Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“How’s the rookie doing?” Miles sipped his lemonade and debated whether rolling up his sleeves would help alleviate the intense heat of the late afternoon sun.
He knew the kid’s name—Forest—but calling him “the rookie” helped soothe the sting of being replaced in the rotation. It made him temporary. People with names were permanent.
“He’s doing good. Finally catching on that Ross isn’t as tough as he pretends.” Wes chuckled.
Their captain hid his care beneath a thick veneer, but eventually, every rookie figured out the truth.
Sleeves cut off at the shoulder, Wes fanned himself with a napkin and took a swig of beer.
They’d been at the gym together, and Miles still hadn’t cooled down from their workout, but his best friend wanted to sit on the patio, despite the late June heat wave and near-ninety percent humidity.
Not even a breath of breeze, and for the first time, Miles wondered if maybe short sleeves wouldn’t be the end of the world, after all.
But the scars weren’t just ugly. They also symbolized his failure. His failure to save a child. His failure to even save himself. He didn’t want them on display. He wanted to hide them.
Which wouldn’t be a problem, except Jif’s blatant interest had been palpable for a while, and, though he desperately wanted to reciprocate, he also appreciated her patience, especially since he’d bared his terrifying insecurities about his new body.
But how long would she be willing to wait?
If he lost her because of his own silly fear, he’d never forgive himself.
Your fears aren’t silly.
Still, all the mantras in the world couldn’t quell his vague unease. If he didn’t gather his courage soon, Jif might move on.
Wes’ voice dragged Miles back to the present.
“At this rate, he’ll get it all figured out in time for you to come back.” Wes took another sip of his beer.
“Sure, sure.” Miles rolled his glass between his hands, collecting the condensation.
“You’re stronger, man. You’re close. What’s your date?”
Miles half-shrugged a shoulder. He’d told Wes about the CPAT a few weeks ago, after a particularly brutal round of PT. He’d been low, and without really thinking about it, it’d slipped out, but Wes had been supportive. They’d been hitting the gym together several days a week since then.
“Soon.”
Wes let it go, sipping again. “Well, you’ll get there.”
While he appreciated his friend’s encouragement, Miles lacked Wes’s confidence. In fact, he’d only managed to conquer three of the events in the gym, and the days and weeks were flying past far too quickly.
He forced the doubts away. “Thanks, man. I should have told you sooner.”
They both sipped, the silence settling comfortably between them, even if the heat threatened to suffocate Miles.
“How’s Jif?”
Miles tugged at the collar of his shirt, a breath of blessedly cool air following the motion. “She’s good. Busy collecting firefighter jokes to harass you with. Did you really have to try out your crappy pickup lines on her at your first meeting?”
Wes held up both hands in surrender. “A smoking-hot woman giving me live feedback? I couldn’t resist!”
“So lame.”
“Can I help it if she seriously considered leaving you when I told her my heart was racing like an engine responding to a five-alarm fire?”
“When a woman rolls her eyes, it is not a sign of attraction,” Miles assured his best friend.
“Whatever you say, you’re just jealous.” Wes took another long swallow of beer. “What’s she come up with so far?”
Miles shook his head. “No way! I’m not giving you any ammo.”
“C’mon, man. You can’t even give me a hint?”
“Fine. Her best line yet is, ‘I hope you’re not flammable, because there are sparks flying between us.’“
Wes choked on his beer. “Damn, she’s good.”
Miles smirked. “I know, right?”
Miles didn’t add how she’d said it after he’d etched the skin of her collarbone with his teeth. The slippery satin neckline of her little dress had been teasing him all evening, and their goodnight kiss had quickly raged out of control.
Miles squirmed and took another cool sip of lemonade. If he didn’t get over his fears quickly, he might combust.
He grinned. She’d like that one.
“Geez, I haven’t seen you look so sappy since...” Wes trailed off, then shook his head. “You still going to her event?”
“Planning on it.”
“Do you even own a suit?” Wes made a face and chugged the last of his beer.
The waitress swooped in to remove the glass and leave another in its place, and when she raised an eyebrow at Miles, he nodded, his lemonade almost empty.
“I do, same as you.”
They’d done a calendar a few years back where the whole department had dressed in fancy suits instead of fire gear. It hadn’t sold nearly as many copies as usual, so they’d ditched the idea the following year, but the suit still lingered in the back of his closet.
“Even fits.”
“You already tried it on? You’ve got it bad.”
Miles didn’t deny the accusation. The moment she’d whispered to Nix, she loved him, he’d tumbled head-first over the cliff.
With those quiet words, he’d decided it didn’t matter what she did when they weren’t together.
The Jif he’d first met in the classroom, the one who’d been honest with him about her fear, her anger, her jealousy, and her insecurities, would always be enough.
He needed to get over himself and show her what he wanted.
Your feelings are valid. Your reactions aren’t always. He could choose to move forward, even if the thought terrified him.
“You told her yet?” Wes raised an eyebrow.
Miles shook his head. The tension of wanting their physical relationship to progress while simultaneously questioning how quickly he should move in their emotional relationship made gauging both difficult. “I don’t want to spook her.”
“She’s definitely not Tessa.”
“The type to kick a guy when he’s already down?” Miles scowled. “No, Jif isn’t like that at all.”
“C’mon, man. I didn’t mean to imply...”
“It doesn’t matter how much Tess wanted to settle down if it wasn’t with me.”
“Guess not.” Wes took another long sip of his beer. “Still...”
With the benefit of almost nine months apart, and the balm of Jif to soothe his wounds—at least the metaphorical ones—he could understand why Tessa had fled.
He could even forgive her, on the good days.
On the bad days, he still resented how quickly she’d realized “for worse” and “in sickness” weren’t vows she could make to him. The only silver lining had been he hadn’t proposed yet, so while he could chalk up their time together as a waste, at least he hadn’t bought a ring.
She’d made it easy for him to get over her, cutting off all contact the moment she walked out of his hospital room and his life, and he’d been far too busy recovering to worry about changing her mind.
By the time he’d had the energy to consider her absence, he simply tallied the loss alongside everything else, his grief subsumed by greater concerns: his mobility, his job, the months of recovery time.
Jif had completed the healing process with her kindness, gentle spirit, and quiet presence. He didn’t have to pretend to be anything for her, though he desperately wanted to.
He wanted to pretend he had a whole body to offer, hale and healthy. He wanted to pretend his leg didn’t constantly hurt. He wanted to pretend everything would be okay: his career, their relationship.
He couldn’t share any of these thoughts with Wes, though.
Well, he probably could, but would his friend understand? Most men weren’t quite as in touch with their emotions and comfortable sharing their introspective thoughts as him.
Instead of risking it, he tipped back the last of his lemonade.
“I’m happy with Jif.”
Not much brought him happiness since his accident, but she did. Now, he needed to find a way to make sure he didn’t lose her.
Wes leaned forward, clinking his bottle against Miles’s glass. “Cheers to that.”