From Air (Wildfire)

Chapter Seventeen

CALVIN

She is . . .

Unexpected.

I find myself stretching my emotional capacity, giving her more than I think I have to give—which isn’t much.

As the sun rises, I kiss her head. She’s nestled herself between me and the back of the sofa. I’m barely on the edge. Hot and sweaty. Yet I feel something akin to contentment.

It can’t be that. My life is unsettled with chaos, pain, and regret. I’m driven in one direction. Death chases me. I can’t outrun it forever, but that sobering truth doesn’t stop me from trying.

“You need to go to bed,” I murmur next to her ear while resting my hand on her hip, giving it a gentle shake.

Her eyes flutter open. I can’t help but grin. She’s so beautiful. I have a handful of mental pictures that occupy a permanent spot in my memory. This one will join them.

“What time is it?” Her sleepy voice fills the intimate space between us.

“I don’t know. But the sun’s rising.”

“’Mkay.” Jamie maneuvers herself over me, standing and stretching before rubbing her eyes. When her tired gaze lands on me, her lips curl into an airy smile. “I dreamed we did something we weren’t supposed to do.” She pulls her nightshirt over her head and threads her arms through.

“You and your dreams. You’re such a perv.”

Her grin doubles. “Oh, Fitzy, you have no idea.” She pads her way to the bedroom.

I know there’s no way I’ll get back to sleep. So I throw on a T-shirt and my tennis shoes and head out for a long run on the beach, inhaling as much ocean air as possible while the shifting sand makes every step a struggle.

I welcome the burn in my legs and lungs, the melting away of my thoughts.

Jamie and Melissa are still asleep when I get back, so I shower and stroll down the street for coffee and bagels. When I return, Melissa’s in the kitchen, gulping down a tall glass of water. Her makeup’s smeared into raccoon eyes, and her reddish-black hair is clumped in areas with a few strands glued to her face.

“Good morning.” I place the coffee carrier and bagels on her round table by a watercooler and a fake fig tree.

She clanks the glass on the counter, out of breath from inhaling the water so quickly. “Can we talk before Jamie drags her ass out of bed?”

I sit and claim one of the coffee cups. “Of course.”

“I think my friend has a crush on you.” She eyes the other two cups of coffee, and I loosen one from the carrier and hand it to her.

“You’re a god. Thank you.” She peels off the lid and takes a cautious sip. “Jamie had a secluded life as a child. One parent. Homeschooled. Only a handful of friends in the neighborhood. When her mom died, she made one goal—to see all the places she never explored growing up. Hence becoming a travel nurse.” Melissa glances toward the bedroom before taking a seat across from me. “Don’t let her get stuck in Montana. She has a king-size romantic heart, and you’re a shiny distraction. I’m asking you not to let her forget why she left here in the first place.”

I nod slowly. My thoughts muddle, at odds with one another in many ways. I don’t feel like I’m leading Jamie on. She’s an adult, capable of making mature decisions. My ego likes that reasoning because it relieves me from accountability. The other voice in my head screams that I should do the right thing. But being with her feels right, even if it’s not.

Why am I making this so complicated? I’ll be the first to help her pack when it’s time for her to leave Montana. That’s what friends do.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m not boyfriend material. I’m not marriage material. I won’t be anyone’s husband or father.” I take a sip of coffee. “And we’re just roommates.”

Ego wins.

“You helped her get on her first plane. I think you’re more than roommates.”

I set my coffee on the table and retrieve a bagel with cream cheese. “I was homeschooled too. We have that in common. We’re ... friends.”

“Just friends?” Melissa narrows her eyes.

“Just friends.”

As soon as those two words leave my mouth, said friend’s bare feet scuff along the hard floor. “Morning,” she mumbles, just as groggy as she was when I woke her hours earlier.

“Morning, babe.” Melissa smiles.

Jamie squeezes her friend’s shoulder. “God, that smells good. Who made a coffee run?”

“Your awesome roommate.” Melissa holds up her cup like she’s toasting my good deed.

“He’s the best.” Jamie claims the last cup in one hand while her other cradles my cheek. “Aren’t you, Fitz?”

I try to remain physically neutral, as if my body doesn’t react to her touch, or as though friends always touch each other this way. And I don’t look at Melissa because I feel her gaze on me as Jamie sits in the chair between us. Her nightshirt barely covers the top of her legs—the same sexy legs that wrapped around my body last night.

Fuck, I’m getting hard.

“It was no big deal.” I slide the bag of bagels closer to Melissa and Jamie. “I jogged on the beach and showered. But you two were still asleep, so I made myself useful.”

“Fitz works out obsessively. Zero percent body fat. It’s not fair.” Jamie tosses a wry grin in my direction.

“So we hate him,” Melissa says.

“We hate him so much.” Jamie giggles, fishing out a bagel.

“Well, I’m going to jump in the shower. My brother and his wife planned a family luncheon before the official party tonight, so I hope you two can stay out of trouble while I’m gone this afternoon.”

Jamie smiles over her mouthful of bagel. “We’ll find something to do.”

Melissa leaves us with a distrusting hum and disappears into the bathroom.

“Good morning, Calvin Fitzgerald.” Jamie leans back in her chair, the cup of coffee hiding her grin while her foot rests on the edge of my chair between my spread legs.

I have no clue what to do or say. Reminding her that last night never happened feels like pissing in her coffee.

She sets her cup on the table and frowns. “You have at least a dozen worry lines on your forehead. Want to discuss them?”

“Speaking of worrying, Melissa is worried that you’re going to get sidetracked in Montana and not travel to all the places you dreamed of traveling when you left here in January.”

Her confidence slips briefly despite her quick recovery. “I like Montana, but perhaps it’s only because I need other places to compare it to. I can assure you I’m not staying in Missoula.”

I nod slowly. “She’ll be relieved to hear that.”

“Is she the only one who’s relieved to hear that?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I shove half the bagel into my mouth.

“Don’t think I missed your subtle ‘fuck you’ to the idea of being in a committed relationship.”

Chewing slowly, I mumble, “I’m not following.”

“When a guy in his midthirties, who has never been married, reveals he’s had a vasectomy, it’s a flashing neon sign that he wants nothing to do with any sort of commitment.”

“I’m committed to my job, and my job doesn’t have a vagina or a biological clock. And while I’m not one of them, there are plenty of men who would be fine with a committed relationship; they just don’t want kids. Not all humans have to procreate.”

“True. However, biologically speaking, we are programmed to reproduce. It’s in our hormones. Your desire to fuck is your human instinct to reproduce. If it weren’t the case, you wouldn’t have needed a vasectomy or to count sperm before that.” She smirks, tearing off a piece of the cinnamon-sugar bagel. “You would simply not have sex because you wouldn’t have the desire.”

I shrug. “It’s a choice.”

She nods several times. “It is a choice, even if it goes against your biology. You’re choosing to be single for the rest of your life. But it’s not because you don’t desire human connection, companionship, and a sense of belonging.”

“No?” I fiddle with the lid of my cup to avoid eye contact for a few seconds. She’s too good at studying me, seeing parts of me that aren’t hers to see. “Then why?”

“That’s a good question. One I’ve tried to figure out. I sense there’s a line you’ve drawn, and I’m trying not to cross it. But that doesn’t come naturally to me. I am a fixer. Empathetic. A good listener.”

When I glance up, her lips bend into a melancholy smile.

“It’s hard,” she whispers, moving from her chair to my lap.

The vulnerability I feel when she looks at me like this is pure torture.

“I’m human.” She messes with my hair. “And you’re my person. I instinctually want to know everything about you.” Her neck stretches, and she presses her lips to my forehead, depositing a kiss. And another. And another.

“And when you’re inside me, I want to burrow my way under your skin, squeeze between your ribs, and hug that beating organ in your chest.” Her lips brush along my scruffy jaw. “I want to feel your pain. And I want to take it away.”

When her mouth finds mine, I can’t control myself. My hands take their place in her hair. My lips part with hers. I taste her—devour her—while that hopeless, barely beating organ in my chest pumps harder. It’s fucking angry at life.

It’s angry that she is trying so hard to claim something that’s not there. It’s angry that all those places where she should fit are broken. They are nothing but unrecognizable pieces of rubble cemented together with eternal grief.

And maybe that’s the true tragedy.

It’s not that I’ve lost something. It’s that I can never have anything or anyone. Grief isn’t an anchor to the past; it’s a thief of the future.

The bathroom door opens, and Jamie flies off my lap, eyes wide, while she backs farther into the kitchen, out of view.

Wrapped in a pink robe, Melissa strolls straight into the bedroom without glancing at us. Jamie’s fingertips brush along her lips. Bowing my head, I rub the tension from my neck. What the hell am I doing?

“I’m going to shower now,” she murmurs.

I nod without lifting my gaze.