Best Laid Plans

But no one stares, since all these wild, wonderful images are flicking by in my brain, only for me—images and sounds and memories of the things I said to Gabe, and that he said to me.

It was only the start of our sex education plan, and yet last night was not an experience that I can easily let go of. Nor do I want to. I feel alive and electric, like I’m living in a fevered dream.

Anticipation camps out in my chest as I near the firehouse. My heart ticks faster, and my wish to see him—to wave, to say hello—grows more intense.

But at the same time, I’m not sure how I should behave.

Everything feels a little different between us, even though we didn’t cross any lines.

We didn’t touch. We simply said racy words. But in saying them, I revealed myself. I showed him my wants, and now he knows some of my deepest desires.

I’m not only Arden, his Words with Friends pal and bowling buddy. I’m a woman who has after-dark wishes.

I know more of him too. I know how he approaches sex and women and experimentation.

It’s like we’re walking the tightrope of friendship, balancing precariously and tipping ever closer to the edge.

But as I pass the firehouse, my heart sinks. The truck is gone, and its absence reveals to me how badly I wanted to see him. I let out a long exhale that’s tinged with more disappointment than I expected. Plus, he has a twenty-four-hour shift today, so there won’t be any experiments tonight. But we’re seeing each other tomorrow, and I’m debating whether I want to practice biting, spanking, or stripping, or if we can work in that elevator arms-in-the-air agenda item.

Later in the day, my phone pings with a text.



Gabe: Hey! Wild Care says Hedwig is recuperating nicely.





I punch the air in triumph. His note makes me happy in a whole new way. For the owl and also, I’m realizing, for us. Because we’re normal. We can be owl-rescuers, and bowling buddies, and pizza friends, and coach and sex-thlete, and just . . . well, friends.

Good friends.



Arden: Yay! Also, you checked on Hedwig? I love that.





Gabe: Of course. I wanted an update, and I knew you’d want to know as well. So I checked on our owl.





Arden: Can I still adopt him? There’s a high shelf in my store that I know he’d love.





Gabe: I’m sure Henry and Clare would LOVE his company.





Arden: Admit it. A bookstore owl would be so cool.





Gabe: Yes, it would be. But Hedwig belongs in the wild. Speaking of shelves, how’s that one that you were worried was a little loose? Need me to take a look at it?





My heart beats a little faster from his offer, his willingness to help me. I head over to the shelf in question, rapping on it.



Arden: I checked it. All good!





Gabe: You know where to find me if you need anything.





Arden: Same to you. :)





This man does so much for me, and I only wish I could do something special for him. That afternoon, as I help a customer find an old Dashiell Hammett novel, I know precisely what that is.





25





Gabe





“And that’s some of what we do in an average day. Now, I’m wondering”—I tap my chin, surveying the eager crowd—“is there any chance any of you have any questions? I know it’d be pretty unusual for a first-grader to have questions. But you all should feel free to hit me up if you do.”

A dozen little hands shoot in the air, and there’s laughter from the grown-ups too. I spend the next twenty minutes answering questions here at the fire station. Most of the questions—surprise, surprise—involve the truck and the truck. Also, the truck.

When the questions ebb, I drop plastic fireman hats on the kids’ heads and thank them for coming. The camp counselor also thanks me.

As the kids wander down the street back to the community center, Shaw emerges from the firehouse, gesturing to the troop. “Over-under on how many you scared away from the fire service on account of being so ugly?”

I screw up the corner of my lips as if I’m considering his question. “Hmm . . . I’d say at least a half dozen. But that still makes you the leader, since you scare them all off when you give the demos.”

He runs a hand over his jaw. “Please. I’m like the goddamn superhero of every little aspiring firefighter in the country. They all want to be me when they grow up.”

I park my hands on my hips. “Is that so? Do the kids have a secret shrine to you somewhere at their school?”

“Of course they do.” He narrows his eyes. “So do the teachers, right in the teachers’ lounge. They all have pictures of me from the fireman calendar on every wall.”

“In your dreams.”

“Why do you think they’re all asking me to do demos? They love me and my scar.”

I crack up. “You have such a rich fantasy life.”

He grabs the hem of his shirt and shakes his hips, pretending to dance. “You’re just jealous, Harrison. Admit it. I’ve got it going on.” Lifting the shirt, he drags a hand over the faded scar that cuts across his hip, the mark that he definitely doesn’t show at demos to kids here or in schools.

“Because you moonlight as a stripping fireman?”

Even though he does nothing of the sort, he mimes tossing out dollar bills. “I make it rain. Look at my hips. They don’t lie.” He shakes them as if he’s a master dancer.

“What the hell do you actually do in your spare time?”

He pretends to zip his lips.

I shake my head. “Buddy, I am so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“That you suffer from so many delusions.”

He laughs, then his expression turns serious, his zany side slinking away. “Hey, did you hear about Charlie?”

“Yeah. I’m going to miss him.” Charlie is moving back to Florida.

“Says he can’t afford living here anymore. That’s the tough part of being in California. This place is crazy expensive.”