From Air (Wildfire)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Last week, Fitz drove me to the airport and kissed me goodbye. We parted with the promise of spending Thanksgiving together in Missoula, including Edith, while Maren and Will are with their families.

I’ve left two messages with the private investigator, asking him to abort his search, but he hasn’t returned my call.

It’s hard to be around Dwight without feeling different. Whether his ramblings seem coherent or complete gibberish, they are impossible for me to ignore. More than that, it’s difficult not to ask him more questions.

In fact, it’s impossible.

“Did Samantha have children?” I ask.

Today, he’s not well. The last shift reported him vomiting during the night. His skin is paler than usual, and he hasn’t been out of bed today. But he’s trying to eat some fruit for me.

Deep lines spread across his forehead. “No. She couldn’t have kids.”

“No?” I sit on the edge of his bed.

“No.” He sets his partially eaten food aside and scoots down, pulling the blanket over him.

“Do you know why?”

“I . . . I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay. You rest.” I gather his uneaten food. “I’ll check in on you later.”

He closes his eyes and mumbles something.

After work, I heat a can of chili—a chili that doesn’t compare to the Fitzgerald family recipe—and video message Fitz.

“Yes?” he answers. I don’t see him, just an open book hiding his face, but at a weird angle that makes it hard to read the title. He’s at the kitchen counter with his phone, most likely propped against a beer bottle.

“Whatcha reading? Maybe I can tell you how the story ends.”

He eyes me over the top of the book with a single peaked brow.

“Is it a mystery?”

“No.”

“Fantasy?”

“No.”

“Romance?”

“No.”

I sigh. “I give up.”

He lowers the book. “Have you read a lot of books about World War II generals? What are the chances of you being able to spoil the ending?”

“I’ve read zero books about World War II generals. Nice to see you too.”

Fitz slides a receipt into his book and sets it aside. “Did you have a good day?” He laces his fingers together on the counter and offers a goofy, toothy grin.

“It was good. Thanks for asking. Yours?”

“Prescribed burning. It was all mind-blowingly titillating.”

“You’re a little frisky tonight. Frisky Fitz. Why is that? Does reading about World War II generals get you hard?”

“What makes you think I’m hard?”

I set down my soup spoon and shrug off my shirt.

“Jesus. What are you ...” He picks up his phone and heads up the stairs. “Will could have been on the sofa. Or young children could have been watching.”

I giggle, returning to my chili in my soft pink bra and black pants. “Whose children?”

“Sometimes I mentor young firefighters.”

“Liar.”

He shuts his bedroom door. “And I bring them to the house for my special chili instead of that crap out of a can you’re eating. And why is that? How is it that you make sourdough bread from scratch but eat chili out of a can?”

“We’re not done talking about your imaginary mentoring, but if you must know, I’m not a cook. I’m a baker, like my mom was a baker, not a cook. That’s what makes us a good match. I bake, and you cook.”

He hums, but I’m unsure if he’s agreeing with me or giving me the hum that’s his verbal eye roll.

“Speaking of my mom. Today, I came across some information that makes me wonder if I was adopted.”

“Sorry, you’re going to have to put your shirt back on, and I’m going to have to stop stroking my dick if we’re going to have a serious conversation.”

I spit out my chili the second the spoon reaches my lips. “Stop.” Wiping my mouth, I laugh. And I also thread my arms through my shirt and pull it over my head.

He brushes his hand on his shirt like he’s wiping it off.

I shake my head. “Only the king of SPAM would masturbate to a can of soup.”

Fitz chuckles. “As you were saying. You think you were adopted?”

I hate this line. I want to share my life with Fitz, but there is a hard line that I’m scared out of my mind to cross. If he knew about Dwight, what would he do? My chest aches as I try to imagine it.

“Since my parents are dead, does it matter? However, the familial health history might be important if I have kids someday.” Instant regret punches me the second I put a period in that sentence.

Fitz’s crestfallen face says it all.

I sigh, setting my spoon in my half-empty bowl of soup. “I can’t keep pretending that I don’t want to leave that door open. Tiptoeing around you on this subject is exhausting.”

He rubs the back of his neck, face tense. “Jaymes—”

“No. I don’t want to hear it. You’re ten years older. So what? You’re afraid of dying. So what? That makes you human. You got a vasectomy. So what? That can be reversed. Or we could use a sperm donor. Or—”

“Jaymes, we’re either a day at a time or nothing. I won’t ask you to tiptoe and pretend if you don’t ask it of me. You know where I stand. And if my grandma hadn’t had a stroke, she would fully support me, because she was the one who told me to stay single. Never have kids. No one to miss you so much they try to take their own life the way she did after losing my parents, my sister, and my grandpa. Want to know why I was homeschooled? My family died. And it was so devastating, I couldn’t go back to school.”

I deflate. At every turn, I learn something new, something tragic.

Will I ever see Fitz with all the puzzle pieces in place?

“I’m sorry.” I lift my gaze to the screen. “Still, you could change your mind,” I murmur.

He doesn’t argue, but the resistance remains etched into his handsome face. With a heavy sigh, he nods slowly. “Sure,” he whispers. “Anything’s possible, even if it’s highly improbable.”

I’ll take a 1 percent chance. He can hold on to his ninety-nine. Fitz has been the object of my affection since the day we met. I know the parts of him that he’s too afraid to see. We wouldn’t be us. We wouldn’t fit like we do if he weren’t meant to live—really live —this life with me.

“Maybe we both need to let go of the past,” I say, with a tone of surrender. “And maybe that won’t change the future, change who we are. But if we stay tethered to the past, how will we know if, in the future, we can fly?”

“Baby, I already know I can fly.” The beautiful hint of a smile steals his lips, and I know we’re good. For now, we’re good.

I remove my shirt again, and my bra.

His eyebrows slide up his forehead as I continue eating my soup.

“We’re done with the serious talk for tonight. Why don’t you rub one out while I finish my chili and make my online chess move? Melissa and I have been stuck on this game for a week.”

“Sucks being homeschooled,” he says.

I hear a noise while I stir my chili. “Is your hand back down your pants again?”

“Fuck yeah.”

I laugh. “I love you, Calvin Fitzgerald.”

He tips his head back, eyes closed. “I know you do.”