Chapter 3 #2
Ana softens. “Okay, but babe… don’t you think it’s time to meet him? Or at least ask if he wants to?”
“I mean…” I twirl my pen between my fingers, heart tapping a little faster. “We’ve only been talking for just over a month.”
“You’ve been sexting him for over a month,” Everett corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“It’s not just that,” I say, a little defensive. “He’s… we talk. Like, really talk. He makes me laugh when everything feels overwhelming, and he doesn’t pressure me. He just shows up.”
Ana gives me a long look. “Then maybe it’s worth seeing if he wants to show up in person.”
I glance down at my phone. His last message still sits there, teasing and warm.
Fireboy: Hazel says if I don’t bring her the good kibble soon, she’s calling PETA. Also—good morning, Red
I haven’t answered yet. Mostly because I don’t trust myself not to get a little sappy after how he was last night. But also because the thought of suggesting a meetup makes me stir with something dangerously close to hope.
“He might say no,” I say softly.
“Then he’s an idiot,” Everett replies with no hesitation. “But at least then you’ll know.”
Ana nods. “Better to know than keep wondering, Frankie.”
I blow out a breath. “Fine. But if this ends in disaster, I’m blaming both of you.”
Everett grins. “You can name your first child after me as compensation.”
“I’m not having kids.”
“Perfect, then we’re even.”
***
By the time I get home, I’m frozen from the knees down and dangerously close to committing a murder-by-office-Christmas-spirit. I peel off my layers, shuffle into sweats, and sink into the couch with my phone.
His message is already waiting.
Fireboy: Hazel is giving me side-eye from my own damn bed
Me: She needs your bed. It’s the only thing shielding her from the trauma of being forced to eat subpar kibble.
Fireboy: Excuse you. That kibble costs more than my car insurance, can’t fault her for standards.
Me: I love her.
Fireboy: She’s terrible. You’d get along.
I smile and tuck myself further into the corner of the couch, blanket up to my chin. Something about this feels easy, like we’re on the same page and breathing the same air, even if we’re miles apart.
Fireboy: What’s your status, Red?
Me: Blanket cocoon. You?
Fireboy: Showered, in sweats. Just missing one thing.
Me: What’s that?
Fireboy: Your pretty voice coming in my ear
A quiet exhale escapes me. My heart bumps against my ribs, already knowing exactly where this is going.
Me: And how would you do that?
His voice note comes through almost instantly, and I press play with a shaky thumb.
“If I were there right now,” he says, voice gravelly, “I’d tug your clothes off you slowly, just to see what’s underneath. Slide your knees apart and kiss the inside of your thighs ‘til you beg me to stop. Then I’d tell you to be patient—because I’m hungry, and plan on taking my time.”
I squeeze my legs together, heat blooming fast and sharp. My fingers tremble as I open the voice recorder, but when I try to speak, the words catch. Something feels different tonight. Not wrong, just different. So instead of recording, I type.
Me: You always say the filthiest things in the gentlest voice. It’s unfair.
Fireboy: You like it.
Me: Too much.
Fireboy: You okay?
That stops me, and I blink at the screen.
Me: Yeah, just a weird day. Office cheer overload again. I’m just not the festive type.
Fireboy: I get that
Me: You don’t like Christmas?
There’s a pause, a pretty long one. I almost backtrack and send a “nevermind” or a dumb joke to soften it, but then a voice note comes through.
“My mom used to go hard for Christmas,” he says, voice softer now.
“Tinsel everywhere, sugar cookies from scratch. The works. She was like an elf on crack. Then my dad got sick. And… the holidays just started feeling like pretending, like smiling through something heavy. Everything just dimmed after that, including her. So now we watch Die Hard and eat cheap chocolate together. That’s about it. ”
I don’t move, can’t breathe. It’s the most personal thing he’s ever said.
Me: I’m sorry.
Fireboy: Thanks. It was a long time ago. Just explains why I don’t rock a Santa hat.
My heart tugs and I chew my bottom lip, then type back.
Me: My parents died a few years ago. December. Drunk driver.
Fireboy: Fuck, Red. I’m sorry.
Me: It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I just felt like telling you, because you told me
Fireboy: Yeah, crazy how we align on so much.
We do, we really fucking do. Absurdly so. It makes me think that this hasn’t happened by chance, and maybe he’s just waiting for me to take the initiative here. Maybe he’s giving me time to suggest we meet.
Me: My workmates were trying to nudge me into the Christmas spirit.
Fireboy: Yeah? What were they nudging you to do?
Me: They caught me smiling at my phone and gave me shit for it.
Fireboy: Damn. Caught in the act.
Me: Apparently I’ve now been sexting you for over a month and it’s time to check that you’re real and meet up.
Another pause. Not long enough to panic, but just enough to send a tiny flicker of dread through me.
Fireboy: They sound like good friends.
That’s it. No teasing, no jokes. No querying what I said back. Something about it makes my thumbs hesitate.
Me: They are. But I told them you feel real, even if I’ve never met you.
Fireboy: Haha
Me: Maybe one day we can?
Me: Meet, I mean. If you want to.
No response. I glance at the time, but it’s not that late. He usually replies fast when we’re both online. And he’s still online—I can see the little green dot.
I try again, amping up the playfulness.
Me: You still there? Or did Hazel smother you with a pillow?
There’s another beat, then finally a message.
Fireboy: Still here.
Two words that make it sound the opposite of him being present. I shouldn’t worry, but it doesn’t feel like him. At least, not the him I know. The one who sends filthy voice notes without blinking. The one who called me his good girl on Tuesday night and made me come with nothing but his voice.
Me: You okay?
No reply. The bubble dots appear, then disappear. Then nothing again. My chest goes tight, the air thinner than it was a moment ago. This can be normal—people get busy, especially someone who might be on call.
Me: Got a callout?
Message sent. Unread. No reply.
The green dot disappears, and I stare at the screen, willing it to change back.
Nothing.
A dull ache fills my throat, and I set the phone down, then pick it up again after a minute.
Nothing.
I wait five minutes.
Nothing.
My heart thumps faster with embarrassment, confusion, that creeping dread that feels so similar to rejection. I tell myself he’s busy. Or he’s tired. Or he’s been called in.
But there’s still no reply when I get ready for bed. Or when I brush my teeth.
None when I turn off the lamp and lie there staring at my phone. A sharp, humiliating ache creeps in.
Maybe he’ll text in the morning. He always texts me in the morning. So I pretend everything is fine, and do what I always do right before I fall asleep.
Me: Night, Fireboy
I turn over and tell myself I’ll wake up to a reply in the morning, something warm and teasing like always.
But when morning comes, my phone’s still silent.
***
Three days pass, and still nothing. I’ve refreshed the app, checked my account.
Scrolled back through the last voice note he sent, the one about his dad.
Back through the messages about Hazel and imported kibble, his shift schedule, the teasing banter that never failed to make me grin.
Back through the moment where I suggested meeting in real life.
At work, I’m distracted. I stare at graphics and forget what I opened half my tabs for. Everett clocks it instantly.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”
Ana gives me a look but doesn’t press, just slides a muffin across my desk and lets me sit in silence.
By lunch, I’ve convinced myself he was called into some multi-alarm, crazy fire emergency that takes days to clean up.
He’s a firefighter. Emergencies happen. That’s what he said, right?
Shift life is unpredictable. Maybe he just hasn’t had a chance to reply.
Maybe he’s in the middle of something big.
Christ, maybe he’s been injured and hospitalized.
I open Google and start typing. Maybe I’ll find out something has happened this way.
Toronto fire December 18.
GTA firefighter incident last 48 hours.
Firefighter injured Ontario December.
A few articles pop up. There was a residential fire in Brampton, a warehouse blaze near Scarborough. But no names or injuries reported. No clues that he’s been involved in a large-scale incident. I chew my thumbnail down to the quick, because I’m worried.
By the evening, I’ve reread every message we ever exchanged. Replayed his voice notes until I’ve memorized the exact cadence of his breath, the way he says Red like I’m the only name that fit in his mouth. Except it’s not my name, not really.
I try to talk myself out of sending anymore messages, I know I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help it.
Me: Hey. Just checking in. Hope everything’s okay?
It sits there, unread. Of course it fucking does.
The next day, Ana corners me at the coffee machine.
“Alright. What’s going on?”
I try to brush her off, but she gives me a look that says don’t try me. So I tell her. Softly. Vulnerably. About the silence, the nothingness, how the voice I’d fallen asleep to every night for weeks just stopped speaking.
“Maybe something happened,” I say. “Maybe he got caught in a fire and—”
“Frankie.”
Her voice is gentle but firm. “Even if he’d been called out, even if he’s stuck under a literal flaming building—even firefighters have two seconds to send a message within the span of three days.
Just one to say, ‘Hey, busy, will explain later.’ Anything.
If he wanted to stop you from stressing, he would’ve. ”
I nod, but the anxiety stays. At lunch, I send another message because I’m a goddamn fool with no self control.
Me: Not trying to bug you, just feeling a little anxious and hope you’re okay. If something came up, that’s okay. Just let me know you’re alright?
I don’t sleep that night, and by day five, I’m unraveling.
Every ding from my phone hits like a punch to the gut, followed by the hollow disappointment of it not being him. Every time I open the app, the voice that used to make me feel warm and excited now fills me with dread.
Ana brings me a pastry and a coffee and sits beside me in silence, quietly tapping her keyboard.
“D’you think it was something I said?” I ask eventually. “Was asking to meet up too much?”
“No,” she says softly, her fingers pausing.. “You deserve something real, babe. Not someone who runs.”
“It doesn’t feel like he ran, though… it feels like he disappeared.”
She shakes her head and turns to me. “You sent that man a message just to make sure he’s alive. If he can’t even reply to that, just to make you stop worrying, then I hope his cat does kill him.”
A weak chuckle bubbles out of me, and I try to believe her. She’s right. I don’t care if we never meet, I just want to make sure he’s okay. If he can’t even give me that, why do I still care so much?
Everett messages me a meme later that afternoon. Something stupid about dating in the modern age, and I almost laugh. But all I can think is at least bad dates show up. At least bad dates don’t make you feel wanted before pulling the plug.
Later at home, I go back through our messages and delete every single voice note I’ve ever sent. Then I send one last message. I know I shouldn’t, but I convince myself it’s for closure and I need to do it.
I write it out three times. Soft, kind and polite. Wishing him the best and thanking him for our little snippet of time together.
Then I delete them all, and record a voice message that feels more real.
“Thought you were better than ghosting, but apparently not. Thanks for making me feel like an idiot. I hope whatever your reason is, it was worth it.”
I hit send and toss my phone on the nightstand, then crawl into bed, even though it’s barely 9 p.m. Even though I haven’t eaten. Even though the hollow space inside me feels louder than the wind outside.
It’s not heartbreak, it wasn’t long enough for that. But it’s something. A spark I let myself believe in and a voice I started to trust. A stranger who made me feel seen—right up until he didn’t.
When my phone rings, I don’t check the screen, I ignore it until it stops. But when it rings again, I turn to see the name.
Tamara.
I stare at my older sister’s name for a second, then answer.
“Hey.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
“Hey, Franks!” Her voice is bright, warm and familiar.
“I know this is last-minute, but Eli and I are heading to Maplewood tomorrow for a couple days over Christmas while the team’s on a break, and I was thinking you should come, too.
Stay with us at the Parnell’s. The house is all decorated and festive, and we could really use a dose of your sarcasm to keep Eli humble. ”
I blink, caught off-guard.
“Ahh,” I hesitate. “I don’t know…”
“You sound like shit,” she says gently. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just work stress.”
Tamara doesn’t push, she never does. This time of year is hard on her, too.
“Come on,” she says, softer now. “You don’t have to be festive. Just come be there with us. I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” I whisper, my eyes filling with silent tears.
“Frankie,” Tamara says, more serious now. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod, the inhale through my nose to steady my tears, even though she can’t see me. “I’m fine.” Then I deflect. “Just thinking about wading through all the festive bullshit at Herb and Leah Parnell’s.”
“They’d love to see you.”
She’s right, I know they would. The snow falls slowly beyond the glass of my window, and I stare for a moment, suspended in time. Mom would want me to be with them, too. And Dad.
“What if you rent that cabin up the road from them?” Tamara presses gently. “Gives you a space to escape the scary levels of decorations.”
I chew on my lip, considering it. The Parnells are like a second family to me, and I haven’t seen them for a while. And a cabin to myself does sound like a reasonable compromise.
“Franks?”
“Yeah, I heard you…”
And then I say yes.