Soot Happens

Chapter 1

The key jams in the front door of Springs I can feel it.

Melvin is watching, too. He changes the register tape with the slow precision of someone handling live explosives, and I know he’s clocking my every tell. With Melvin, silence is layered. This one means: I see you, I know this is hard, and I’ll shut up about it.

There’s a lull after that. Just the fans, and a truck passing outside, and my phone buzzing on the counter. The group chat lights up: message after message, all in a rush, like today they’ve decided to mount a family-wide intervention.

A Boston condo. Two bedrooms, brick and shiny, close to the T. Price tag is a joke.

A shared art studio in Jamaica Plain. Four artists, north light.

My sister: You don’t have to keep living his life. Boston misses you.

I flip the phone face down. It’s the same every time. They want me to come home. It’s well-meaning. But it isn’t as simple as packing up and leaving.

The bell over the door drags me out of it—and saves me from texting my sister something I’ll regret.

Jordan Vale walks in: Sleighbell Springs’ chimney sweep, fix-it guru, and Drew’s old best friend.

They look like they’ve already finished a full day, even though it’s barely coffee break time.

Their flannel is dusted at the shoulders, streaked with something dark that could be soot or just Jordan’s personal brand of gross.

The heat doesn’t faze them. Jeans, boots, flannel, despite being July. Jordan’s philosophy: acknowledge discomfort, then ignore it into submission.

“Morning,” they say, which covers everyone in the store and the building itself. Jordan’s greetings are always broad-spectrum like that.

Melvin grunts. I say, “You’re early. The world end?”

“Barely.” Jordan’s already moving, straight to the screws, grabs a box one-handed, and swings back to the counter. “Any more copper flashing rolls, or did someone finally buy them?” They call this into the back, where I’m half-vanished behind the sandpaper rack.

“They’re where they always are,” I answer, not bothering to yell. Jordan hears everything. Not an exaggeration.

“Checked. Shelf’s empty.”

“I restocked them yesterday.”

“Then they disappeared overnight, because there’s nothing there now.”

I come out, planning to prove Jordan wrong. I fully expect to point at the copper flashing rolls so I can savor the look Jordan gets the rare times they lose an argument.

The shelf is empty.

I just blink at it, startled. Jordan leans against the endcap, arms folded, eyebrows raised in a smirk they’re trying not to show.

“They were here yesterday,” I insist.

“Mmhmm.”

“I put them there.”

“I believe you,” Jordan says, with just enough tilt in their voice to suggest they only believe that I believe me. Jordan and Drew were joined at the hip from toddlerhood, so when I married Drew, Jordan and I became something like family. This kind of bickering is just…how we are.

I squint at them. “Where did you look?”

“Right there.”

Three steps to the left, I reach behind stacked aluminum vent pipe and dig out a roll of copper flashing. I hold it up.

“There,” I say, loud and gleeful.

Jordan’s face does something complicated, a smirk tangled with actual amusement. “Not the right spot.”

“No, but it’s where it is, which is what matters.”

“Semantics.”

“Survival.” I toss the roll over; Jordan catches it one-handed and doesn’t even look. They always do stuff like that…and act like it’s no big deal.

Melvin watches this play out, unimpressed, and rings up the screws.

Jordan hangs out a minute longer, more than usual.

They lean on the counter as I ring up the rest of their order, close enough I catch the scent of woodsmoke and something earthy, like rain on dirt.

Their forearm rests on the counter, tattoos visible: lines and mountains, though I’ve never asked the story, and they haven’t told.

My jaw’s tight and I’ve been straightening the receipts for a minute, even though they’re already lined up. I am now arranging them into some theoretical, impossible straightness, which is obviously a distraction.

Jordan notices. Jordan always notices.

“You good?” they ask.

“Yep.” It comes out quick, too bright. “Just busy. You know.”

I slide the bag across. Our fingers don’t even come close; I make sure of it. Not sure why. Maybe today is just extra raw.

Jordan’s eyes hold mine for a moment that’s just a shade too long, soft but not pitying. The kind of look you give when you know someone’s hurting and you know talking about it won’t help. Jordan’s good at reading the room.

They take the bag, adjust the strap, and say, “See you later,” easy and open, like an invitation.

The bell rings as they go, and then the quiet settles back in. Fans, floorboards, Melvin’s usual muttering.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Melvin says.

I glare at him. “Mind your own business, Melvin.”

“This store is my business.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Has been longer than you’ve been alive. Definitely longer than you’ve been standing behind that counter pretending you’re not bothered when you’re obviously bothered.”

I almost argue, but nothing comes out that won’t make it worse. I turn back to the sandpaper. At least sandpaper is consistent.