From Air (Wildfire)

Chapter Twenty-Six

JAYMES

A bear killed Dwight Keane’s wife.

He chased the bear but lost the hunt.

Until ... he burned down thirty-two thousand acres of wildland to avenge his wife’s death. If it weren’t so tragic, it would be heroic. Dare I say romantic?

It’s been years, and Dwight still talks about that bear—it’s all he talks about. The doctors believe he’s on track to spend the rest of his life in a California mental hospital. He’s been released four times and recommitted each time.

“Dwight, it’s vanilla yogurt and strawberries.” My finger taps his gray fiberglass tray before running across the peeling surface of his dusty laminated desk. “Your favorite.” I open his yellowed curtains the rest of the way. Light floods the room, illuminating the unmade single bed crammed into the corner of the dinky bare-walled space. The room reeks of bleach and urine. Today, the pungent urine wins with a full-on olfactory assault. Sometimes, Dwight enjoys marking his territory.

Beneath his bushy black-and-gray eyebrows, Dwight’s vacant gaze points out the window overlooking a courtyard of weathered flagstone walking paths, decaying flower gardens, and a basketball court at the far end, with a few patients milling around. His full head of mostly gray hair, with a little dark brown still clinging to youth, could use a trim. It covers his ears in a style reminiscent of something from the seventies.

Some days he’s Mr. Chatty. And some days, he doesn’t have much to say. Instead, he narrows his brown eyes a fraction, like they are right now—pinpoints of concentration. When he’s not focused on things that trigger memories of the bear chase, I find him poring over books about bears.

“Claire said you were waiting on me. Why don’t you try some yogurt before it gets warm?” I drag a green vinyl upholstered chair next to him at a ninety-degree angle in the hope that he decides to focus on me.

After an eternity, he blinks, and his arm twitches.

I rest my hand over it and sit with him for a few minutes. Dwight relaxes with me because he occasionally thinks I’m his family. It assuages his anxiety.

“I heard you joined a book club.”

He responds with a blink.

“Do you like working in the gardens?”

Dwight offers me the slowest nod. At first, I think he’s dozing off, but he just as slowly lifts his head after his chin taps his chest. This has been his home for twenty-two years. Most people stay until they complete a competency evaluation to determine if they’re mentally capable of standing trial. Others stay until they recover. And a few, like Dwight, become gravely disabled after being found not guilty by reason of insanity. It’s heartbreaking.

A few hiccups have squashed his minimal progress. Tying up one of the nurses with her knee-highs and attempting to escape wearing her pink plaid trousers and blouse wasn’t one of his finer moments. Neither was pissing on another patient, whom Dwight swore was on fire and spewing vitriol. That’s when the marking started.

Stories have been passed down through the years, despite staff turnover since he was first admitted. Dwight’s on his way to becoming a legend around here.

“I’m leaving now. It was nice spending time with you.” I squeeze his fingers and stand.

“I’ll eat,” he mutters, pawing at my hand when it leaves his. “D-don’t get all ...” His pinched expression intensifies. “Don’t get all rankled.”

“I’m not rankled. Just busy.” I chuckle, easing back into the chair and updating his chart while he slurps yogurt, eyeing me without reprieve.

He’s quickly become my favorite patient. I’d say it’s especially true on the days he thinks I’m his wife because he’s incredibly sweet to me. However, it’s more than that. Something deep in his eyes reminds me of a child crying for help. On the outside, he’s a guilty man (even if he was found not guilty by reason of insanity), but on the inside, he’s fragile and innocent.

“Annie, I dried between my toes and clipped my nails. And I didn’t leave my towel on the floor,” he says, surprising me with his sudden interest in chatting after showing little excitement to see me.

“Thank you. Annie would love that.” I finish a few notes on my tablet and straighten the blanket on his bed. What wife wouldn’t love her husband picking up after himself?

A dead one.

“Has the baby kicked?”

“You have a child?” I ask.

“Barbara.”

“That’s right. I think I heard that. On a scale of one to ten, what is your current level of depression?”

“Zero. We escaped the bear.”

I nod. Some days, it’s a ten because Annie didn’t escape the bear.

“Do you have any suicidal thoughts?”

He chuckles, gaze still pointed out the window. “No. Annie would kill me if I tried to kill myself.”

He’s been here so long. I can’t imagine a day he’s in the present and emotionally well. Right now, it’s one or the other but not both.

He glances over his shoulder. “You look as beautiful as you did the day I married you.”

Aww . . .

I want Dwight to get better. I’ve never met his family or friends, but I like to imagine they are waiting for him. Maybe this is the year Barbara will visit him for the holidays. I’ve heard he’s never had a visitor. Perhaps she’ll come with her kids—little grandkids for Dwight. And it will trigger something that will allow him to heal faster and be whole again.

Is it likely? No. But the human mind has barely been touched by science. Even with all the advancements, so much remains a mystery.

“Let’s go to the beach next time,” he suggests.

I glance up from my tablet. “The beach? You like the beach?”

His tongue lazily swipes the yogurt from his top lip while he shakes his head.

“No? Well, I love the beach.”

He winces as he always does when I say the wrong thing—when I say something his wife wouldn’t have said.

After he finishes the yogurt and swallows his medications, I rest my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll check in later.”

“Watch out for bears,” he mumbles, like it’s a passive afterthought. His suddenly lifeless tone matches the rest of his gray, aging body—Dwight’s fifty-five, going on eighty.

“I will,” I promise.

There’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s an unsettling feeling that resides beneath my skin and lingers for hours after being with him.

Four glorious days off.

I pick up groceries on my way home and then change into white jeans and a sleeveless yellow boho blouse for my dinner date tonight. Evette’s in town visiting a friend, and she asked if we could have dinner. She’s been the sweetest, keeping me updated on not only Gary’s whereabouts but Fitz’s too. That’s how I know he hasn’t been home to get the scar salve my friend sent to his house over three weeks ago.

I text Evette when I arrive at the crowded restaurant.

Me: I’m here

Evette: I’m at the back behind the bar

Shouldering through the crowd, I crane my neck to see past the bar.

No Evette.

I look in every direction. She has a head of unmistakable red hair. How am I missing her? Turning for the third time, I catch sight of a man standing next to his chair. Dark jeans and a pristine white shirt. He looks a lot like ...

“Oh my god.” I cover my mouth.

Fitz grins.

I want to cry, but I’m not going to do that. Instead, my heart might explode, and I will likely die right here in this spot.

Someone bumps into me, bringing me out of my dazed state and propelling me forward a few feet. It’s only been six weeks. But it’s felt like six years.

“What are you doing here? Where is Evette?” I hug him and notice the petite, gray-haired woman sitting at his table smiling at us.

“Evette helped me surprise you. She’s in Missoula. Hope you’re not disappointed.” He releases me.

Of course, I want to know who this woman is, but I can’t stop gawking at him. And I kind of feel like he can’t stop eyeing me.

“Jaymes, this is my grandma, Edith. She lives just a few blocks from here. Grandma, this is my friend Jaymes.”

Grandma? Fitz has living family? What is happening?

“Nice to meet you.” I hold out my shaky hand, trying to control my nerves.

She reaches out her left hand for an awkward shake. “Sorry, I suffered a stroke years ago. And my right hand still doesn’t work properly.”

I use both hands to hold her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “What a lovely surprise.” I sit next to Fitz. “Did he tell you I had no idea he was coming? And did he tell you I didn’t know he has a grandma who lives here?” I playfully narrow my eyes at Fitz.

“He said he wanted to surprise his roommate who recently moved here.” She eyes him with an expression similar to mine. “But he didn’t mention you were a beautiful young lady.”

Edith manages to make me blush, just like her grandson.

“Calvin is full of surprises.” I reach beneath the table and rest my hand on his leg for a brief second.

“I hope you don’t mind; I already ordered for all of us,” he says. “My grandma goes to bed early.”

My nose wrinkles. “Sorry. I work long shifts. Had I known—”

“Please don’t apologize, dear. How were you to know?” Edith comforts me with a smile.

“Well, thanks for ordering. Now tell me how it is that you’re here when it’s still fire season.”

He rests his napkin on his leg. “After twenty-one days straight, they forced me to take two days off. I asked for four so I could visit my grandma and this nurse I met in January.”

“I should thank you,” Edith says. “Calvin only visits me over the holidays. He never takes breaks during the summer. So I know he’s here for you more than me.”

Fitz presses a flat hand to his heart. “Grandma! Your words wound me.”

Her body gently bounces with a chuckle. “No, they don’t.”

My whole face aches from grinning. She’s delightful and so unexpected. And Fitz? There are no words to describe him or his grand gesture.

“So you’re a nurse?”

“Yes. I work in the psych ward.”

“That must be interesting.”

“It can be.”

“How’s your apartment?” Fitz asks.

“Dinky, but not quite as small as the shed. Has Will rented it out?”

“Not yet.”

The waiter delivers our food, and we spend the next half hour eating and discussing Edith’s boyfriend, who happens to be turning ninety next month. He’s in a wheelchair and still lives on his own. They met when she was having physical therapy after her stroke.

I fade into the distance as much as possible and let Fitz and his grandma chat. He’s here. That still blows my mind. His grandma lives here. How can he not see the ways the stars have aligned for us? This is bigger than coincidence.

“Would you like to meet for breakfast in the morning?” Fitz asks me as we exit the restaurant.

“Stop it,” Edith says, holding on to Fitz’s arm. “Just because I’m old and going to bed doesn’t mean you must do the same. Drive me home, and then take Jaymes out on the town. Go dancing or to the movies or whatever you young people do.”

We look at each other and grin. She’s endearing.

I follow them to her apartment in an assisted living community and wait in the living room while he makes sure she gets into bed despite her repeatedly saying, “What do you think I do when you’re not here?”

Calvin Fitzgerald is full of surprises. He thinks I’m all soft and gooey on the inside because I’m a “normal” woman who dreams of love and other ordinary things.

He’s the soft and gooey one.

“So what’s it going to be? Dancing or ‘the movies’?” Fitz asks softly after he shuts her bedroom door while I inspect a few pictures on her sofa table.

I assume it’s Fitz’s family, but I’m afraid to ask. He’s here. And I don’t want to scare him away. If he wants to share his life with me, I need to let him do it in his own time, like inviting me to dinner with his grandma.

“Do you dance?” I turn toward him.

“No.”

I grin. “Do Maren and Will know you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get the salve?”

“It’s in my bag.” He nods to the black bag on the floor by the sofa.

My heart’s lodged so tightly in my throat I can barely breathe. “Is six weeks too soon to miss my person?”

“I’m pretty missable.”

“Is missable a word?”

“ Missable is absolutely a word. It’s fuckable’s cousin.”

I cover my mouth to muffle my laugh.

His smile wanes. “Maren spotted my tattoo. And I’m guessing from her reaction, she found yours first because I watched her put two and two together in real time.”

I nod, lips corkscrewed. I’ve talked to her nearly every week since I’ve been here, and she never mentioned seeing his tattoo. “Are you homeless?”

“No. But she said I needed to be your friend.”

My heart leaves my throat, swan diving into the pit of my stomach. “So you’re here because of Maren?” I grunt a laugh, running my hands through my hair and turning away from him. “That sounds like a more logical explanation.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

I can’t look at him yet. My feelings are pinned to my shirt like a gaudy nineties corsage.

“None of this makes sense,” he says. “Not taking four days instead of the required two. Not booking a flight to San Bernardino while my fellow jumpers are managing fires. Not introducing you to my grandmother. Not this need to kiss you when I have nothing to offer but someone else’s version of friendship. None of it makes sense.” He blows out a long breath. “Yet here I am. Fumbling my words and wallowing around outside my comfort zone because I made you my person, and you don’t fit in my life, but my life no longer fits me without you.”

Oh, my heart . . .

I turn. Fitz has never looked this tortured. The tension in his face. The resignation in his eyes.

“Are you here for me or you?”

The lines along his brow dig deeper.

“It’s not a trick question.” I shake my head. “I don’t even know how I want you to answer. Just honestly.”

His gaze drops to the floor between us. “When I purchased the plane ticket, I was coming here for you.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “When you entered the restaurant, I knew I was here for me.”

I lied.

I wanted him to say that , but I didn’t know it until two seconds ago. That’s the thing with love; it’s untimely, unannounced, and underestimated. It’s not a choice. It’s a state of being.

How do I tell Fitz that he loves me?

I don’t.

He’ll work it out on his own.

By then, I might be married to another man and pregnant with twins, but nonetheless, I’m overjoyed about Fitz and his wallowing heart. Better late than never.

I lift my shoulders and drop them into an exaggerated shrug. “We could kiss. And it could be our version of friendship. I don’t want anyone else’s version. Do you?”

His hand slides along my neck until his fingertips brush my tattoo. “No. I don’t,” he whispers before kissing me.

I close my eyes while he drags his lips from mine to my neck. “Come back to my place,” I murmur.

“Yeah?”

I grin. “Yeah.” I dig into my pocket and fish out my key fob. “You drive. I’m a little too intoxicated.”

He takes it from me, eyes narrowed. “We didn’t have alcohol at dinner.”

“You.” I turn and open the door. “I’m drunk on you, Fitz.”

It’s a ten-minute drive to my apartment. I still can’t believe he never mentioned his grandma when I told him about my job here. She’s a ten-minute drive from my apartment.

It’s not a coincidence. It’s fate. Right?

He parks my Jeep and leans over the console to kiss me. It takes several minutes to drag ourselves out of the vehicle. We meet at the back of the Jeep and kiss again. Fitz presses my backside against the spare tire. Our kiss grows into something that feels too intense to control.

Lifting me to him, he slowly treks toward my building.

“The . . . the key . . . ring . . . ,” I pant as he kisses my neck.

My back hits the side of the building while he fumbles with my keys, finding the card to scan. The door buzzes, and he opens it with one hand while his other hand claims my ass.

I stop him before he heads up the stairs. “D-down the hall, last on the left.”

We stumble into my tiny efficiency apartment and waste no time in discarding our clothes.

“Jaymes, you have a fucking twin bed,” he mumbles over my lips when I push him back onto my single-size mattress.

I giggle. “I’m aware.” I kiss his chest and abs, my fingers brushing his scars before my tongue makes a slow swipe up the length of his erection.

His head stretches back while a satisfied moan vibrates along his chest. I straddle him, guiding him between my legs. My heavy eyelids surrender when I sink onto him, hands flat on his chest.

When I open my eyes, he’s watching me with an intoxicated gaze and soft lips that he occasionally wets with a lazy swipe of his tongue.

I lean forward, grinding against him, and he lifts his head, mouth on my breasts.

“God . . . Fitz . . . that feels . . .” I lose my words and mind.

His hands tangle in my hair while he kisses me deeply, slowly moving with me as the moonlight through my one-way windows washes over him, shadows flickering across his face when I sit up.

We are whispers of labored breaths and flesh colliding.

As my orgasm begins to course through my body slowly, he flips me onto my back and pumps into me harder, quickly finding his release.

I revel in this moment, mesmerized by him moving above me. Face tense, lips parted; it feels like a bonus orgasm—a compulsion I can’t deny.

“Fuck you, Jaymes ... god ... just ... fuck you ... I never want ... to stop.” There is more to his words than the simple meaning behind each one. With Fitz, it’s never what he says as much as how he says it.

I can’t stop my grin as he fights his emotions. There’s something gratifying about being the person who gives someone else strength. However, I’m thoroughly addicted to being Calvin Fitzgerald’s greatest weakness.

He’s not deficient in confidence. He’s brave on a whole different level. Except with me, he’s vulnerable. And I’m incredibly honored that he trusts me with the part of himself that he has yet to understand.

My sweaty person breathes heavily in my ear before kissing a trail down my chest to my abs, teasing my belly button with his tongue.

I giggle. “Stop! That tickles.”

I feel his lips pull into a grin along my skin while he presses his hands into the mattress on either side of my body. He drags his tongue to my side and bites my skin just above my hip.

I jerk. “Fitz!” I wriggle beneath him.

He laughs, and it’s an ecstatic sound.

I push at his chest. “I have to pee, and now I need a shower.”

“Good idea.” He lifts himself off the bed, grabs my hand, and pulls me to my feet.

“What’s a good idea?”

He grips my shoulders and leads me around the corner into the bathroom. “Shower sex.”

“I didn’t say—OUCH!” I squeal when he smacks my bare ass.

“Just get the fuck in the shower.”