33. Ember
Ember
“Sunny with a high chance of someone making a scene.”
— Local weather report
Brooks is currently sitting on my second-best kitchen chair.
He hasn’t moved in twenty-two minutes.
He didn’t leave when I finished my tea, he didn’t leave when I washed the mug, and he didn’t leave when I went into the living room to sort through three months of utility bills just to see if he’d take the hint and walk out the door.
He’s still here.
I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen, watching him from the shadows of the hallway.
In my mind, I am absolutely howling. It is the most ridiculous, absurd, deeply masculine display of territorial stubbornness I have ever witnessed in my entire life.
He thinks if he just occupies the square footage, if he just remains structurally sound within my perimeter, he’s going to win the war by pure attrition.
You big, stupid, beautiful idiot, I think, my lips twitching with the absolute ghost of a smile before I flatten my face back into the cool, professional mask I’ve been wearing since Monday.
I step back into the light of the kitchen.
“The town council meeting started ten minutes ago, Chief,” I say, crossing my arms as I lean against the counter.
Brooks’s eyes snap up. “Davis has my proxy. They’re voting on a replacement line for Engine 2. He knows how to handle the selectmen.”
“And you’re just going to sit here? In my kitchen? Looking like a gargoyle?”
“I told you,” he says. “I’m not going back across the grass until we’ve talked.”
“There is no talking left, Brooks. The talking was done on Friday when you told me to go home.” I pick up my book from the counter and turn toward the stairs. “Lock the door when you realize your legs are cramping. I’m going to bed.”
? ? ?
I’m standing behind the register at the bakery, my fingers dusted with powdered sugar, when the little bell above the door chimes with a loud, aggressive clatter. I look up, expecting to see old Mr. Henderson or one of the commuters from the ridge, but instead, I’m staring at Theo.
The young engineer is six-foot-two, weighs two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and looks currently like he’s about to vomit from sheer nerves.
He marches straight up to the counter, stops at the glass display case, and clears his throat so loudly it sounds like a small explosion.
“Good morning, Miss Ember,” he says, his voice cracking slightly on the Miss.
I tilt my head, resting my knuckles on the counter. “Good morning, Theo. Did the firehouse run out of coffee again, or is Engine 3 currently blocking my driveway?”
“No, ma’am. Egress is completely clear.”
Theo reaches into his breast pocket with a stiff, mechanical jerk and pulls out a small, neatly folded piece of white paper. He slides it across the glass toward me like he’s delivering a classified state document.
“The Chief instructed me to deliver the daily operations report.”
I look down at the paper. I don’t touch it.
“The daily operations report.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Theo nods once. “He stated that under Section 4 of the local neighborhood relations act, you are entitled to a full assessment of the shift’s status. He also told me to tell you that the alignment on the dumpster has been corrected by two and a half inches.”
A small, breathless sound escapes my throat before I can stop it. I press my lips together hard, my chest aching with the sudden, violent urge to laugh out loud.
“Did he really say ‘neighborhood relations act,’ Theo?”
“He did, ma’am. He wrote it down on the ledger.
” Theo leans in slightly, his voice dropping into a desperate, hurried whisper.
“Please just take the paper, Ember. He’s been making us polish the chrome on the undercarriage of the ladder truck since six o’clock this morning.
We are begging you. Just read the note.”
I look at the young man’s terrified face, then down at the crisp white square. I slide my fingers over the glass, pulling the paper toward me.
“Thank you, Theo,” I say softly. “You can tell your Chief that the dumpster looks slightly better.”
“Copy that!” Theo shouts, turning on his heel and sprinting out the door so fast the bell rings for a full ten seconds after he’s gone.
I unfold the paper behind the counter, my heart doing a strange, fluttering flip that I am entirely annoyed by.
0700 hours. Shift changed. Sophie wore her hair in the loops you call ‘space buns’ today. She used three different types of glitter before school. The kitchen island at my house is clean, but it smells like pine instead of you. It’s wrong. I’ll be on the bench at 1015. — The hottest neighbor.
I stare at the blocky letters, my thumb tracing the edge of the paper.
I’m still hurt. Of course I’m still hurt.
When I look at him through the glass window of the kitchen, I can still feel the cold, hollow drop in my stomach from when he stood on his porch and told me our time together was a mistake.
I’m an adult; I understand why he did it. I’ve spent the last week dissecting it in the quiet of my bedroom.
I understand the mechanics of his fear.
Fear makes people strange.
Makes them grip too hard.
Makes them abandon things before they can be abandoned themselves.
But understanding a man’s trauma doesn’t mean you let him walk all over your lawn without a pass.
He needed to sweat. He needed to realize that the chaotic, unstructured girl from next door wasn’t a temporary distraction he could schedule around his shift rotation.
I fold the note, slide it into my apron pocket, and turn back to the flour mixer.
? ? ?
By Wednesday, the bench outside the bakery has basically become Brooks’s secondary office.
He shows up at exactly 10:15 AM every single day, regardless of the weather.
On Tuesday, it was sixty-five degrees and sunny; he sat there in his uniform shirt, staring straight ahead, eating his single glazed donut like he was performing a civic duty.
Today, the wind is ripping through the valley from the north, bringing a cold, damp chill that leaves the sidewalk slick with wet leaves.
He’s still there.
Through the front window of the bakery, I watch him from behind the espresso machine.
People walk past him, nodding and saying, “Morning, Chief,” and he just nods back, perfectly calm, perfectly rigid, his eyes never leaving the glass door.
Marge walks up behind me, a tray of blueberry muffins in her hands. She stops, stares through the glass at his massive, dark silhouette on the bench, and lets out a long, theatrical sigh.
“He’s ruining my foot traffic,” she grumbles, though her voice lacks its usual venom. “Old Mrs. Gable wouldn’t come in for her scones because she thought he was waiting to issue her a citation for her broken taillight.”
“He’s just sitting there, Marge,” I say, wiping down the steam wand with a rag.
“He’s making people stress,” she corrects, but she shoves a small white paper bag into my hands. “Go give him these. They’re yesterday’s apple fritters. They’re hard as bricks, which matches his skull. Tell him if he doesn’t move his big truck by noon, I’m putting salt in his coffee next shift.”
I take the bag, my heart kicking against my ribs with that familiar, frustrating rhythm. I unbutton my apron, drape it over the counter, and push open the glass door.
The cold wind hits my face instantly, making me shiver in my thin shirt.
Brooks’s head snaps up the second the bell chimes. He’s on his feet before the door even closes, his massive frame instantly blocking the wind, creating a solid, warm barrier between me and the street.
“You’re shivering,” he says, his brow furrowing as his hands lift instinctively toward my shoulders before he catches himself and drops them back to his sides, his knuckles tensing.
“I’m fine,” I say, handing him the white bag. “Marge says these are yesterday’s fritters. She also says you’re a hazard to her retail environment.”
Brooks takes the bag, his fingers brushing against mine for a fraction of a second. “Tell Marge I’ll buy the whole tray tomorrow if it keeps the bench clear.”
I lean my hip against the green wooden railing of the porch, looking up at him through my curls.
“Theo looks like he’s about to have a heart attack every time he comes into the shop, Brooks,” I say. “You can’t keep using your engineers as an emotional delivery service. It’s bad for morale.”
“Morale is fine,” he says. “They’re learning the value of discipline. And they like you better than they like me anyway.”
“Everyone likes me better than they like you, Brooks. That’s not a high bar.”
A real, genuine smile spreads across his lips—not the stiff, official face he wears for the town, but the loose, heavy look that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“I know. Sophie reminds me constantly,” he says. “But I’m working on it.”
I look at him for a long moment, letting the silence hang between us in the cold air.
“Tomorrow night,” I say, turning back toward the bakery door.
“The grandmas are making a massive spread of pot roast and mashed potatoes in the church basement after the knitting circle. I decided to invite the entire firehouse crew because Davis looked malnourished on Monday. If you bring your yellow pad, Bernice might let you have a bowl.”
Brooks’s whole body seems to release a breath he’s been holding since Monday. His shoulders drop an inch, his jaw relaxing as he looks at me.
“I’ll bring two pads,” he says.
“Just one, Chief. Don’t make it weird.”
The bell chimes as I step back inside, the warmth of the sugar and coffee swallowing me whole, but through the glass, I see him take an apple fritter out of the bag and bite into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
? ? ?
By the next night, the rain has returned, but it’s a soft, lazy drizzle that makes the valley look like an old oil painting.
The church basement is loud, thick with the smell of slow-cooked onions. The knitting circle has expanded into a full-blown community feast, with three long trestle tables set up near the back kitchen.