Chapter 7 #2
“Hostile to facial hair. Casual about suffering. Surprisingly organised in places. Less organised in others, but I’m not allowed to mention that because I’m growing as a person.”
Chloe laughs. “And Pippa?”
I look towards the window without meaning to.
Through the glass, I catch a glimpse of Pippa inside, jacket off, sleeves pushed up, dark hair messier than when she arrived. She is talking to Mish while opening a packet of something, completely at ease in the middle of the noise and movement.
Not soft, exactly.
Just where she belongs.
My stomach does something unhelpful.
“That bad?” Ava asks.
“What?”
“You went quiet.”
“I’m conserving energy.”
Chloe’s face changes. “She’s terrifying, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
Ava smiles. “Is she actually terrifying or is she competent and you have a guilty conscience?”
“Both can be true.”
“Fair,” Chloe says.
I point at the screen. “Don’t say fair. I’m banning that word from my life.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
Ava laughs. “What did they make you do?”
“Run. Carry things. Drag things. Wear things. Breathe incorrectly. Experience the full collapse of masculine certainty.”
“That sounds… healthy,” Chloe laughs.
“I think Pippa is trying to kill me.”
Ava says, “I’m sure she isn’t.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I don’t need to be. Women like Pippa don’t try to kill men during training.”
Chloe nods. “Too much paperwork.”
“Exactly,” Ava says.
I let my head fall back against the wall. “She enjoyed it.”
“She probably enjoyed you being dramatic,” Chloe says.
“I am not being dramatic. I have met death in a helmet.”
“That is dramatic.”
“It was a very heavy helmet.”
A shadow shifts near me.
I turn my head.
Pippa is standing just inside the garage doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame, arms folded. Not hiding. Not exactly watching secretly. Just close enough that I know she has heard the last part and probably more before it.
My soul, which has only recently returned to my body, considers leaving again.
On the phone, Chloe says, “AJ?”
I look back at the screen. “I have to go.”
Ava’s smile becomes wicked. “Is she there?”
“No.”
Pippa lifts one eyebrow.
“Yes,” I say. “Goodbye.”
Chloe says, “Tell her we said thank you for the beard.”
I end the call before anyone can make my situation worse.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Then Pippa pushes away from the doorway and walks over.
“I’m not trying to kill you.”
I put the phone face down on my thigh. “You heard that.”
“I heard enough.”
“In my defence, I was speaking from a place of physical decline.”
“You’re tired, not dying.”
“That feels like a matter of perspective.”
“It isn’t.”
She stops in front of me, blocking a slice of sun. I should probably get up, but my legs are still negotiating their return to public service.
Pippa looks towards the yard, then back at me. “Everything you did this morning was basic. Controlled. Short. Supervised. The sort of thing trainee firefighters do again and again until their bodies know what to do before their pride gets involved.”
I sit a little straighter.
Her voice is not harsh. That somehow makes it land more.
“And on a call,” she continues, “people are doing harder versions of that while they’re under pressure, while something’s changing, while someone might be hurt, while heat, noise and smoke are taking more from them every second.
The kit isn’t the job. It’s what they wear so they can even begin the job. ”
I look down at my hands. There is a faint mark across one palm where the hose rubbed through the glove.
A tiny thing.
Ridiculous, really.
It does not feel ridiculous.
“I know,” I say, then stop, because I don’t. Not properly. That is the point.
Pippa waits.
I try again.
“I didn’t know,” I say. “Not like that.”
Her expression shifts. Barely, but enough.
“I’m sorry,” I add. “For making it sound like a joke.”
“You can joke,” she says. “Everyone here jokes. You’d have noticed.”
“A little.”
“But the joke can’t be the only thing you take away.”
“No,” I say. “It won’t be.”
She studies me for a moment. I let her, even though I am sitting on the ground with a naked face, damp hair and the dignity of a wet paper bag.
Then she holds out her hand.
I look at it.
“Come on,” she says.
“I should warn you, I may require mechanical assistance.”
“Hand, AJ.”
I take it.
Her grip is firm and warm, and she pulls as I push myself up. My legs object, but they do it privately, which is considerate of them.
For half a second, when I’m upright, we are closer than expected.
Not touching now.
Close enough.
Her eyes meet mine, and I have the very stupid thought that clean-shaven skin may be even worse than the beard because there is nowhere for my face to hide.
Then Pippa’s mouth curves.
Small.
Quick.
Dangerous.
“That doesn’t mean,” she says, “I didn’t enjoy watching you suffer a bit.”
I stare at her.
She winks.
Philippa Hart actually winks.
Then she turns towards the garage before I can form a single useful word.
“Lunch is ready.”
I stand there for a moment, phone in one hand, helmet at my feet, pulse doing something that has nothing to do with training.
Then Dan calls from inside, “Babyface, you coming or what?”
I pick up my helmet.
“Yes,” I say, and follow her in.