Chapter 9
Beck
The coffee thing has gotten out of hand.
I know her shift schedule. Know exactly when she gets home. I time the brewing so the pot finishes right before her Honda pulls into the driveway---pour two cups, leave one at her door, retreat to my house before she makes it from her car to her entrance.
She finds it still warm. Every time.
I'm unreasonably proud of this timing. I've calibrated it down to the minute---early rotation, swing shift, overnight. I know every variation. I know the sound of her car engine, can distinguish it from the neighbor's Toyota three houses down.
This is not normal landlord behavior.
I don't examine this behavior. Examining it means admitting things I'm not ready to admit.
What I can't explain is Clarence.
The cat started appearing at my door three mornings ago. Just sitting there when I step out to grab the newspaper, orange fur gleaming in the early light, eyes fixed on me with absolute judgment.
This morning is no different.
I open the door to grab the newspaper and find Clarence sitting on my welcome mat like he owns it.
"What?" I ask.
The cat blinks. Slowly. His tail twitches at the tip.
"I'm not doing anything weird," I tell him.
Clarence's tail swishes once, sweeping across the concrete.
"She needs coffee. I make coffee. It's efficient."
The cat stands, arches his back in a long stretch that somehow manages to look condescending, and walks past me into my house.
I follow him inside and make a sweeping gesture toward the kitchen. "Come on in. Make yourself at home."
Clarence jumps onto my kitchen counter and settles into a loaf position. Those eyes don't miss a thing.
I pour my coffee. Pour Gemma's coffee into the blue mug with the chipped handle. Clarence's stare burns into the back of my skull.
"It's not a big deal," I say. "We're neighbors. Neighbors do neighborly things."
The cat stares at me.
"I'm being friendly. Civic-minded." I keep defending my actions to him.
Clarence yawns, showing all his teeth and a pink tongue.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I inform him. "You're a cat. You lick your own ass for entertainment."
He ignores this. Starts grooming one paw with deliberate, insulting slowness.
I grab Gemma's mug and head for the door. Clarence follows, padding silently behind me.
I set the mug on the ledge outside her door and retreat to my house. Through the kitchen window, I watch the driveway. Right on schedule, her Honda pulls in.
Clarence sits on my porch step, watching her park. Watching me watch her.
I turn away from the window before she can catch me staring.
A minute later, I hear her soft laugh through the wall. The sound of ceramic lifting from the ledge.
I drink my coffee and refuse to examine my life choices.
The structure fire on Birch Street starts as a small kitchen grease fire and escalates into something uglier fast.
Smoke billows black and thick when we round the corner.
By the time Engine 7 arrives, flames are eating through the roof, licking forty feet into the air.
The heat hits us even before we're out of the truck---a wall of it that makes the air shimmer and distort.
The family is out---neighbor's got them wrapped in blankets on the lawn, kids crying, dad with soot on his face and shock in his eyes---but the house is fully involved.
The windows blow out as we're gearing up. Glass explodes outward, tinkling across the lawn like deadly rain.
"Johnson, Martinez, primary search," I call out, my voice cutting through the chaos. "Webb, Thompson, exposure protection on the north side. Whitaker, pull the line and hit this from the southwest corner."
My crew moves without hesitation, without second-guessing.
My first week here, they would've stood there waiting for me to prove myself. New captain, unknown quantity, no verdict yet. Harrison had warned me about command problems. They don't trust you until you earn it.
Funny how a few structure fires and some midnight training sessions can change things.
The fire fights back hard. The wind shifts, pushing flames toward the neighboring houses, embers spiraling up into the darkening sky like angry fireflies.
But we've got the exposures protected, water flowing where it needs to go, and a crew that works like they've been doing this together for years.
By the time we knock it down, smoke still rising in grey columns, we've saved both neighboring houses and recovered a family photo album from the master bedroom that has the owner crying with gratitude on the front lawn.
"Good work, Cap," Johnson says, clapping me on the shoulder as we pack up. Sweat runs down his face, leaving clean tracks through the soot.
"Team effort," I reply, but I catch the look Thompson and Webb exchange. Something shifted today.
Station 7 is coming together. Finally.
Lunch at The Watershed is Aiden's idea.
"You look like you need a burger," he'd said when he called. "And possibly beer. Definitely beer."
I don't know how he could tell over the phone, but he wasn't wrong.
Now I'm sitting in a corner booth with Aiden and Derek, watching Derek complain about the new parking restrictions on Main Street while he systematically destroys a basket of fries.
"Do you know how many parking tickets I've gotten this month?" Derek demands, gesturing with a fry. "Four. Because apparently stopping for coffee is now illegal if you're within ten feet of a crosswalk."
"The horror," Aiden says, grinning. He's relaxed---legs stretched out, arm draped over the back of the booth. "How will you cope?"
"I'm a firefighter, not a miracle worker."
I'm only half-listening, mostly focused on my burger, when Aiden turns to me.
"So," he says, casual in that way that means he's about to get personal. "How's the neighbor situation?"
I stop mid-bite. Aiden's watching me with that knowing look he gets. Derek perks up, abandoning his fries to focus on this conversation.
"What neighbor situation?"
"The gorgeous paramedic living five feet from your front door. That neighbor situation."
"This is about Gemma?" Derek asks.
"There's no situation," I say firmly. "We share a wall. Sometimes we drink coffee. That's it."
"Right." Aiden leans back, studying me with the same focus he used to apply to reading smoke patterns. "Because you look like a guy who's just drinking coffee with his neighbor. Totally casual. No tension whatsoever."
I glare at him. "Don't you have a girlfriend to obsess over?"
Aiden grins. "Always. Things with Riley are great."
I should ask more. Be a better friend. Instead, what comes out is: "How did you know?"
Aiden's grin shifts into something more genuine. "Know what? That Riley was it?"
"That you weren't just... I don't know. Fooling yourself."
Derek goes quiet, focused on his fries but clearly listening.
Aiden thinks about this, turning his beer bottle in slow circles on the table. "Copper Ridge doesn't let you stay surface-level," he finally says. "This town, this job---it strips away all the bullshit. Either what you're feeling is real, or it burns off like morning fog."
"That's disgustingly philosophical," I mutter.
"It's also true." Aiden steals a fry from Derek's plate, ignoring Derek's protest. "Whatever you're feeling about Gemma, fighting it just makes it worse.
Trust me. I tried the whole 'I'm fine, this is fine, everything's fine' approach with Riley.
Lasted about three days before the universe started laughing at me. "
"I'm not feeling anything," I lie.
Both of them stare at me.
"Okay," Derek says slowly. "So you won't mind if I ask her out."
My hand tightens around my beer bottle hard enough that I hear the glass creak. "Don't."
"Thought so." Derek grins, pointing a fry at him like it's evidence in a trial. "For what it's worth, she looks at you the same way you look at her when you think no one's watching."
I want to ask what that means. I don't ask what that means.
Aiden starts talking about how things developed with Riley, how the fake relationship turned real, how they both fought it. His voice goes soft when he mentions her, this edge of wonder like he still can't quite believe his luck.
I finish my burger and try not to think about Gemma's smile. Her laugh. The way she looks in the morning when she opens her door and finds coffee waiting.
I fail.
The petition appears on my bedroom door that evening.
It's written in purple crayon on construction paper that's been folded and unfolded so many times the creases are starting to tear. The letters are careful block capitals that spell out: PLEEZ LET GEMA EAT WITH US.
Below Ivy's signature---complete with a backwards 'N' in her last name that she'll be mortified about in ten years---there's a second signature from her plastic T-Rex, written in approximately the same handwriting but with more enthusiastic exclamation points and what appears to be a drawing of a stegosaurus.
Below that, there's a small orange paw print.
I stare at the paw print. Touch it with one finger. Still slightly damp.
"Ivy," I call out.
She appears in the hallway, still wearing her school clothes, all innocence. Her hair's coming out of its ponytail in about seventeen different directions. "Yes, Daddy?"
"Did you make Clarence sign this?"
"I didn't make him. He wanted to." She crosses her arms, which is never a good sign. "He thinks you should let Gemma eat with us too."
"Clarence is a cat. Cats don't have opinions about dinner guests."
"Clarence does." She says this with absolute certainty, stepping closer to examine her handiwork. "He told me."
"He told you."
"With his eyes." She demonstrates by staring at me with exaggerated intensity, her brown eyes going huge and unblinking. "See? He says you're being silly."
I look at the petition again. The careful printing. The ridiculous co-signers. My daughter's hopeful face, complete with a smudge of what looks like grape jelly on her chin.
I'm going to cave. We both know I'm going to cave.