Chapter 5 - Tasha
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to call them back.
"I just mean it's better than being stuck out here alone," I clarify quickly, feeling heat rise to my cheeks despite the chill of my wet clothes. "You know, with someone who knows what they're doing. Wilderness-wise."
Great recovery, Tasha. Super smooth.
Brock nods, his attention focused on the sheets of rain falling just beyond our shelter. "Still, not how I planned your first visit to the falls."
I try not to watch the water dripping from his dark hair or notice how his soaked shirt clings to his broad shoulders.
Instead, I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly conscious of how my own wet clothes must look.
The thin fabric of my t-shirt is probably revealing way more than I'm comfortable with, especially to a man who is literally my best friend's father.
A shiver runs through my entire body, betraying my attempt to seem unbothered by our situation.
Brock notices immediately. "You're freezing," he says, concern in his voice as he unzips his backpack and pulls out a compact silver emergency blanket. "Here, take off your wet jacket."
"I'm fine, really—"
"Tasha," he interrupts, his tone gentle but firm. "Hypothermia is a real risk, even in summer. Wet clothes will drop your core temperature quickly."
The authority in his voice leaves no room for argument. This is the fire chief speaking, the man who keeps his community safe. It's oddly comforting, even though being the focus of his attention makes me nervous.
I shrug out of my soaked jacket, immediately feeling the cool air against my damp arms. My t-shirt is wet too, clinging uncomfortably to my skin, but there's no way I'm removing that, no matter how practical it might be from a safety perspective.
Brock unfolds the emergency blanket—a thin, metallic sheet that crinkles loudly in the small space.
"It's not exactly luxury," he says with a slight smile, "but it's remarkably effective."
He moves behind me, draping the blanket around my shoulders. I feel the warmth of his presence at my back, so close that his breath stirs the damp hair at my neck.
"Thank you," I say, pulling the blanket tighter around myself.
Brock moves to the far end of the small bench, maintaining a respectful distance as he sits down.
"We should be able to wait out the worst of it here. The lightning's the main concern—once that passes, we can head back even if it's still raining."
I nod, sitting on the opposite end of the bench. The small shelter suddenly feels very intimate, the sound of rain creating a curtain of white noise that seems to separate us from the rest of the world.
"So," I say, searching for conversation to fill the space between us, "is rescuing hikers part of the usual fire chief routine, or am I getting special treatment?"
He chuckles, the sound warm even as he keeps his gaze fixed on the rainfall outside. "Let's just say I don't normally spend my mornings off getting caught in thunderstorms with my daughter's friends."
"Lucky me, then," I reply, aiming for light-hearted.
"Lucky you?" he repeats with raised eyebrows, finally glancing toward me but focusing somewhere over my shoulder. "You're soaking wet, trapped in a glorified shed during a thunderstorm, and probably missing whatever plans you had for the rest of the day."
"I had no plans," I admit. "That's kind of been the theme of this vacation. Lots of free time, minimal structure."
"That doesn't sound like the spreadsheet-making accounting graduate you yourself said you were."
"Noticed that, did you? Yeah, this trip was supposed to be about letting go of my control-freak tendency. Ellie insisted I needed to 'embrace spontaneity' and 'let the universe guide me.'"
"And how's that working out for you?"
"Well," I gesture to our current situation, "I'm certainly having unexpected experiences."
His smile is quick, his gaze darting to me briefly before returning to the rain. "The universe works in mysterious ways."
"Apparently it wanted me drenched and shivering in a shelter with Cedar Falls' most eligible fire chief."
"Is that what Ellie calls me?" he asks, his tone cheeky.
I feel my cheeks warm. "Not exactly. That was just me being... I don't know, trying to make a joke."
"Ah." He nods, looking back out at the rain. "Well, 'eligible' might be technically accurate, but 'most' is definitely an exaggeration in a town this small."
I fiddle with the edge of the emergency blanket, making it crinkle noisily. "So, um, what's the most ridiculous rescue your department has had to perform? Any good stories?"
"There are too many to count, honestly. People underestimate these mountains all the time."
"Give me your top three," I encourage, genuinely curious.
"Alright." He leans back slightly, still keeping a respectful distance. "Number three would be the bachelor party that decided midnight skinny-dipping in the lake during October was a good idea. We had to rescue six very cold, very naked gentlemen who couldn't find their clothes in the dark."
I laugh, the image too absurd not to. "Please tell me there are pictures."
"Strictly for the incident report, of course," he says with a hint of mischief that makes him look younger.
"Number two would be the wedding party that decided to take pre-ceremony photos at the falls during spring flooding.
Entire bridal party had to be extracted by rope system, bride still in her dress. "
"No!"
"Yep. To her credit, she was laughing the whole time. Said if they could survive that, marriage would be easy." He shakes his head with remembered amusement. "They send us a Christmas card every year."
"And number one?" I prompt, thoroughly entertained.
"That would be the time we had to rescue a very famous action movie star—whose name I cannot disclose due to the confidentiality agreement I had to sign—after he got stuck halfway up Cathedral Rock trying to impress his much younger girlfriend.
He insisted we refer to the incident as a 'technical equipment failure' rather than user error. "
"No way," I say, eyes wide. "Was it—" I start to guess a name.
Brock holds up his hand, expression serious though his eyes betray amusement. "I really can't say. But his movies often involve jumping from tall buildings."
"That narrows it down to about five possibilities," I say, mentally running through Hollywood's action stars.
"Your deductive reasoning skills are your own business," he replies with a small smile. "I just can't confirm or deny."
Another crack of thunder makes me jump, the emergency blanket crinkling loudly with my startled movement.
"Storms really scare you,” Brock says.
"They make me nervous," I admit. "When I was little, a lightning strike hit a tree near our apartment building in Chicago. Split it right down the middle and started a small fire. I've been jumpy about thunder ever since."
"That's understandable. Childhood experiences shape our fears." He reaches into his backpack again and pulls out a small, packaged snack bar. "Hungry? I always keep a few of these on hand."
My stomach answers with a well-timed growl, making me laugh self-consciously. "I guess that's a yes."
He tosses the bar across the space between us, and I catch it clumsily, the emergency blanket sliding off one shoulder in the process. I quickly readjust it, suddenly very aware of my damp shirt again.
"So," Brock says as I unwrap the snack bar, his eyes pointedly focused on the rain outside, "Ellie mentioned you worked as a bartender during college?"
"Yeah, a few nights a week at this place near campus," I confirm, grateful for the neutral topic. "It paid better than most student jobs, even if the hours were rough."
"Must have been challenging, balancing that with accounting classes."
I shrug, taking a bite of the snack bar—some kind of granola with dried fruit that tastes better than I expected. "It was worth it to graduate without loans. Well, with fewer loans, anyway."
He nods appreciatively. "That's impressive. Hard work."
"Nothing compared to raising a teenager alone while running a fire department," I counter.
His expression turns thoughtful. "Different kinds of challenges, and I had community support. From what Ellie's told me, you did it mostly on your own."
I'm surprised Ellie has shared that much about my background with her father.
"My mom died when I was fifteen," I explain, the words coming easier than they usually do. "Dad... didn't handle it well. He wasn't really present after that, even when he was physically there."
Brock nods, his expression understanding without being pitying.
"Ellie said you made sure she still had normal teenage experiences," I say, steering away from the more painful aspects of our shared histories. "That you learned to French braid her hair for prom because that's what she wanted."
He laughs, genuine amusement lighting his features. "God, I'd forgotten about that. I watched about twenty YouTube tutorials. My fingers were cramping by the end of it, but I was so damn proud when it actually looked decent."
"That's..." I pause, searching for the right word, "really sweet."
He looks slightly embarrassed. "It wasn't anything special. Just trying to be what she needed."
"Trust me, it was special." I think of my own father, who could barely be bothered to attend my high school graduation. "Not every dad would do that."
Brock seems about to respond when a flash of lightning illuminates the forest, followed almost immediately by a deafening crack of thunder. The storm really isn't moving away —it's right on top of us.
"Whoa," he says, leaning forward to peer out at the intensifying downpour. "That was close."
The realization that we're truly trapped until the storm passes settles over me.
I should be more concerned about the delay, about the hours I'm spending alone with my best friend's father in this tiny shelter.
Instead, I find myself oddly content. There's something comforting about Brock's steady presence, the way he still looks so calm, the way he sometimes looks at me. Or maybe I'm just dreaming.