherry tomatoes that never quite made it. But I was so proud, you’d think I’d grown p-prize-winners.

” His smile turned softer. “We ate them in a salad, and M-Marcus pretended they were the best tomatoes he’d ever had. ”

The way his face lit up telling that story—the mix of self-deprecating humor and genuine joy in the memory—made clear how much Marcus had meant to him. But if I affirmed that, would it scare him off again? Cause him to close up? It was such a touchy subject…

Maybe I was better off sharing a funny story of my own.

Something that might make him smile like that again.

“We had this intern once, fresh out of high school. Captain wanted to see if he had what it took. The kid was so eager to prove himself, you know? First grass fire of the season, nothing major, just a couple of acres near some houses.”

I paused, taking a sip of coffee. “So we’re setting up the perimeter, getting ready to do a controlled burn to stop the spread, real textbook stuff. And I look over, and this kid—Thompson was his name—he’s gone. Just vanished.”

Calloway’s eyes were bright with interest, leaning forward slightly.

“I’m thinking maybe he got heat sick, went back to the truck. But then I see him.” I had to pause, the memory still absurd after all these years. “He’s at the nearest house, unwinding their garden hose. This little green fifty-footer with a spray nozzle, like something you’d use to water petunias.”

“N-no,” Calloway breathed, apparently already seeing where this was going.

“Oh yes. He drags this thing to the fire line, turns it on full blast, and starts spraying flames that are fifteen feet high. The water’s evaporating before it even reaches the fire.

And the look on his face was so serious, so determined.

Like he’s gonna save the day with residential water pressure and a half-inch hose. ”

I shook my head, smiling. “My captain stood there for a full minute, watching. Then he walks over, calm as anything, and says, ‘Thompson, what exactly is your plan here?’ And the kid, bless him, he says, ‘Just trying to help, sir. Every little bit counts, right?’”

Calloway actually laughed, a genuine, surprised sound that lit up his whole face. The sound hit me like a physical thing, warm and perfect, and I immediately wanted to hear it again.

“C-can I ask you something?” he said after a comfortable lull. “About f-firefighting?”

“Sure.”

“What’s it l-like? Knowing you’re g-g-going into something that could…” He paused, searching for words. “That could k-kill you?”

I considered the question, stirring my coffee to buy time.

Most people asked about the adrenaline or the heroics.

Leave it to Calloway to go straight to the heart of it.

“Honestly? You don’t think about it that way.

Not in the moment. You consider wind speed and fuel moisture and escape routes.

The fear comes later, when you’re safe and your brain catches up to what could have happened.

” I met his eyes. “Kind of like grief, actually. You do what needs doing in the moment, and the full weight hits when you finally stop moving.”

Something shifted in his expression. “Marcus was a museum c-curator. Ancient texts, mostly. He could read L-Latin and Greek like they were gr-grocery lists.”

The non sequitur would have thrown me if I hadn’t been learning to read Calloway’s conversational patterns. He approached difficult topics sideways, like a cat circling something unfamiliar.

“He sounds brilliant.”

“He was.” Calloway’s fingers traced patterns on the table. “We met at a f-faculty mixer. I was new to the library, t-terrified of everyone. He made this terrible j-joke, and I laughed so hard I forgot to be self-conscious.”

I could picture it easily, a younger Calloway, probably equally beautiful but less guarded, surprising himself with laughter. “How long were you in New York?”

“Twenty-three years. It was…free. Being gay there was another f-fact, like having brown eyes or preferring tea. Not like—” He gestured vaguely, encompassing Forestville, small towns, the weight of history.

“I know what you mean.” And I did. “I didn’t come out until I was thirty-five. Even then, it was only to my crew. The official policy said it was fine, but policy and reality don’t always match up.”

“W-what made you finally do it?”

“My partner left me.” The old pain barely twinged anymore, like a healed fracture that only ached in bad weather. “David and I had been together for three years, and he said he was tired of being someone’s secret. He wasn’t wrong.”

Calloway studied me with those perceptive eyes. “But your crew w-was okay with it?”

“Better than okay. Turned out half of them already knew and were waiting for me to catch up.” I smiled at the memory. “My captain said the only thing he cared about was whether I could still carry a hundred pounds of hose up a hill. Everything else was my business.”

“That must have been f-freeing,” Calloway said, and there was something wistful in his voice.

“It was. But also terrifying. Once you say something aloud, you can’t take it back.

” I paused, remembering those first few weeks after coming out, how I’d analyzed every interaction for signs of change.

“Sometimes I wonder if I waited too long. If things might have been different with David if I’d been braver sooner. ”

“M-maybe,” Calloway said carefully. “Or maybe you n-needed to be ready. B-bravery on someone else’s timeline isn’t really br-bravery at all.”

I stared at him, struck by the insight. “That’s…yeah. That’s exactly right.”

He flushed slightly under my gaze, looking down at his coffee. “I’ve had a lot of t-time to think about t-timing. About b-being ready versus being f-forced.”