Chapter 8
Gemma
My hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel of my Honda Civic as I pull out of the school parking lot.
The Girlfriend Question plays on loop in my head. Ivy's voice, sweet and curious, asking me at the fossil dig between the brachiosaurus and the triceratops if I'm her daddy's girlfriend. The way I froze. The way I said absolutely nothing and just helped her find a T-Rex tooth instead.
I don't even remember saying goodbye. Just walking to my car, covered in glitter and mortification, and driving away.
Now I'm driving aimlessly. The turn for home comes up on my right.
I drive right past it.
What would I even say to Beck? How do I face him after his daughter asked me that question and I just..
. stood there? He's probably loading Ivy into his truck right now, listening to her tell him all about asking me if I'm his girlfriend, and the last thing he needs is his awkward tenant showing up and making everything weird.
Weirder. Making everything weirder.
The road climbs into the mountains. Copper Ridge spreads out below me, all distant lights and tree-covered slopes. The Overlook parking lot is empty when I arrive---just me and the view and way too many thoughts.
I kill the engine. The sudden silence is complete up here --- no traffic, no voices, nothing but the tick of the cooling engine and the faint sound of wind moving through the pines.
Cold seeps through the car door against my arm.
Through the windshield, the mountains rise on either side with their peaks still holding winter snow, and at the bottom of the valley, a lake catches the fading light, all silver and glass.
This is the kind of place that makes you believe in things like permanence and staying put.
My phone sits in the cup holder. I should go home. But going home means facing Beck. And probably Clarence, who shows up at my door every morning and evening like he's punching a time clock. I haven't bought cat supplies yet because that would mean admitting he's mine. That I'm staying.
I can't stay. I never stay.
Instead, I pull up the station schedule on my phone and text dispatch.
Me: Any chance someone needs an extra hand on evening shift?
Three dots appear immediately.
Dispatch: Always. Thompson called in. You okay?
Me: Totally fine. Just want to stay busy.
Dispatch: Uh-huh. Be here in twenty?
Me: On my way.
I start the car and head back down the mountain.
The shift runs long. Two calls, then a third, then a fourth that shouldn't take as long as it does but I keep asking the patient follow-up questions that are technically thorough and absolutely have nothing to do with the fact that I am not thinking about Beck Delano.
Between runs I clean the rig. Then clean it again.
I scrub the same section of floor twice.
My partner watches me attack a perfectly clean cabinet with a disinfectant wipe and says nothing, which is either professional courtesy or deeply deserved judgment. Possibly both.
By the time it's over, exhaustion has settled into my bones in ways that have nothing to do with physical work.
My phone buzzes as I'm stowing my gear in my locker.
Riley: Heard you survived Dinosaur Day. Coffee this morning? There's someone I want you to meet.
Riley Pritchard. Aiden's girlfriend. The arson investigator who somehow sees through everyone's bullshit with terrifying accuracy. We've had coffee exactly twice since I moved here, and both times she made me feel like I was being gently interrogated.
But she's nice. And I need coffee. And going straight home means potentially running into Beck.
Me: Peak Grounds in an hour?
Riley: Perfect. Fair warning: my friend doesn't do small talk. You'll either love her or find her terrifying.
Me: Can't wait!!!
Three exclamation points. The international signal of someone who's definitely fine and not at all spiraling.
Peak Grounds smells like roasted coffee beans and something warm and slightly buttery when I walk in --- someone in the back is baking. The espresso machine hisses behind the counter. The room is warm after the cold outside, and I feel my shoulders drop half an inch without deciding to.
Micah's behind the counter, doing that thing where he somehow makes espresso preparation look like performance art.
He's not the only one there.
Beck stands at the counter waiting for his order, still in his jacket, a to-go cup in hand. He spots me half a second after I spot him, and my stomach does something I immediately file under not thinking about that.
We do the thing --- the single, loaded nod of two people who have wordlessly agreed not to discuss whatever happened yesterday, involving his daughter and the word girlfriend.
His jaw does its usual thing, tight and controlled.
I give him a small wave. He gives me the same back, and that's the agreement: zero casualties, zero conversation.
He shifts his weight slightly, half-turning back toward the counter. I head for Riley's table and do not look back.
The woman with Riley has the kind of quiet confidence that doesn't need to announce itself.
Dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders.
She's dressed in jeans and a simple gray sweater that somehow looks more put-together than my entire wardrobe, and she's compact in the way of someone who is economical about everything --- the way she sits, the way she holds her mug.
She looks up when I approach, dark eyes assessing me with the same focused attention I've seen in good paramedics.
"Gemma!" Riley waves me over. "This is Hanna. Hanna, Gemma."
Hanna stands and extends her hand. Her grip is firm, professional. "Riley's told me about you. You're the one who charmed Captain Delano's daughter with dinosaur facts."
My smile activates automatically. Full wattage. Sunshine deployed. "Ivy's amazing. And dinosaurs are objectively fascinating. Did you know that birds are technically dinosaurs? Like, chickens are tiny T-Rexes."
Hanna's eyes narrow slightly. She doesn't respond to the sunshine. Just studies me like I'm a puzzle she's solving.
"Hanna's thinking about moving to Copper Ridge," Riley says. "She's a medic — looking at the station." She either doesn't notice Hanna studying me like a lab specimen, or she's pretending not to. I can't tell which.
"That's great!" Too enthusiastic. Dial it back. "I mean, the station's really welcoming. Everyone's been so nice since I transferred."
"You transferred from Denver," Hanna says. It's not a question.
"About six months ago," I say. "Needed a change of pace. Slower calls. Mountains. Fresh air. All that good stuff."
Hanna takes a sip of her black coffee. "Riley says you're renting from Captain Delano."
"The in-law suite," I tell her. "Separate entrance, great location, my landlord only glares at me approximately sixty percent of the time. Real win."
Riley snorts into her latte. Hanna doesn't smile. Just keeps watching me with those assessing eyes.
Micah appears at our table with a mug. "Your usual," he says, sliding it to me. "With an extra shot. You look like you need it."
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic. "That obvious?" I ask.
"Oat milk latte, two shots, honey instead of sugar, cinnamon on top. You've ordered it twelve times. I pay attention." He says it matter-of-factly, like everyone memorizes their customers' coffee preferences.
"Small towns," Riley says, grinning. "No privacy, but the coffee's good."
Micah returns to the counter. Hanna's still watching me.
"So," I say brightly, "what brought you to Copper Ridge? Riley, I mean. Not Hanna. Although Hanna, what brought you here? To visit? Or to check out the station? Both are great reasons. Copper Ridge is very check-out-able."
Hanna sets down her coffee. "You do that a lot?" she asks.
"Do what?" I say.
"Talk at people instead of talking to them," Hanna says. "Fill every silence with words so nobody has room to ask questions."
The smile stays fixed on my face through sheer muscle memory. "I'm just friendly," I tell her. "Paramedics are supposed to be friendly. Bedside manner and all that."
"You're faking it," Hanna says calmly. She takes another sip of coffee. "It's impressive, but I can see the seams."
My breath goes shallow. The smile wavers.
Riley's watching me with gentle eyes. Not pitying. Just understanding.
"Hanna's direct," Riley says. "It's one of her more charming qualities."
"I don't have time for bullshit," Hanna says, not unkindly. "Life's too short."
There's a story in that sentence. I don't ask about it. Something in the way she said it makes me think she's been on the receiving end of too many people who did.
"Fair enough," I say, and let the sunshine drop a few degrees. "I'm Gemma. I moved here to stop burning out. I'm currently avoiding my landlord because his six-year-old asked me if I'm his girlfriend and I panicked and helped her find a T-Rex tooth instead of answering."
Hanna considers this. "Did she find a good one?" she asks.
"Really excellent premolar region," I say.
Something shifts in Hanna's expression --- not a smile exactly, but the suggestion of one. "Then you handled it correctly."
Riley is grinning into her latte hard enough to strain something.
We stay for another hour. By the time I'm zipping up my jacket to leave, Hanna and I have established a provisional détente based on mutual appreciation for direct communication and an unwillingness to pretend things are fine when they aren't. It's the least sunshine-adjacent friendship I've ever started. I think I like her.
Beck's still at a corner table when I pass on my way out, phone in one hand, to-go cup in the other, the particular tension in his shoulders that means he's doing something work-related on his day off.
He sets the phone face-down on the table when he hears me coming --- a small, deliberate thing --- and looks up.
"See you around, Lockhart," he says. "It's your turn to buy the cat food."
"Clarence freeloads off both of us," I point out. "He's a democratic opportunist."
That almost-smile crosses his jaw. It's barely there, gone before it fully arrives, but my hand tightens on my jacket zipper without permission.
I push out through the door before I can do anything embarrassing, like stand there cataloging the exact shape of an expression that's probably just a muscle twitch.
It is definitely a muscle twitch.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of errands, including buying cat supplies. By the time I pull into the driveway, exhaustion has caught up with me.
It's past eleven. The house is dark except for the porch light Beck leaves on. I grab my bag and head for my door, keys already out.
And stop.
There's a mug on the ledge outside my door. Steam rises from it in the cold night air --- coffee, fresh enough that it's still warm. No note. No explanation. Just a mug of coffee that smells like the exact blend Beck drinks every morning.
Clarence sits beside it, tail wrapped around his rear paws, looking unbearably smug. He must see the cat supplies in my bag because his ears prick forward with the satisfaction of a cat who knew exactly how this was going to go.
My throat tightens. I pick up the mug and wrap both hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my palms. The house is dark behind Beck's windows. Beck must have heard my car pull up. Left this here without a word.
No explanation needed. No words to cover the awkwardness. Just: I heard you come home. Here.
I stand in the doorway holding the mug, Clarence purring at my feet, and make myself the same deal I always do --- six weeks, no getting attached, an exit strategy ready when I need it.
The problem is, I already bought the cat food.
And Beck already knows how I take my coffee.
And six weeks is starting to feel like a very naive number.