Chapter Eight
THE BBQ AND THE BLOWUP
Wes
The firehouse smells like charcoal, cheap sunscreen, and bad decisions.
Memorial Day in Sleighbell Springs is less a day of solemn reflection and more of a mandatory town-wide excuse to drag out folding tables and pretend small-town life doesn’t come with a permanent microscope.
There are red-white-and-blue streamers taped haphazardly to the chain-link fence, the plastic snapping in the humid May breeze with a sound like a distant fire.
A speaker is blasting something christmasy and aggressively energetic, the bass rattling the legs of the picnic tables.
Don’t they realize it’s May? And half the town is currently pretending they don’t thrive on the quiet ruin of their neighbors.
I almost didn’t come. That alone should’ve been my first clue that something was sliding out of my grip.
Usually, my "no" is a fortress. I’m good at declining. I’m an expert at staying in the shadows of the Brew House, hidden behind the steam of the espresso machine where the rules are clear and the stakes are caffeine-high and nothing more.
But Aaron had bullied me into it. He’d spent the entire morning leaning over the counter with that specific, wide-eyed look he gets—the one that says he’s about to be "helpful" at my expense.
“You can’t own the Brew House and not show up to town events, Wes,” he’d said, punctuating the sentence with a pointed slam of the milk pitcher into the rinser.
“It’s in the bylaws of being broody but community-approved.
You show your face, you eat a mediocre hot dog, and you let people see you're a person and not just a caffeine-delivery-system with a grudge. It’s about brand management. ”
“I don’t have a brand,” I’d muttered.
“Your brand is ‘Local Grump Who Makes Great Lattes.’ And today, that grump needs to go to the park.”
So here I am. Leaning against a splintering picnic table with a paper plate in my hand that’s slowly going limp from the grease of a burger I haven’t touched.
I chose the far edge of the field on purpose.
I’m close enough that Aaron can’t accuse me of being antisocial, but far enough away that I can pretend I’m not here specifically to watch one firefighter with a smile that’s starting to feel like a threat to my life.
The area is a mess of chaotic movement. Kids are sprinting between folding chairs with sticky hands and red popsicles, leaving trails of melted sugar on the grass.
Someone’s toddler is wearing a tiny flag cape like they’re about to take off into battle, and a group of firefighters has taken over the cornhole boards.
They’ve turned a simple lawn game into a full-blown tournament with a bracket drawn on a whiteboard, because apparently, competition is the only personality trait allowed in this place.
A couple of the older locals—the ones who have lived here since the town was just being built—sit under the shade tent like they’re holding court.
Mrs. Higgins and Mr. Gable, the self-appointed historians of Sleighbell Springs because they have lived here longest, have their plates balanced on their knees.
Even at their age, their eyes are sharp and curious as they scan the crowd.
I can feel the way they clock me. They clock everyone.
They’re measuring the distance between people, counting how many beers the mayor has had, and filing it all away for the Monday morning gossip circuit.
Small town rule: you can do whatever you want, as long as you understand you’re doing it in front of a jury of your peers.
Aaron slides in beside me, smelling like the vanilla syrup he spilled earlier and the excessive amount of cologne he wears for "socializing." He’s holding two sweating sodas and wearing a grin that says he thinks he’s the funniest person in a three-mile radius.
“You look like you’re about to file a formal complaint with the event coordinator,” he says, handing me a can.
“I didn’t know we had an event coordinator.”
“We do. Her name is Linda, and she’s already mad at you because you didn’t bring a dessert.
She’s over by the potato salad station, and I’m pretty sure she’s already written your name on the ‘Do Not Invite’ list for the Founders' Day gala.
You're on the list, Wes. Somewhere between ‘litterers’ and ‘people who don't recycle.’”
I take the soda just to have something to do with my hands. My palms feel restless, a low-level hum of anxiety vibrating in my fingertips. “I own a coffee shop, Aaron. I’m not required to bake. I provide the fuel for the people who do the baking. It’s an ecosystem, that is Noelle’s job.”
He gasps, a hand flying to his chest in that dramatic way that makes me want to roll my eyes into the back of my head. “You sell muffins. That’s basically baking.”
“That’s basically reheating. There's a fundamental difference in the chemistry and the labor. I don't pretend to be something I'm not.”
He points a finger across the yard, his voice dropping into that "I'm being a secret agent" whisper that usually precedes him saying something I don't want to hear. “Speaking of pretending, you’re doing the thing again.”
“I’m not doing anything. I'm standing. I'm hydrating.”
“You’re watching him like he’s a fire and you're the only one without a permit.” Aaron’s elbow nudges my ribs, hard.
“You know you could just walk over there and say hi like a normal person.
Or a functional person. Or even just a person who isn't currently trying to burn a hole in the back of Jules's head with your eyes.”
I shoot him a look that should have silenced him, but Aaron is famously immune to my moods.
Thanks to working together closely for years.
I force my gaze away from the grill, letting it sweep over the crowd instead.
There’s a banner strung between two posts, something cheesy about remembering and honoring, the letters slightly peeling in the sun.
A donation jar on a table near the station door is half-full of crumpled singles and the occasional five.
A stack of paper plates sits next to a sign that says PLEASE TAKE ONE in aggressive, Sharpie-drawn handwriting that screams Linda's influence.
It’s supposed to be simple. Hot dogs, cheap music, and sunburn. It’s the kind of day where you’re supposed to turn your brain off and just exist in the collective "town-ness" of it all.
And yet, my pulse is already too fast.
Jules is near the grill. Of course he is.
He looks like he was grown in a lab specifically to excel in this exact environment.
He fits the firehouse yard the way I fit the dark corner behind an espresso machine.
He’s laughing with the other firefighters—big, boisterous men who slap each other on the back and talk in a shorthand I don't understand. He’s wearing a fitted dark T-shirt, the cotton stretched tight over his chest and shoulders, the short sleeves hitting just right to show off the corded muscle of his forearms as he handles the grill tongs.
He moves with a natural ease, a grace that suggests he belongs in wide-open spaces, not in a cramped apartment above a shop run by a man who stores his emotions in labeled, airtight boxes.
Then, I see her.
I don’t recognize her at first. Blonde. Confident.
Wearing a sundress that looks far too expensive for a firehouse cookout, the fabric fluttering in the wind.
She’s standing way too close to Jules—within that invisible circle of space that he usually keeps for the people he’s chosen to let in.
She’s standing in the space I thought I’d finally claimed for myself.
She laughs at something he says, and her hand lingers on his bicep for a second too long, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his shirt.
My jaw locks so hard it aches.
It’s nothing. I tell myself that three times, like a mantra.
It’s a town event. It’s a barbecue. It’s not ownership.
We haven't even defined what this is, so I have no legal or emotional right to the air he breathes. We are two people who happen to have shared a bed and a few heavy silences. That’s it.
But my chest doesn’t get the memo. He leans closer to hear her over the music, tipping his head down—that exact, guarded angle he uses when I’m talking low in the shop, like he’s creating a world that only exists for the two of us.
He smiles. Not the "public" one he gives the tourists when they ask for directions. The private one. The one I’d spent the last twenty-four hours convincing myself was reserved for me.
The air starts to smell sickly sweet—a nauseating mix of lighter fluid, sugar, and whatever floral perfume she’s wearing. My pulse kicks hard against my throat. It’s not just the touching; it’s the comfort of it. He looks relaxed. Unbothered.
Like I’m not standing thirty feet away, clutching a lukewarm soda and trying not to feel like a disposable piece of his six-month rotation.
The lawyer I always wanted to be, starts building a case in my head: He’s a traveler, Wes.
He’s a drifter. He told you he was on rotation.
You saw the light in his kitchen; it’s a temporary light. Don’t get attached.
“You’re going to break your own molars,” Aaron mutters, his humor finally fading into actual concern as he watches my knuckles turn white on the soda can.
“I’m fine.”
“You look like someone just told you the espresso machine exploded and we’re out of beans for the rest of the year. Your face is doing that thing where you look like you're calculating the exact cost of a funeral.”
“It didn’t explode and I'm just hot.”
He squints at me, leaning in. “You’re jealous, Wes. It’s a human emotion. It's messy and it's gross, but it won't kill you to admit it. In fact, admitting it might stop you from looking like you're about to commit a felony.”
“I’m not jealous. I’m observing. I'm a student of human behavior.”