From Air (Wildfire)

Chapter Four

The first day at a new job is the worst. It’s as if I have no formal training. I’m not a real nurse. And everyone, including the employees in the café serving lunch, knows more than I do.

“Don’t feel overwhelmed,” Cecilia reassures me on our way to Dr. Reichart’s office. Cee’s the office manager. She’s worked at the clinic longer than anyone else. But when she flicks her tousled ash-blond bangs away from her face and adjusts her black-framed glasses with a conspiratorial grin revealing her coffee-stained teeth, I decide her words lack comfort.

“I’m not overwhelmed,” I lie. If only I could borrow her confident smile and introduce such a lively chirp to my words.

“Was Dr. Reichart part of your interviews?” Cee hastens down one hallway of short red-and-gray speckled carpet, takes a sharp turn, and blasts through the next hallway, which looks just like the first. I’m already lost and three steps behind, standing at five feet four. She has at least six inches on me, all in the legs, not to mention the extra inch in the soles of her pink-and-blue HOKA shoes.

“No. She was on vacation.” I jog to keep up.

“Act indifferent. She doesn’t like it when people try to impress her.”

“Don’t impress my new boss. Got it.”

Cee glances back at me, lowering her chin to eye me over the rims of her glasses. “It’s hard to explain. You just have to experience her. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about. If she didn’t wear a white coat, you might be unable to distinguish her from the patients.” Cee knocks on the door.

“Yes?”

“Jaymes Andrews is here. She’s been brought up to speed on everything.”

I’m not sure I’m up to speed on anything—definitely not on the long-legged office manager. Crossing the threshold, I prepare to be surrounded by sophistication, modern decor, an abstract painting by some artist I’ve never heard of, and maybe some Beethoven and rare plants.

Instead, I’m surrounded by bare white walls. There’s nothing on her desk except a computer and an M&M’S dispenser, and she’s turning circles in the middle of the room while wearing a VR headset.

“Just a sec ...” She makes a swiping motion with the controller in her right hand like she’s swinging a sword.

When she peels off the headset, I blink hard several times. Dr. Everleigh Reichart looks underage. She blows a few strands of amber hair away from her face before slicking them back toward her ponytail. A few pimples reside along her hairline, which makes sense because she must be fifteen. I do the math in my head. This is a joke. There’s no way she has a medical degree, let alone a specialty in psychiatry.

“Do you play?” She holds up the headset, revealing her short purple-painted fingernails.

I shake my head. “I was homeschooled. And I’m not saying that to impress you. My access to technology before graduating high school was limited. But I hear VR is pretty cool.”

She snorts, revealing polished teeth that would look fairly perfect sans a little crowding on the bottom. “Don’t worry about impressing me with your homeschooling. I bet you’re still a virgin.”

“I don’t think so.” Can she ask me that?

Dr. Reichart tosses her headset on the desk, hazel eyes narrowed a fraction at me.

When I offer my version of a conspiratorial smile, she laughs.

“Let’s just get it out of the way.” She dismissively waves her hand in the air. “I was a freshman in college by age twelve. Undergraduate degree three years later. Med school ... you get the gist. Too smart for my own good, according to my parents.” She dispenses a handful of M&M candies and shoves them into her mouth, leaving a lingering sweet aroma of chocolate in the air. “My dad is a physician in India. My mom paints pictures of naked couples, and she lives in New York. Any more questions?”

“No. That answers all the questions I didn’t think to ask. I look forward to working with you. Cecilia said patients love you.”

She drops her chin, dramatically rolling her eyes. “Aw, shucks.”

I gesture toward the door because I’m way out of my league on every level, so it’s time to leave. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll get to work.”

“Stop by my office again over your lunch. I’ll teach you how to play Beat Saber .”

“Okay. That’s ... kind of you.” And weird. I back out of her office. Cecilia was right. There are no words to describe Dr. Everleigh Reichart.

“You’re going to get towed,” Fitz announces, stomping on the rug before removing his brown boots.

I pluck a spoon from the drawer for my potato-leek soup, which has one more minute in the microwave. “I’m parked where Will told me to park.”

“It’s snowing. You can’t park on the street.” He deposits his green Carhartt jacket on a coat hook.

I can’t get enough of Calvin in cargo pants and snug-fitting, long-sleeved T-shirts, but I’ll never tell him that. His ego runneth over all on its own.

“Help me out, Fitz. Offer the new girl more than doom and gloom. Try suggesting a way to keep me from getting towed. I believe the word is a solution .”

He retrieves a black cherry iced tea from the fridge. “Why are you talking like that?”

I blow at the garlic-and-thyme-filled steam while carrying my soup to the table. “Like what?”

He tips back the bottle of tea, eyeing me the whole time. “Slowly. Softly. Like you’re talking to a child.”

I grin just before cautiously sipping my soup. “I think Will and Maren expect me to fix you.”

His lips droop into a frown. It’s hard to keep my composure. Calvin Fitzgerald is the epitome of a brooding man. Taking him on as my pet project should be fun.

“Park in the driveway.” He gives me a toothy grin that’s a little frightening. “See? I just fixed myself. But if you want to take credit for it, go ahead.” Fitz sets his tea on the counter and pulls a white paper bag out of the fridge along with a jar of hot sauce. He peels back the paper around the half-eaten burrito, shakes sauce onto it, and shoves a bite into his mouth.

“I’m not allowed to park in the driveway.” I’m tempted to end my sentence with a “duh” instead of a period, but my mom would disapprove. Dead or alive.

“Will’s on shift until Wednesday, and Maren’s taking Professor Gray Balls to New York,” he mumbles over a mouthful of the burrito.

I slurp another sip of my hot soup before grabbing my keys and tucking my feet into my boots. “So we’ll be alone. That’s good. You can share your deepest secrets with me.” I slide my arms into my jacket.

“Fuck that.” Fitz saunters up the stairs with his burrito and hot sauce in one hand and his tea in the other as I head out into the cold.

Will said Missoula rarely receives this much snow all at once. There’s a mountain of it that’s already been plowed. It engulfs my legs past my knees, sucking my boot right off my leg when I open the door and climb into the driver’s seat.

“Oh, come on!” Holding the steering wheel for support, I lean sideways to fish my boot from the drift.

Shoving my foot back into it, I start my Jeep and press on the gas.

Nothing.

I switch to reverse.

Nothing.

It’s four-wheel drive. What’s the problem?

After several failed attempts, I trek toward the garage, curling my toes to keep from walking out of my boots. Four different shovels hang on the wall. I grab two that might work well.

I bail snow, fall on my ass twice, and come dangerously close to losing my fingers to frostbite. My toes are total goners. Yet, I’m sweating through my clothes.

After unearthing my Jeep and pulling it into the driveway, I drag the shovels back to the garage. My gaze snags on the upstairs window at the corner of the house.

Calvin’s watching me with his arms crossed. Has he been watching me the whole time?

“Asshole,” I mumble.

He grins as if he can read my lips.

Minutes later, Fitz descends the stairs while I tug at my boots and peel off my jacket in the entry. “You needed to pull a little farther to the right. I won’t be able to get past you in the morning.”

I huff, blowing my sweaty bangs out of my face. “What time do you leave?”

“Five.” He plops onto the sofa and kicks his bare feet onto the coffee table.

“Five? Why so early? Isn’t it offseason for you?” I stick my finger into the soup and lick it. It’s lukewarm.

“My body doesn’t get an offseason. PT every day.”

“Yeah, me too. I always get my ten thousand steps in.” I pop the bowl of soup back into the microwave.

“Wow, ten thousand. What is that ... four? Five miles?”

“Something like that. I have short legs.”

“Yeah, speaking of your legs. You should lift with them when you shovel. Your back’s going to hurt like a motherfucker in the morning.”

“Oh? Did you make that observation while you watched me dig out my Jeep?”

He opens the book he brought down. “I did.”

“You could have helped.” I stir my reheated soup.

“And I probably would have, but rumor has it I’m broken. Maybe you can fix that, and then I’ll have the mental and emotional capacity to recognize when a damsel is in distress.”

“Did I look like a damsel in distress?” I glare at him.

He focuses on his book. “I don’t know what you looked like. I just know it was painful to watch.”

I absentmindedly tap the spoon on the edge of my bowl.

Calvin clears his throat, scowling at me.

“Sorry.” I stop tapping.

Minutes later, he clears his throat again and shoots me another scowl.

“What?”

“The chair creaks every time you bounce your leg. Stop bouncing your leg. Can you hold still?”

“No. I’m a fidgeter. I always have been. Did you know—”

“Stop.” He holds out a flat hand in my direction. “If you don’t want to sound like a nerd wearing a ‘homeschooled’ neon sign, then don’t ever start a sentence with ‘Did you know.’”

“Fidgeting is good for your health. It increases blood flow, reduces artery disease, and calms anxiety.”

“ Did you know that it has the opposite effect on those in the same room as the fidgeter?” Calvin eyes me with displeasure.

“That’s not true,” I scoff.

He smirks, refocusing on his book. It’s a book on the Titanic . And I’m the nerd?

After studying him over my soup bowl for a good five minutes while focusing on not fidgeting, I clear my throat. Fitz seems to speak that language.

His head swivels in my direction.

“Why jump out of planes?”

“To get to the fire. Any more questions?” His uncompromised grin is as fake as mine but not nearly as playful.

“Hotshots don’t jump out of planes.”

“Yes, Encyclopedia Britannica . I used to be a hotshot, so I can confirm that you are correct. But we smoke jumpers jump . It’s in our name.”

I take my bowl and spoon to the sink to wash them. “I bet you have a lot of first dates but not many second dates. Can you confirm that as well?” I roll up the sleeves of my pink-and-white-striped button-down.

“Roommates don’t have to talk. It’s not a requirement. It’s a lot different than dating. No one has to speak. No one cares what anyone else is wearing. And it’s no big deal if you want to walk away without an explanation.”

I chuckle, rinsing the bowl. “Sometimes roommates can be friends who do, in fact, talk. I’ve gathered that Will and Maren aren’t interested in letting you into their friendship circle, so I’m offering to be your friend.”

When he doesn’t respond, I peek over my shoulder, surveying the room. The empty room. Fitz left. He vanished without any explanation.

“Or roommates works,” I murmur to myself. “I have other friends. Like ... me, myself, and I because I’m talking to myself.” I shake my head while drying my hands.

I’m unsure if I despise Calvin Fitzgerald or if he’s officially my newest obsession.