21. Gwen #2
“Gwen,” Bash replies matter-of-factly, tipping his chin once in my direction. It’s a simple, no-nonsense, no-feelings, I-never-told-you-I-could-fuck-you-better-than-your-ex type of gesture.
Tripp gives me a smooth “Hey, Gwen, you look beautiful this morning.”
It takes monumental effort not to roll my eyes.
I can feel Bash’s energy without even looking at him. It’s a flashing red light. I finally brave looking over at him and can read him like a page out of my favorite book. He hates everything about this situation.
But he’ll never say anything.
Clyde, on the other hand, looks me straight in the eye and announces, “This one can’t stay in my bunker when the apocalypse hits.”
Tripp misses the sentiment entirely, laughing like Clyde is joking.
Leaned against the counter, Bash doesn’t laugh.
I take a moment to figure out my next move, how to act naturally. Keep it casual. I try to not to let my eyes linger on Bash for too long or give too much away.
But it’s hard.
Especially when he’s wearing something that looks like a uniform right now.
Navy-blue cargo pants hug his thighs in a way that I should not be openly admiring. Above a utilitarian black belt, strapped around his narrow waist, a matching navy T-shirt stretches across his broad chest. A crest printed with BC Fire Service sits over his heart.
At his feet, a duffel bag.
My heart lurches.
He’s leaving.
When I drag my vision back up to his level, I blurt, “Why are you dressed like that?” When I really mean You have no right looking so good wearing that or even Please don’t go.
“Fire,” he says gruffly. “Got the call early this morning. Heading out right away.”
My brows furrow. “Are you cleared to work?”
Bash just shrugs. “Close enough. I’ll be sitting in a plane, not doing anything on the ground. I’ve taken a few weeks off since the surgery and I flew with Tripp the other day, no problem, so I don’t need you being a mother hen about it.”
I bristle at that and clamp my molars together to keep from saying something I shouldn’t. Clearly, we’re back to the be-an-asshole-as-a-defense-mechanism strategy that he tried to employ the night before.
But I’m not in the mood to play that game. I don’t hide the venom in my tone either. “Fair. Not my monkeys, not my circus.” Then I turn to Clyde and point. “You are my monkey, and this is my circus, and I’m here to make you your scrambled eggs. Right?”
Clyde eyes me suspiciously as Tripp inserts himself into our conversation. “I may not be your monkey anymore, but I’d really like to be part of this circus too.”
He says it so affably, so smoothly. But I know that’s how he is. I know how calculated he can be. I know how fake he can be.
Clyde shoots Tripp a dirty look and crosses his arms, but he says nothing else.
Not even when Tripp adds, “Maybe I could take you to lunch later, Gwen? Or dinner? Before I leave tomorrow?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Bash go eerily still.
In fact, it feels like everyone in the kitchen goes still. Suddenly, the attention on me feels hot and heavy, like something I’d like to peel off and escape.
All three men wait with bated breath for what I might say. I blink once, then twice, weighing how best to respond to his public request.
There’s nothing like being asked out by your ex-boyfriend in front of his dad, who you were making out with not twelve hours earlier.
But before I can respond, Bash makes a move. He drops his cup into the sink with a loud rattle before pushing off the counter. Muscles bulge in his arms, flexing in time with the tendons in his neck.
He dusts his hands together like he’s removing some invisible dirt from them, definitely trying to appear more relaxed than he truly is.
“Well, on that note,” he announces, “I’m going to hit the road.
Get out of your hair. This grass fire in northern Alberta is moving quickly.
Time is of the essence and all that.” He smiles tightly, avoiding meeting my eyes, before grabbing his bag and striding out.
I watch him leave the kitchen, heart limping along until it falls with a heavy lurch at my feet.
A part of me wants to rush after him, assure him that nothing’s happening here, that nothing will happen here, but he’s off and moving before I can get a word in edgewise.
He doesn’t even look back at me, taking my breath with him as he goes.
“I’ll see you out,” Tripp says, jumping into motion and walking his dad toward the front door of his own house.
I hear them exchange gruff goodbyes along with the back slaps that come with those manly, one-armed hugs. It makes me wonder if that’s the first hug they’ve ever really exchanged.
Before I hear the front door even click closed behind Bash, Tripp calls back to the kitchen, “So what do you say, Gwen? How about that lunch?”
God, I wish he’d knock that off.
I hurry toward the front foyer, not wanting Bash to leave with the impression that I’d go out with Tripp again after everything that’s happened between us. As I round the corner, I say, “You know, I actually…” But the door slams.
Hard.
Hard enough that Tripp turns and furrows his brows toward where Bash just stood, as though he can’t figure out what that was all about.
All I can think is that Bash has left. We never got a chance to talk. I don’t even know how long he’ll be gone for. Suddenly, him leaving to fly a plane into a fire feels monumentally dangerous.
Suddenly, I miss him.
Suddenly, I regret accepting that job offer.
And even though he’s not here to hear it, I look Tripp in the eye and tell him bluntly, “I think it’s better if we don’t.”