Torch

by Roxie Noir

  “I’m fine,” I finally manage to gasp. A tear runs down my bright red face.

  “This is fine?” he asks, letting his fingers rub a small circle on my upper spine.

  I’m still coughing and just nod, meeting his gaze in the mirror. He doesn’t look worried any more. If anything, he looks slightly amused.

  “Because it seems like you took your drink into the bathroom with you and now you’re choking half to death,” Hunter says, his hand still circling my back.

  I inhale again, clear my throat, and manage to not start coughing.

  “Appearances,” I start.

  I cough again, but get it under control.

  “Can be deceiving,” I say, then cough again.

  He just chuckles, his deep blue eyes sparkling at me.

  “Also, shut up,” I gasp.

  Now he’s laughing, and even though I’m still panting for breath and leaning over the sink, I can’t help but laugh along with him at this incredibly dumb situation. I could never help but laugh along with Hunter.

  Then, for a second, it feels normal that he’s standing there, rubbing my back, teasing me for doing something dumb like choking on fruit punch. It doesn’t feel like I haven’t even heard from him in nearly a decade, or like we had a horrible breakup, or like I cut the varsity letter jacket he gave me into shreds and threw it away.

  I do regret that last thing, for the record. That was a little too far.

  I wipe the tears off my face, and Hunter takes his hand off my back to grab some toilet paper, handing it to me.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asks as I wipe my eyes.

  “Is someone down there?” I hear a man’s voice call from outside the bathroom.

  “Shit,” I say, and even that makes me cough softly, twice.

  Hunter glances at the broken door and makes a face. I grab my plastic punch cup, dump the pink liquid down the drain, and toss the cup in the trash just as Phil Herman appears in the doorway, his plump face in a permanent frown.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks, even though from the look on his face, if I say yes he’s going to disagree.

  I clear my throat again and suppress a cough.

  “I got some water down the wrong pipe,” I say, my voice weak and raspy. “Guess I’ve got a drinking problem.”

  Phil doesn’t smile. He just blinks. Hunter puts his hand on my back again, and this time, I shiver a little bit.

  “I apologize,” he says, and he sounds surprisingly authoritative. “I thought she was having an emergency.”

  “I’m fine,” I offer.

  Phil nods, completely unamused, his mouth a near-perfect straight line. We stare at each other, and I wipe one more tear from my eye, clearing my throat.

  “I see,” he says.

  “I’ll get the door fixed,” I say quickly.

  “It’s my fault, sir,” Hunter says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I thought she was choking and overreacted. I’ll fix that door first thing tomorrow.”

  Phil looks at the door, then at Hunter, and finally at me.

  “Glad you’re okay,” he says, still without cracking a smile. Then he disappears, and I can hear his fading voice call, “It’s fine, Clementine inhaled water and one of the firemen thought she was choking to death...”

  And just like that, we’re alone in a bathroom.

  “At least he didn’t find out that you choked because you took your drink into the bathroom with you,” Hunter finally says, and I look at him in the mirror. His eyes are crinkling around the corners, and though some of the lines are new, the expression isn’t.

  He’s behind me, looking over my shoulder. To summarize: he’s the hot, handsome, rugged picture of masculinity; I’m bright pink, eyes red and still watering.

  I turn away and lean against the sink, cross my arms over my chest, and sigh.

  “It’s a small town and word travels fast,” I say. “I can’t have people thinking I’m the kind of girl who takes food into the ladies’ room.”

  “Even though you are?” he teases.

  “I did it once,” I say.

  “Right.”

  My throat is still scratchy, and I clear it again.

  “You know the joke about the bridge-builder, right?” I ask.

  Hunter shakes his head.

  “Well, I forget the setup, actually, but the punchline is, you can build a thousand bridges, but fuck one sheep and no one ever says, here comes the bridge-builder,” I say.

  Hunter just raises his eyebrows, leaning back against the wall.

  “Because they’re all saying here comes the sheep-fucker,” I explain. “Because that’s the thing—”

  Hunter laughs.

  “I got it, Clem,” he says. “And you don’t want people saying here comes drink-in-the-bathroom girl.”

  “Right,” I say.

  Then there’s a long moment where we just look at each other and I have no idea what to say. A thousand things are rushing through my head, like Hey! It’s been a while! or So you’re a firefighter now? or How long have you been back from Afghanistan or even How’s your mom, who hates me?

  They all seem like dumb things to say, so I don’t say any of them.

  “You’d just have to do something even more newsworthy,” he says.

  I raise one eyebrow.

  “I’m not fucking a sheep,” I say. “Or any farm animal, for that matter.”

  “That actually wasn’t going to be my first suggestion,” he says. “I was just going say dye your hair pink or something.”

  I laugh.

  “Fucking a barnyard animal was at least number four or five on my list,” he says.

  “Pink hair might be more newsworthy around here,” I say, still laughing. “Lots of lonely men on ranches, you know.”

  “Well, there’s one way to find out,” Hunter says, his blue eyes dancing in his head. “I’ll dye my hair, you fuck a sheep, and we’ll compare notes later.”

  “I have to fuck the sheep?”

  “You’re the one who came up with that immediately,” he teases. “Almost like you had it waiting in the wings.”

  “I haven’t gotten that kinky,” I say without thinking.

  Then I realize what I just said out loud, and my mouth snaps shut, my face getting hot.

  Hunter laughs again, and I swallow, blushing and smiling. I’m not generally in the habit of joking about bestiality or how kinky I may or may not be, but something about talking to Hunter feels so natural and comfortable that I completely forget to censor myself.

  It feels like it used to, is what I’m saying.

  “I won’t ask how kinky you’ve gotten,” he asks, his voice slow and laconic. I laugh awkwardly again, and push myself off the sink.

  “We should get out of here,” I say. “Now that I’ve embarrassed myself twice in this room.”

  “You’re blaming the room?”

  “Easier than blaming myself,” I say. “Also, there are better places to stand than a bathroom.”

  I walk for the door and Hunter follows, hitting the light switch on the way out.

  We walk into the hallway, and we’re plunged into near-darkness, the only light the fluorescents from the other end of the hall.

  For the first time, I wonder why he was outside the bathroom door, at the end of this dark hallway. There are plenty of other bathrooms in the church basement. I don’t ask, though.

  “Sorry about the door,” he says as we turn the corner, the lights washing over us. “Sometimes the training kicks in.”

  “Pun unintended?” I say, grinning at him.

  Hunter chuckles and shakes his head.

  “I guess that hasn’t changed either,” he says.

  We walk up the stairs to street-level, where plenty of people are still milling around the Methodist Church’s small front yard, some kids playing on the fenced-in swing set. My ankles wobble a little in my heels on the grass, but I stay upright.

  As soon as Hunter steps toward the crow
d, I swear every head turns, and it catches me by surprise.

  Old ladies who’ll barely give me the time of day light up like gray-haired Christmas trees. The high school cheerleaders whisper to each other and giggle. Thirty-something moms holding babies give him a long, slow once-over while ignoring their husbands.

  He’s a firefighter who just saved the town, I remind myself. The point of this whole dinner was to says thanks to his squadron. Of course people are staring.

  Then Nancy Turner, the plump, iron-haired lady who was in charge of giving everyone exactly the same amount of spaghetti, waves him over toward her. Hunter looks down at me.

  “I wouldn’t refuse if I were you,” I say, even though I’m a little disappointed, and drop my voice to a murmur. “The Ladies’ Auxiliary can cause you pain in ways you’ve never even imagined.”

  “I’ve seen hell, and it’s an endless spaghetti dinner,” he mutters back, waving at Nancy.

  She makes an even more emphatic come over here gesture, and Hunter glances down at me.

  “Back me up, will you?” he asks.

  Then he starts walking for Nancy without waiting for me to answer.

  For a split second, I’m annoyed, irritation flaring through me like gasoline catching fire in a rush.

  I guess he still does this too, I think. Just walking into something and expecting me to follow.

  But then it fades almost instantly, and I realize I just got annoyed about something that happened eight years ago.

  Just pretend this is all brand-new, I tell myself. At least pretend you’re just old friends seeing each other after a while.

  Not everything he does is about you. It never was.

  I follow Hunter to the throng of ladies, where Nancy already has one hand on his arm and is gushing about him to her friends, all of whom are actually smiling real smiles.

  I sure don’t get real smiles from this crowd.

  “The fire came within a few miles of Trudy’s house,” Nancy is saying. “She told me she nearly had to evacuate. Had her bags packed and everything.”

  “Thank the Lord she didn’t,” says another woman — Shelly? — who’s got her hand over her heart.

  “All those mementos she has,” pipes up another woman. “She’s been collecting those spoons for almost forty years.”

  Everyone nods somberly. Then they look at me like they’re noticing my presence for the first time.

  “I didn’t know you two were acquainted,” Nancy says, her voice cooling a little. She’s never been a big fan of me, though I’m not sure why. Maybe just because her personality sucks.

  Hunter and I look at each other for a moment, then back at the ladies.

  “We’re old friends,” he says.

  “We went to high school together,” I say. “Over in Ashlake.”

  “Oh, my sister lives there,” one of the ladies says, but I barely hear her.

  Old friends.

  It feels weirdly good to put a label on what we are, and it feels weirdly good that the label is old friends, like we really are past our dumb breakup bullshit. Like finally, at least, we’ve talked again and we’re cool.

  “Go fighting bison!” Hunter says, holding up one fist, and the ladies all titter-laugh.

  “We want to hear all about firefighting,” one of them says. “Isn’t it scary?”

  “Actually, I said I’d see Clementine home,” Hunter says, and looks over at me.

  I’m about to say no, you didn’t, when I remember his request for backup.

  Well, his demand, but that’s not a fight old friends have. Instead, I fake a huge yawn that turns into a real one.

  “Yeah, I have to get up bright and early tomorrow,” I say.

  “It’s sweet of you to walk a lady home,” one of the ladies says.

  Nancy nods, but the look she gives me isn’t quite as positive. She lets his arm go.

  “Come into Ellie’s Bakery sometime,” a woman says as we turn away. “Free cookies for firefighters!”

  “I’d be delighted,” Hunter says, and then we’re walking away from the knot, across the lawn, and onto the sidewalk.

  We walk in silence for half a block, cross a street, and then he speaks up again.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” he says.

  “It’s your hide when they find you later,” I say. “And make no mistake, they will find you.”

  “I can only take so much goddamn fake nice in one day,” he says. “Tonight they’re grateful their houses didn’t burn down, but give them a week and they’ll be writing letters to the editor about how today’s misspent youth will never amount to anything and we should all be drafted.”

  I laugh out loud.

  “Miss small-town life yet?” I ask.

  “I don’t have to miss it,” he says. “I still live in Ashlake. In the winter, anyway.”

  Ashlake is an hour away as the crow flies. Three hours if you’re a human and have to drive around the mountain.

  “I didn’t know that,” I say.

  “You would if you had Facebook, or Twitter, or went to our five-year reunion,” he says. “I was starting to wonder if you were dead.”

  I make a face, but deep inside, I think: he looked for me.

  “I spend half my time in the woods, digging holes to poop into and not showering a whole lot,” I say. “And I didn’t really want to re-live high school.”

  “You’re the only one,” he says, as we cross another street and I lead us left. “I’m pretty sure most everyone we went to high school with peaked at about age seventeen.”

  I glance over at him. Even if he looks a little uptight right now, in a button-down shirt and khakis, I can tell that at least he didn’t peak physically at seventeen. Not that he was bad then. Not at all.

  A quick shiver runs through me, and I tear my eyes away.

  Old friends, I think.

  “You don’t think you peaked at seventeen?” I ask.

  “I sure as hell hope not,” he says, and smiles his most charming smile at me. “You think I did?”

  “I don’t think I’m in a position to judge,” I say. “I don’t know what you’ve been up to.”

  He gives me a long look. We turn right, onto my block, and I start to feel like I’m under a microscope. I keep my eyes straight ahead, suddenly too nervous to look over at him.

  “I did two more tours after the last time we talked,” he says. “And you know how I always said I was gonna go to college after?”

  I just nod.

  “I lasted less than a semester,” he says. “Then I applied for the Hotshots, went to training, and here I am. Summers, I dig fire breaks and set controlled burns. Winters, I stay with my parents and I work on their dude ranch.”

  “You’re a firefighter half the time and a cowboy half the time?” I ask.

  “It sounds better when you put it that way,” he says.

  “You’re half the Village People all by yourself.”

  “That’ll look good on my resume,” he says.

  We’re almost to the house I share with two other forest rangers. It’s big, creaky, and could use some fresh paint, but the rent is cheap since it’s owned by the forest service, and it’s in a good location, right on the edge of town.

  Besides, I spend half my time out in the woods, doing my job. I don’t need all that much house.

  I stop in front of it, and Hunter looks up at it, then at me.

  “This is you?” he asks.

  “This is me,” I say, rummaging in my purse for my keys.

  He laughs, and I look up. Hunter jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

  “They put us in the old bunk house,” he says.

  I blink. Then I turn and look at the house next to mine. I know it used to be some sort of lodging, and it’s owned by the Forest Service too, but I didn’t know they were having people stay there.

  “We just got in this afternoon,” Hunter goes on.

  “How long?” I ask, finally pulling my keys out.

  He’s
next door? I think. I’m going to see him all the time, whether I like it or not.

  “Probably four, five days,” he says. “Just enough time to rest up before something else catches on fire. Don’t worry, you’ll be rid of us soon.”

  I make a face at him.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say.

  “I know,” Hunter says.

  I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t find the words for I like that you know or this is more okay than I thought it would be, so I just look at him for a long moment, his deep blue eyes nearly black in the dark.

  “You look good,” Hunter finally says, his deep, raspy voice softer now. “And you seem happy.”

  “You look the same,” I say, because he does. He looks a little older, maybe his face looks a little leaner, his hair a little shorter, but all that’s minor. In all the ways that count, he’s still the handsome, all-American jock who got assigned to be my lab partner in eleventh grade.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, smiling.

  “You would,” I tease, and we both laugh.

  “I’ll see you around?” he asks.

  I swallow, because I’m suddenly nervous that he’s leaving. I wanted more than see you around. I don’t know what, because I don’t really understand what we are to each other.

  I don’t have a map for this relationship. But this kind of casual later, dude, isn’t quite it.

  Old friends, I remind myself.

  “Yeah,” I say, ignoring the sudden butterflies in my stomach. “You’re just next door.”

  His gaze flicks from my eyes to my lips and back, so fast I nearly miss it.

  Kiss me, my subconscious whispers, and I hold my breath in sudden alarm.

  DO NOT KISS ME, I think. I definitely don’t want that, not even a little.

  Then he nods once, still smiling, and turns around. I don’t exhale until he’s walking away.

  4

  Hunter

  “Sleep well, Casden?” Porter barks.

  I’m still standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing nothing but boxers, still half-asleep. Normally I’m not this groggy, but I got ten hours of sleep in a real bed last night, and my body’s not used to it.

  “I slept fine,” I say, already feeling defensive. As out of it as I am, I can just fucking tell he’s spoiling for a fight.