Page 15 of The Fire

At least, we would be. If I could get my shit together. If I could figure out a way to care for someone who cared aboutme.

My phone clattered against the hard plastic of the console, and I took a deep breath before hitting the button on the dashboard to put the call on speaker.

“Hey, I’mreallysorry. I’m aware of all the ways I suck as a human,” I said in my best groveling voice.

“Oh, thank God!” Everett Maior said without missing a beat. “Saves me from having to list them all again.”

“Ev?” I belatedly grabbed my phone from the cup holder and saw Everett’s profile photo, all clear eyes and sardonic smile, grinning up at me before I set it back down. “Shit. I, ah… wasn’t paying attention. Thought you were someone else.”

“Clearly. Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

I shifted in my seat and hissed when the motion made my bicep ache. Half a lifetime later, my stupid arm still got twinge-y at times. I could predict a storm coming in like I was a human barometer.

“Ah. So it’sBrian.” Ev’s voice carried a particular drawl, like Brian’s name was sour on his tongue.

“He’s a good guy, Ev,” I said, for what felt like the seven-billionth time, which was kind of impressive when you considered that Brian and I had only been back together for a couple of weeks, and Ev and I didn’t talk all that often.

“Who said he wasn’t?”

“He’s patient. And kind. And cheerful.”

“Mmm. Like a human cocker spaniel. A true delight.”

“Everett, comeon.”

“Do you notice,” he said conversationally, “that whenever I say a negative word about Brian, you make a noise like I’ve asked you to remove your own spleen without anesthesia?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s one of my best qualities,” he agreed. “So what did you do to piss him off?”

I rolled my eyes and watched the tiny white lights strung up under the diner’s awning sway as the wind picked up force.

“I forgot we had a date tonight,” I admitted with a sigh. “I worked late.”

“Jameson, that’s the third time you’ve done that.”

“I know.”

“In a month.”

“Notevena month. I know.”

“Pretty sure ithasbeen a month. And you arenota forgetful person.”

“Iknow,” I said again, more forcefully, pushing my fingers through my hair. “I suck. It’s like I have some mental block about this. Self-sabotage or something. I need to get past it. He deserves better.”

“Youdeserve better.”

Everett and I were an unlikely pair of friends—the short, dark-haired, art-obsessed teacher who did crossword puzzles forfun, and the overgrown oaf of a diner cook who wouldn’t know an Impressionist if he tripped over one—but we’d bonded a few months back, and our friendship had stuck, against all odds.

We both spoke the language of grief and loss like a native tongue—Everett, from losing his husband Adrian to cancer just a couple of years before, and me from losing my sister Molly a dozen years ago—and recognized each other as a member of a club neither of us would have willingly joined.

Connection was weird like that.

“Did you call to give me shit about my boyfriend?” I demanded.