Chapter Eight #2
“You’re vibrating. You look like you’re about to set something on fire, and he’s the only one here who knows how to put it out.
” Aaron pauses, then his eyes widen as he sees me set my plate down on the table with a decisive thud.
“Oh. Ohhh. You’re actually going over there.
Do I need to call an ambulance or a priest? ”
I don’t answer him. I don’t even think about the consequences. I just walk.
By the time I reach the grill, the heat from the coals is hitting my face, a dry, searing wave that feels like a physical manifestation of the temper I’m trying to keep under wraps.
Jules looks up, sees me, and the expression on his face shifts instantly.
It’s like watching a curtain drop. The "public" smile—the one he’s been using to navigate the local hero requirements of the day—vanishes, replaced by something heavier.
Something guarded. He knows the "storm" look on my face; he’s seen the way I lock down when I’m cornered.
The blonde doesn’t flinch. She’s taller than she looked from across the yard, her skin tanned and glowing in that way that suggests she spends her weekends on a boat while I’m scrubbing coffee grinds out of my cuticles. She’s looking at me with a look of mild, entertained assessment.
“You’re Wes, right? The Brew House guy?”
Her tone isn’t hostile, it’s curious. She’s looking at me like I’m a particularly difficult crossword puzzle she’s just about to solve.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice coming out as a flat, dead thing that barely carries over the music.
She smiles at Jules, a playful, proprietary glint in her eyes that makes my stomach turn. “He’s intense. Just like you said.”
“He has his moments,” Jules replies, his eyes never leaving mine. He doesn't move away from her, but he doesn't move toward me either. He’s standing his ground, the tongs in his hand held like a weapon he’s not quite ready to use.
“What’s going on?” I ask. It’s sharper than I intended. It’s a grenade dropped right between the burgers and the hot dogs, and I’ve already pulled the pin with my teeth.
The blonde raises a brow, clearly enjoying the sudden drop in temperature. “We’re talking.”
“About?”
“Firefighter stuff. You know. Flames, heroics, the upcoming calendar shoots.” She looks between us, her smile turning into something knowing—something that says she’s already figured out exactly what the two of us are to one another.
Something I haven’t fully figured out. “You two good?
You look like you're about to put out a fire that hasn't started yet.”
The question is a probe. It’s the town’s curiosity filtered through one person. She’s asking: Are you a thing? Should I be worried about my fingers being on his bicep?
Jules answers first. “Yeah.” I answer at the same time. “Fine.”
The unison is jarring. She lets out a small, huffed laugh, stepping back with her hands raised in mock surrender, the fabric of her sundress swirling around her knees.
“Uh-huh. Well, the tension in this corner is officially overcooking the meat.
I'm going to grab a drink. Good to see you, Jules.
Don't forget what we talked about—the transfer paperwork isn't going to sign itself.”
The air shifts when she leaves. The noise of the crowd—the screaming kids, the cornhole cheers—seems to dull into a static hum, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thrum of my own heart in my ears. Transfer paperwork. The words are a physical weight in my gut.
“You wanna tell me what that was?” Jules asks, his voice low enough that it doesn't carry to the nearest table. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s losing his patience with.
“What what was?”
“You, marching over here like I just proposed to a stranger in the middle of the firehouse yard.”
“I didn’t march.”
“You absolutely did. I could hear your shoes hitting the grass from ten feet away, Wes. You had ‘territorial dispute’ written across your forehead in neon letters.” He stares at me, then lets out a disbelieving, breathy laugh. “Are you actually jealous? Over Sarah?”
“You don’t belong to the town, Jules.”
His brow furrows, his eyes darkening as he sets the tongs down on the side of the grill with a metallic clack. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you don’t get claimed by everyone who wants a piece of the local hero.
I don’t like watching people act like you’re temporary entertainment.
Like they’re just waiting for their turn before you pack up your six-month rotation and move on to the next station that needs a ‘hero’ to flirt with. ”
Jules’s voice drops, turning low and dangerous, the kind of tone that usually precedes a structural collapse. “You’re the only one who keeps calling me temporary, Wes. Not her. Not the crew. Not the town. You’re the one who keeps checking the expiration date.”
That hits clean. It’s a hook to the jaw that I didn't see coming, and for a second, I can't find the words to fight back.
“I’m being realistic,” I snap, but even to my own ears, the word sounds hollow. It sounds like a shield I’m holding up to hide the fact that I’m shaking.
“No, you’re looking for the exit,” he says evenly, stepping closer until the heat of the grill is replaced by the heat of him.
“You’re so afraid of the end of the movie that you’re trying to burn the film in the middle of the second act.
You don’t get to do that, Wes,” Jules continues, his voice tight.
“You don’t get to have a civil conversation with me in your office this morning and then show up here acting like we’re strangers.
Or worse, acting like I’m some project you’re just waiting to see fail. ”
I grit my teeth. “I wasn’t acting like we’re strangers.”
“You also don’t get to show up here acting like I'm your property the second another human being talks to me. That’s not how this works.”
“I wasn’t being territorial.”
“You’ve been hovering on the edge of the field for an hour like you’re waiting for a reason to leave.
Then you marched across a field! It means you care, Wes.
And for some reason, that scares the hell out of you.
You think caring is a weakness you have to beat out of yourself before it can hurt you.
” He leans in, his shadow falling over me.
“You don’t get to be possessive only when it’s convenient for your ego.
You don’t get to disappear into your head when things get real and then show up swinging when someone else notices I’m breathing. ”
I hate that he’s right. I hate that he can see the gears turning, that pretend lawyer in my head is desperately trying to find a loophole in his logic.
“I’m not asking you to chain yourself to the town,” I mutter.
“I’m asking if I’m supposed to be bracing for impact.
Because Sarah over there seems to think you’re just a passerby with a signed transfer. ”
Jules’s expression shifts. The anger flickers, replaced by a weary sort of sadness. “You’re not an impact, Wes,” he says softly. “You’re a choice. I chose this town. I chose this job. And I’m trying like hell to choose you, but you’re making it an uphill climb through a goddamn blizzard.”
We stand there, the tension stretched thin as a wire between us, while the town moves around us in a blur of red, white, and blue. Behind us, the music swells, and someone from the fire crew yells for Jules to check the burgers.
“I need air,” I say, the panic finally winning. The walls are closing in, even though we’re standing in the middle of an open field.
“You’re outside, Wes. You couldn't get more air if you tried.”
“You know what I mean.”
I turn and walk away. I don't look back to see if he's watching.
I don't look at Aaron, who I know is tracking my every move with a look of profound disappointment.
I make it to the tree line where the shadows are long and the grass is cool and damp against my shoes, and I wait for my lungs to remember how to take a full breath without it catching on the sharp edges of my heart.
The weight of everything we didn’t say is heavier than the argument itself.
The soles of my shoes are scuffing against the dry, sun-baked grass as I head for the perimeter of the yard.
Every step feels like I’m dragging a weight.
I can feel the microscope of Sleighbell Springs magnifying the back of my neck.
I pass a group of town moms, and I can practically hear the way their conversations dip as I walk by.
They aren't looking at the streamers anymore; they’re looking at the guy who just had a very public moment with the town's golden boy.
I find Aaron near the soda tubs. He doesn't make a joke this time. He just looks at me, his brow furrowed.
“You leaving?” he asks quietly.
“I’m done, Aaron.”
“Wes, the fireworks haven’t even started. You haven't even had—”
“I’m done,” I repeat, and my voice sounds like glass cracking under a heel.
He doesn't push. He knows that tone. He just nods, a single, resigned movement. “Go home, man. Get some rest.”
The walk away from the firehouse is the longest of my life. The sun is starting to dip, turning the sky into a bruised purple and orange, but the humidity hasn't let up. It clings to my skin, making my shirt feel too small, and my chest feel too tight.
As I walk past the darkened storefronts of Main Street, the pretend lawyer in my head starts the closing arguments.
He told you, didn’t he? He said it’s a choice.
But choices change. People wake up one morning and choose something else.
They choose the transfer. They choose the blonde in the sundress who doesn't come with a hundred pounds of baggage.
I stop in front of the bookstore, Tannenbaum Tales, my reflection catching in the glass. I look exactly like I feel—jagged. I don't know how Jules sees anything worth choosing in the man staring back at me.
By the time I reach the Brew House, the first crack of a firework echoes in the distance. It’s a dull thump, like a heartbeat outside of a body.
I don't turn on the lights. I climb the stairs to my apartment in the dark, my hand sliding along the familiar, worn wood of the banister. The air up here is stale, smelling of old roasted beans and the faint scent of the citrus shampoo I’d managed to carry home on my skin from Jules’s house.
I drop my keys into the ceramic bowl on the counter.
Clink. The sound is deafening in the quiet.
I should go to bed. I should wash the smell of grill smoke and sunscreen off my skin and pretend today was just a fever dream.
But then my phone buzzes in my pocket—a sharp, insistent vibration that feels like a hot coal.
I don't want to look. I want to leave it alone, but the silence of the apartment makes it too heavy to ignore.
Jules: You good?
I stare at the words. A check-in. A hand reached out across the field I just ran away from. My thumb hovers over the screen.
Jules: I meant what I said at the grill.
Jules: I’m staying put, Wes. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not backing off.
The honesty of it is a physical blow. Most people, when I push, they stumble back. They give me the space I demand until the gap between us is too wide to bridge. But Jules… Jules just plants his feet. He stays exactly where I left him, waiting for me to realize that the only person moving is me.
My fingers hover over the phone and I type: I’m sorry I walked away. Delete. I type: The blonde—Sarah—she said something about a transfer. Delete.
I look at the cursor blinking. It’s a heartbeat. It’s a countdown. I think about the six months. I think about the boxes I keep in my head, and how Jules is the only thing that’s ever managed to kick the lids off.
If I don't answer, the silence will become a wall. And Jules is a patient man, but even patient men eventually get tired of talking to a stone.
I type a single character.
Me: K.
It’s not an apology. It’s—a bridge. It’s me telling him that I’m still on the line. That the conversation isn't over, even if I’ve run out of words to say.
I hit send and drop the phone on the counter. I stand there in the dark, watching the fireworks color the sky over Sleighbell Springs, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m surviving.
I feel like I’m waiting. And I’m not sure which one is more terrifying.