1. Chapter 1
Talmage
I try not to let my eyes trail over to the girl a couple rows over, but I can’t help it. She’s just so…
Pretty.
I’ve never seen someone as pretty as her. Her auburn hair is twisted in two braids, and her long eyelashes are coated in mascara, making them look kind of like spider legs—in a good way.
But I don’t think she even knows I exist. Sure, we were in the musical together last year, but we didn’t talk.
The cast was so big, we never really had a chance to do more than exist in the same area.
Hopefully, we’ll be in the musical together again this year, and I can get to know her.
Until then, I’ll sneak glances of her in math class.
A nudge on my arm brings my focus back to the teacher explaining the equations we’ll be working on, and my face turns red as I look at Jacob next to me.
“Why are you so distracted?” he asks, looking behind me to find what I was looking at. When he sees her, he gives me a knowing grin. “Just talk to her, Talmage.”
“No. We can’t date until we’re sixteen anyway, so there’s no point.”
“You can be friends with her, though.”
The teacher clears her throat, giving us a look that tells us to stop talking.
When she’s done with her lesson, she tells us to work quietly in groups.
I steal another glance at the girl I’m pretty sure I have my first crush on, and her brows are furrowed, her nose scrunched in an adorably confused way, reminding me of how a bunny wiggles its nose.
I wonder if she’s struggling with what we’re learning. I look at my already complete worksheet and wonder if I should ask her if she needs help, but the bell rings before I can make a decision.
The next time we’re in class, the teacher tells us we have new assigned seats.
And she’s sitting right next to me.
I try to keep my leg from shaking, but it’s the only thing stopping me from standing up and shouting at someone—something very off-brand for me. I can’t even pull out my phone and try to distract myself with something else because it would raise too many questions.
So instead, I smile when I need to. Nod when necessary. I scribble notes in my notebook that should be about what’s being discussed, but it’s actually just my grocery list and random doodles .
In my ward, I’ve been assigned as the ward mission leader.
My duty is to coordinate meals for the missionaries and make sure they’re following all of the church’s arbitrary rules.
Like if two missionaries want to go teach an unwed woman, another male member has to go with them.
The rule doesn't make any sense because why would they not trust two men with a woman, but they’ll trust three ?
Most things don’t make sense to me anymore, now that I don’t have tunnel vision.
I hate my calling now.
Which is crazy; less than a year ago, I never would have said those words. I would have taken the title with honor and served happily without complaint. I would have come to this stupid ward council meeting and taken notes and enthusiastically offered my help and my perspective.
Now? I see these meetings for what they are: an opportunity to gossip and talk crap about members of the ward who are “struggling.”
Little do they know, I’m one of the people “struggling.”
When I moved back to Utah two years ago after spending some time in California, I couldn’t help but feel like something was… off. I went to my ward in California when I could, but I didn’t feel as much… pressure to go as I did when I was living in Utah.
I never realized how much the church was shoved down my throat until I came back to Utah and could see seven different temples in a thirty-minute drive and church buildings littering every street. Where there’s a billboard bragging about the number of scripture copies sold each month.
When Grandpa Monson passed away four months ago, my cousins—Elli, Emma, Izzy, and Hannah—bluntly told me their personal issues with the church the night before the funeral.
They had all left the church, and they seemed happier than ever.
I wanted to know how they did it, if they were actually happy or if it was an act.
Emma’s story about her rapist made me sick to my stomach. I have two younger sisters, and if they were treated the way Emma had been after such a horrible thing… I don’t think I’d be seen as such a nice guy anymore.
I knew there were flaws in the church, obviously, but I don’t think I wanted to believe what I knew deep down.
The church is a whole lot of bad wrapped in a whole bunch of money, pretending to be good.
I’ve asked myself over and over again why I don’t just… leave . The only answer I seem to come up with is the church is familiar. It’s what I know— all I know. For twenty-eight years, I’ve been neck deep in this organization. I haven’t been given a chance to choose what I believe.
But the overwhelming question keeping me here is: what if I leave and I’m no longer happy?
But it also begs the question: am I truly happy now?
The short answer is yes. I’m happy.
The long answer is I feel like I’m moving through life on auto-pilot and something is… missing. I don’t want to say it’s a relationship, but sometimes it feels like my he art isn’t complete without the romance love stories and poems are written about.
I could be married or in a relationship right now, but nothing ever seems to last.
Other relationships haven’t worked out for various reasons, but the biggest common denominator is me .
I want that once-in-a-lifetime love. The kind that feels like your soul is intertwined completely with hers.
I want a love to consume me and the woman I’m with.
To feel like my heart is being pulled out of my chest if I’m away from her for too long.
I want a fairytale ending. My happily-ever-after.
But I’m twenty-eight, and so far, I haven’t had much luck with finding someone who makes my blood sing or my heart race.
I haven’t found the woman who makes me look forward to getting off of a shift instead of wishing I could work longer hours so I can socialize with actual humans instead of only having Siren to talk to.
I remember the excitement of my first crush as a teenager, and I remember the rush of knowing my crush liked me back. I remember the immediate smile that came to my face when I saw her. The way I’d find any reason to be close to her.
I guess maybe it’s different as a teenager, but I want something like that. Something simple and sweet.
Something real.
Something like what I had with…
No. Best not to think about her. Besides, we were teenagers. Logically, how real could our feelings have been?
She’s probably married to someone completely devoted to her. They probably have a hoard of emerald- eyed kids to do family movie nights with and go to the farmer’s market on Saturdays before spending Sundays together playing board games.
And she deserves that. She deserves a happily-ever-after.
Even if sometimes I regret I wasn’t the one to give it to her.
The alarm blares through the station, and my blood immediately starts pumping.
Here we go.
I’ve been back with the Springville Fire Department for almost two years, and even though it’s slower here than in California, I like it more.
I worked one season with a hotshot crew—the firefighters who specialize in fighting wildfires—a few years ago and ultimately decided it wasn’t my jam.
Those guys are a different breed, and I’m just not cut out to be gone for weeks at a time at the drop of a hat.
I like the rush of adrenaline from house fires or smaller wildfires I can help with.
The danger of being a hotshot doesn’t appeal to me.
Springville, Utah is small in comparison to the neighboring college cities of Orem and Provo, but it doesn’t mean it’s any less wild.
Being near the mountains and close to Utah Lake, we have our fair share of accidents and house fires.
It’s December, so a good portion of our calls are due to the slick roads from the snow or the rain .
I swear, everyone in Utah forgets how to drive as soon as the first flake falls. Even if they’ve lived here their whole life.
According to dispatch, there’s a three-car pileup on Main Street, but nothing fatal. Our job for smaller accidents like this is to create a safe work area, clean up any debris or liquid from the vehicles, and stabilize them if needed. It should hopefully be a quick and easy run.
When we get to the scene, there’s a maroon minivan with a crunched front end, a small, blue sedan with a clipped rear, and a black SUV with damage to both ends blocking the traffic trying to come down Main Street.
It doesn’t look like anyone is severely injured, but the EMTs are checking out the people involved while we help the police officers direct traffic and move the cars to the side of the road.
Once traffic is moving slowly but steadily past the scene of the accident, I walk over to the ambulance to see if I can help in any way.
There are a few officers taking statements from people.
A flash of red catches my eye, and I turn.
Something about the shade of the auburn hair falling past her shoulders feels familiar.
She isn’t wearing a coat, even though it’s thirty degrees and lightly snowing.
My eyes trail her curvy body, taking in the way she fits her jeans, and I have to look away before I stare at the curve of her hips too long.
It would be inappropriate. I don’t ogle women. Especially at the scene of an accident.
I shake my head lightly to put myself back into professional territory before I approach her.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say as I tap her on the shoulder. “I was wondering if…” Anything else I was going to say di es on my tongue as she turns around and looks up at me with her piercing green eyes.
Green eyes that remind me of emeralds. Or the scales of a dragon. Or grass after it’s rained, shiny and vibrant.
Eyes filled with tears because of me more than once in high school.
Eyes that look sad and distraught right now.
“Mack?”