Page 15 of Angel's Smoke

Anna:I wouldn’t have made it this far in life without a healthy amount of worry.

Iron:Worrying borrows more trouble than you need.

Anna:I’m also very good at managing debt, so don’t you *ahem* worry.

Iron:About as good as managing your vehicle’s maintenance schedule?

Anna scoffed, read the words again, then dug her top teeth into her bottom lip and set her thumbs to typing.

Anna:Do not make me take back my gratitude, sir. I don’t give it out lightly.

Iron:Wouldn’t dream of it. Such an action would be outside my integrity.

He’d accented his point with a cartoon wink floating within the small lemon drop circle of an emoji. That little smiley face siphoned up every last bubble of hot air from within her sails, and any venomous retort she’d been readying died a quick and painful death.

Anna:Didn’t figure you for an emoji guy.

Iron:Now, that has me curious. In the five minutes we’ve spent in each other’s company, what did you figure me as?

Anna:Oh, I don’t know. Someone who travels around the country looking for logs to flip at Highland game festivals. Maybe find a hot dog eating competition or two. Oh, I’ve got it! Someone who operates a crusher. You know those machines that compress cars down for recycling? I bet you’d be really great at running one of those.

Her exuberance once again got the better of her, and as she stared back at the term-paper-sized text she just fired off, her face pinched with embarrassment. Words were her thing, had always been. Clear communication was a hill she’d happily die on and was why she often let her nutrition appointments rattle on for an extra fifteen nonbillable minutes when she wanted to make sure the directions she was imparting were sinking in with the client the way they needed to. And yes, in her mostly solitary lifestyle, she’d learn to perfect the conveyance of her true self through written mediums, with perhaps an unhealthy reliance on adjectives.

But these were texts. Short-form messages. The realm of Ks, BRBs, and OMGs.

And she’d just lapsed into purple prose with a total stranger.

Her fingers flew fast and furious over the keys.I didn’t mean to type that much. I know texts are for?—

Iron interrupted her, answering her paragraph bubble with an impressively sized one of his own.

Iron:First, it’s called the caber toss, and contrary to what you’ve assumed about my physique, I don’t quite have calves athletic enough to pull off a kilt. Second, hot dogs give me indigestion. I’m more of an espresso and biscotti guy. And third, don’t really care for hard hats.

Anna:Because of helmet hair?

She smiled, remembering that his hair had been long enough to pull back into a hair tie, and then immensely relieved that he was playing along with her profuse chats.

Iron:Because hard hats aren’t foolproof, and I like to look at the margins.

Anna:What the heck does that even mean?

Iron:It means that even the safest bets come with risk, and I’m risk averse.

Anna:Ah. Is that why you’re so offended by my car’s lack of brake pad thickness?

She’d meant it as a quip, a light shot across the bow that would keep this surprisingly buoyant conversation from swapping places with the mildly mounting worry over what she would do when this tête-à-tête eventually ended. Of the sleep that would ultimately claim her and spit her out into a dawn full of snow and uncertainty. But when Iron didn’t immediately respond, a new concern shot ice water through her veins, shocking the vibrant enjoyment the universe had seen fit to give her into just another memory.

When his words returned, they forced her lungs to hold back her breath of relief.

Iron:Do you have anyone to help you?

The question cast a shadow of promises that had seemed as out of place in her cheerful bedroom as the man’s presence.

Anna:I won’t answer that.

Iron:Why not?

Anna:Safety.

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