24. The Green-Eyed Monster
Chapter twenty-four
The Green-Eyed Monster
Mandy
“You look like you’re trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem,” Jake says, appearing at my elbow with a tray of sliders.
He’s wearing a t-shirt that says I Fight What You Fear, which I’m ninety percent sure he bought ironically.
“Relax, Mandy. The parents are occupied with the Captain, and Sterling is busy being the face of the department. You’re off the clock for at least five minutes. ”
I take a sip of the beer, which tastes like cardboard and aluminum. “I’m not on a clock, Jake. I’m just... observing.”
“Observing,” he repeats, his grin widening in that slow, satisfied way that usually precedes a headache for me. “Is that what you call staring at the back of Sterling’s head like you’re trying to set his hair on fire with your mind?”
I shift my weight, the Disco Sparkle Earrings Kayla gave me catching the harsh fluorescent light and sending jagged shards of reflection across the red paint of the engine.
My ears are already starting to ache from the weight of them.
“He’s talking to the mayor’s assistant. It’s important for the fundraiser.
I’m being a supportive... whatever I am. ”
“You’re his girlfriend, Mandy,” Jake says, his voice dropping an octave, losing the teasing edge for a fleeting second. “That’s what everyone in this room thinks. Including, I suspect, the guy who can’t stop looking over his shoulder to make sure you haven’t bolted for the exit.”
I look over. Sterling is ten feet away, trapped between a local city councilman and a woman in a very expensive-looking pantsuit.
He’s in his dress blues, the crisp navy fabric making his shoulders look impossibly broad, the silver buttons gleaming like armor.
He looks like a hero. Not the kind I see in my sketches, but the kind that appears on recruitment posters.
Then his eyes find mine, and the professional mask slips just enough for a wink that feels like a secret tucked into my palm.
My stomach does a slow, complicated flip that has nothing to do with the sliders that I haven’t eaten.
“See?” Jake nudges me. “Saint Sterling has it handled. Go eat a hot dog. You’re shaking.”
I wander toward the long folding tables covered in checkered cloths, trying to ignore the way my heart is currently staging a protest against my ribs.
Three nights ago, I was on the kitchen floor with him.
Three nights ago, the performance ended, and something terrifyingly real took its place.
We haven’t talked about it. Not really. We’ve just been... careful.
“Mandy, right?” A woman with a toddler balanced on her hip stops me near the condiment station. She’s wearing a 99 Supporters t-shirt and looks like she hasn’t slept since 2018. “I’m Sarah. My husband, Mike, works the C-shift with Sterling.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, offering a smile that feels slightly tight around the edges. This is the fourth time in an hour I’ve been vetted by the firehouse family. It feels like an audit, a slow-motion scan to see if I’m sturdy enough to handle the 24/48 rhythm.
“We were so happy to hear Sterling finally settled down,” Sarah says, bouncing the toddler. “He’s been a bit of a ghost since things ended with Priya. It’s good to see him actually present again. You must be something special to pull him out of that funk.”
The name hits me like a cold draft. Priya.
I am instantly reminded of the night of the black out where he told me she had loved the hero and not the reality and then changed the subject with the smoothness of a man who has done it before.
He made her sound like a footnote. A thing that happened once and resolved.
But I knew better and so sis everyone here.
Nobody at this party is describing a footnote.
A bit of a ghost since things ended. Finally settled down.
Present again. Those are not the words you use about somebody who was a phase.
I take another sip of the flat beer, my throat suddenly dry, doing the math on how much of that midnight confession was the truth and how much of it was the version he had rehearsed.
“Priya?” I ask, trying to sound like I’m just making casual conversation instead of digging for landmines. “I didn't know they were... serious.” I lie.
“Oh, very,” Sarah says, oblivious to the way the air has just left my lungs.
“Last year. They were the golden couple of the station for a minute. She’s a doctor, ER over at Northwestern.
She understood the hours, or at least we thought she did.
It was a whole thing when they broke up.
Sterling went into ‘Rescue Mode’ for six months, just working himself into the dirt. ”
I look back at Sterling. He’s laughing now, a genuine, throat-deep sound that usually makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.
But Sarah’s words are looping in my head.
Rescue Mode. The phrase feels like an accusation.
Is that what I am? Just another project?
A fire to be put out, a tenant to be sheltered, a girl to be saved because he doesn’t know how to exist without a crisis to manage?
“Speak of the devil,” Sarah murmurs, her gaze shifting toward the main bay doors. “I didn’t think she’d actually show up tonight. That’s bold.”
I follow her gaze, and the world goes very, very quiet despite the blaring classic rock.
A woman is walking through the door, and she doesn't look like she belongs in a garage smelling of charcoal. She’s sharp.
Elegant. She’s wearing a silk wrap dress the color of expensive wine and heels that click against the concrete with a clinical, rhythmic precision.
Her dark hair is pulled back into a knot so tight it looks painful, and she moves through the crowd not like a guest, but like someone returning to a familiar haunt.
Dr. Priya Anand doesn't scan the room. She doesn't have to.
She knows exactly where the center of gravity is.
She heads straight for Sterling, and I watch, paralyzed, as the crowd seemingly parts for her.
I am a graphic designer with cat eye glasses, in a plain black cocktail dress and glittery earrings I bought on sale. She is a precision in human form.
I watch her reach him. She doesn't hesitate. Her hand goes directly to his forearm, her fingers splaying over the dark navy wool of his dress blues. It’s a touch of ownership, and the beer in my stomach turns to lead.
She says something I can't hear, and Sterling stiffens for a split second before his shoulders drop, his posture shifting into something I recognize. It’s the polite, slightly distant warmth he uses when he’s trying to be a good man to someone who no longer has a right to his heart.
But Priya is leaning in. Her laugh is pitched just for him, a low, melodic sound that cuts through the noise of the fundraiser.
She touches where the scar on his left forearm, the one he told me he got in the Army, the one I traced with my tongue three nights ago.
She touches it with a familiarity that suggests she knows the story better than I do.
She knows the man beneath the uniform, the one who existed before the gas leak, before the loft, before me.
I feel a hot, visceral spike of something that feels like a physical blow to the sternum.
It’s not the abstract anxiety of the fake relationship.
It’s not the fear of my parents’ judgment.
It’s a raw, jagged jealousy that tastes like copper.
She’s looking at him like he’s a puzzle she’s already solved, and for the first time since I moved into the loft, the word fake feels like a death sentence.
“You okay, Mandy?” Sarah asks, her voice sounding far away. “You’ve gone a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my hand is shaking so hard I have to set the red cup down on the table. “I just... I need to be with my boyfriend.”
I don't think. I don't strategize. I move.
I cross the engine bay with a purpose I haven't felt in weeks, ignoring the way my heart is trying to kick its way out of my chest. Every step feels like I’m reclaiming territory I haven't officially earned the right to own.
I reach them just as Priya is saying something about “the old days,” her hand still resting on his arm like a permanent fixture.
“There you are,” I say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. I don't wait for an opening. I slot myself into Sterling’s side, sliding my arm around his waist and pressing my shoulder against his chest. I can feel the heat of him through the heavy fabric.
Sterling looks down at me, and for a heartbeat, there’s a flicker of pure, unadulterated surprise in his eyes.
It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a warmth so intense it makes my toes curl in my boots.
His arm comes around me immediately, his hand large and heavy on my hip, pulling me flush against him. It’s not a performance. It’s a reflex.
“Mandy,” he says, his voice dropping into that low, private register. “I was wondering where you’d gone to.”
I look at Priya. Up close, she’s even more intimidating.
Her eyes are a striking, intelligent green, and they do a quick, clinical pass over me, from my auburn bun to my trendy glasses to the way I’m currently clinging to Sterling like a life raft.
She doesn't look angry. She looks curious. Like she’s evaluating a new piece of equipment.
“Priya, this is Mandy,” Sterling says, his grip on my hip tightening just a fraction. “Mandy, this is Dr. Anand. An old friend.”
Old friend. The term is a lie, and we all know it. The air between them is thick with the ghosts of things unsaid, of a history that has nothing to do with me.