Chapter 6
Cole
"Play it back," Martinez said. "I want to see the exact moment he forgets how to use his arms."
The crew had been at it for an hour. Davis had been the one to break it to me—twelve million views overnight.
I'd pulled it up on my phone to see for myself.
Martinez had grabbed the phone out of my hand inside thirty seconds.
The three of them hadn't put it down since.
I'd been pretending to inspect the engine the whole time.
The wrench in my hand wasn't doing anything.
I'd verified the engine twice. I was verifying it a third time because the alternative was looking up.
"I didn't forget how to use my arms."
"Brother, your hands are just hanging there. Like you've never held a woman in your life."
Laughter ricocheted off the bay walls. I didn't look up.
My hands were in the freeze-frame on the phone, the one Davis kept tapping back to, hanging at my sides. Davis wasn't wrong. I hadn't moved them because I hadn't known her yet—not in the second the kiss was happening, which twelve million people had now seen.
I worked the wrench on a bolt that didn't need it. My ears were hot. They had been hot for an hour.
Twelve million views.
That was the part working on me underneath the wrench. I hadn't known it was that big. I'd thought the video happened, and the internet would get bored of it the way the internet got bored of things. I'd been wrong.
I'd been wrong about the last week, too.
The woman at the gas station who'd asked me twice if I worked for the city.
The man at the hardware store who'd looked at me, looked away, and looked back.
The kid at the coffee shop yesterday who'd waved off my card.
No charge. I'd said thanks and walked out.
People did that for firefighters sometimes. I hadn't thought about it.
Now I was thinking about it.
"Cole's got a fan club," Martinez sang. He had a basketball spinning on his finger now, which was a whole thing, the basketball.
"She was scared," I said without looking up. "People do weird things when they're scared."
"Yeah, I get real romantic when I'm terrified." Davis clutched his chest. "Hold me, Martinez. I'm so scared."
"Get off me—"
The three of them dissolved into shoving and laughter.
I should have seen this coming. The news crews showed up to half of our working fires.
WBNC most of the time, sometimes the local affiliate, occasionally a stringer with a handheld and the look of a man hoping to catch something he could sell up the chain.
They had to have their story of the day.
A kid in a tree. A house off Westbrook. A man on a ledge.
Whatever it was, they came, they shot, they went home.
I'd worked enough fires with a camera in my peripheral that I'd stopped registering them.
The work pulled my eyes where the work needed them—the structure, the crew, the people we were getting out—and the cameras lived past the edge of all of that.
By the time I noticed one, usually I was rolling hose.
On the lawn that night, with Tessa's hand on my face, I hadn't thought about a camera. I hadn't thought about anything.
Then the bay went quiet.
The three of them were looking past me, toward the bay doors. Martinez had the basketball still in his hand, not spinning anymore. Davis was holding the phone at his side.
I turned my head to follow their eyes.
Tessa was crossing the asphalt toward me, her arms wrapped around herself against the cold, her shoulders pulled up around her ears.
"Oh—" Davis started.
"Don't."
"Lieutenant—"
"Martinez. Don't."
She came through the bay door and crossed the floor to where I was standing. By the time she stopped in front of me, her arms had dropped to her sides. Her face was paler than I remembered.
"I'm sorry to bother you," she said.
"You're not."
"Could I talk to you for a minute? Privately. If that's okay."
Her voice was quiet but steady. It caught a little on “minute.” She paused, started again.
I looked back over my shoulder. Martinez had the grin he'd been wearing for an hour frozen on his face. Davis hadn't blinked. Hutch was making a noise that was supposed to be coughing.
Sam came out of his office. He looked at me. Looked at the bay door. Looked at the table.
"Alright, knock it off. B-shift's coming in."
The crew broke apart, still laughing under their breath. I caught Sam's eye across the kitchen. He held the look for a second and went back into his office.
I walked her out.
We went down the side of the building, around the corner, where the lot ran along the edge of the property.
There was a planter against the wall—concrete, low, full of some kind of municipal shrub the city had put in years ago and never replaced.
A curb ran beside it. The morning sun was on the wall above us, not down on us yet.
I stopped. Turned.
She'd wrapped her arms around herself. Her fingers were tight on her sleeves.
"Is something wrong?"
She closed her eyes. Took a breath. Opened them and looked up at me.
"You know about the video?"
"Yeah?"
"It's gone viral with millions of views."
I nodded. She looked like she was working up to something, so I waited for her to finish.
"It's a problem for me." Her voice came out flat. "I can't afford the kind of attention it's bringing. Not on me. Not on my son."
"I understand."
I didn't, yet. I was being polite.
She swallowed.
"Noah and I—we're running. From his father. My ex-husband."
I kept my face where it was. The video had been the thing I'd thought we were here to talk about.
"We've been in Havensworth for seven months. He doesn't know where we are. The video—if he hasn't seen it, he'll see it soon. And if he sees it, if somebody who knew me sees it, and—"
She stopped. Pressed her lips together.
"It's only a matter of time."
Her thumb was working at her sleeve. I didn't think she knew.
I wanted to know what he'd done to her. I didn't ask. I'd been on enough scenes to know what asking cost the person on the other end of the question.
"He's a lawyer," she said. "I tried to fight him before. I hired someone, paid a retainer, and told him everything. Within a week, the case was buried so deep I couldn't find it. The lawyer stopped returning my calls. My ex had connections I didn't know about."
I went still.
I was watching her now. Watching her the way I watched a witness on a scene whose story I was trying to decide whether to take. The flat voice. The shake under it. The thumb. None of it was the work of a woman lying. But I'd been wrong about people before.
"I have a lawyer here now," she said. "She's good. The plan is to file for full custody. The defense is jurisdictional. South Carolina is Noah's home state by about a month. If we file fast, before my ex-husband can file in his state, we have a real case."
I nodded. "That's good, right?"
Her hand had moved without her noticing. She had it pressed flat against her sternum, between her collarbones and her ribs, like she was holding something down. Her breath went in and didn't come out for a beat too long.
"My lawyer also said—"
She stopped. The breath came out. She took another one. Shallow.
"My lawyer said the case would be stronger—that Noah would have a better chance of staying with me—if there were a stable male figure in his life."
Color came up in her cheeks. She was looking at what I assumed was her car across the lot.
"I'm not asking you to lie to anyone. I'm not asking for anything real. I'm asking if you'd be willing to let people think we're together. For the case. Just until it's done."
The ask landed in pieces. Pretending. Publicly. She was asking me to be the man people thought I was in a video I hadn't asked to be in.
She stopped. Pressed her hand harder.
"I'm sorry. I know what I'm asking."
She looked at me.
"You can say no. I came here knowing you might. I had to ask anyway. Noah is the only thing I have, and I have to try everything I can for him. Even this."
"Tessa, I—"
"Wait." Her voice had gone small. "Cole. There's—there's one more thing. I have to tell you—"
She stopped. Swallowed. Her hand came off her sternum and went up to her mouth. She looked like she was about to throw up.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She shook her head. Turned. Made it to the planter and threw up into it.
I was at her side without thinking about it. I gathered her hair back with one hand and put the other on her back. She was shaking.
"Easy. Easy. Get it out."
Whatever she had been holding through the last fifteen minutes, this was what holding it had cost.
She couldn't be lying to me. People didn't do this for a lie. She had a lawyer. She had a strategy. She had a son. There was nothing she stood to gain from lying. The story she was telling was a story that cost her to tell.
"I'm—" She tried to straighten up. Couldn't. "Cole, I have to—"
"Tessa."
"There's—"
"Tessa, I understand. You don't have to keep going."
She was still bent over the planter. I kept my hand on her back, slow, the way you'd settle a kid.
"Just let it out," I said. "Don't fight it. Get it all out."
She made a sound that was almost a laugh and was mostly not. Then threw up again.
After a minute, the worst of it passed. She straightened up, slowly, one hand braced on the edge of the planter. Her face was wet. Her eyes were red.
I let go of her hair, pulled the handkerchief out of my back pocket, and put it in her hand.
"Stay here. I'll be right back."
I went back through the bay door, into the kitchen, past Martinez, Davis, and Hutch—who all opened their mouths and shut them again when they saw my face—to the sink. Filled a glass with cold water. Walked it back out.
She was sitting on the curb when I came around the corner. My handkerchief was in her lap. She had her elbows on her knees.
I crouched in front of her and held out the glass.
"Drink. Slowly."
She took it. Sipped. Closed her eyes for a second. Sipped again.