Page 94 of The Fireman and the Flirt

“That’s a lot of keys,” said the closing agent, an older man in a short sleeve button down with a solid blue tie.

“I have a busy life.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but was afraid to ask.

That was the extent of our chitchat. Fortunately, Cary bounded into the conference room before the silence became too much. His shirt was a deep purple that provided a much-needed dash of color to this drab room.

“Oh no. Were you waiting for me? I was stuck behind the slowest driver. That’s the problem with living in a quaint small town: one-lane roads. It’s all fun and farmers markets until you’re trying to get somewhere.”

He slipped into the chair next to me, his body somewhat tense. I wasn’t sure where we stood after our fight. Was this solely a business transaction to him? I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I figured it was best to keep things professional.

“Hi.” He gave me a quick nod of acknowledgement and turned to the pile of papers on the table.

There was so much I wanted to say to him. I wanted him to know that I missed him, that I didn’t want this to be the last time we saw each other. But all that came out of me was a quick nod back.

“You ready to become a homeowner again?” he asked me while thumbing through the stack of papers.

“Yep. Let’s get this over with.” I managed a half-smile. It was painful enough to be sitting next to him and not able to hold his hand or joke with him. Each minute that passed would be compounded torture. It was best I got out as soon as I could.

“Okay.” His face dropped slightly, surprised at my directness. “We can do that.”

“I have to get back to the firehouse,” I lied.

“Duty calls.” Cary nodded again.

“We’ll make this quick and painless,” said the closing agent.

“I also have places to be.” The female agent fiddled with her keys. What kind of adventures was she off to after this? Did she have to attend to the multiple people she had locked up in her clients’ houses?

The closing agent handed Cary the first document, who then slid it over to me. Cary gave a cursory explanation of what I was signing, then pointed to the X where my signature was required. He offered me the option to read through, but if I did that, we’d be here all day.

“This one is the initial escrow statement, which outlines what will come out of escrow for taxes and insurance in your first year.” He slid the paper my way, and I got a whiff of his cocoa butter hand cream.

I signed my name.

He passed me the next document. There was a rigidness to his movements that made me wonder if he was just as anxious to get out of here. Maybe he really had put me in the past.

“This one is the deed to the property, officially transferring ownership to you.”

I could’ve been signing my soul to the devil himself for all I knew. I scrawled my name and passed it back.

So this was how it was going to end? The man who made me believe in love again and cracked open my heart was going to fade away in a whimper of signed documents?

All because of one fight over a stupid rumor from decades ago?

What we had was real and deep-rooted. The gearhead story was trifling in comparison.

Yeah, like with Paula, things could go south with Cary out of nowhere. Or things could be amazing and Cary could still drop dead right in front of me. Such was the risk in being alive. We had to cherish the highs because we got less of them as we got older.

I wasn’t giving up without a real fight.

“Derek?” Cary pointed at the X on the document. He could barely look at me.

Instead of my John Hancock, I wrote this instead:I love you.

I shoved it back to him defiantly.

And Cary absent-mindedly slid it over to the closing agent before yanking it back at the last second, his eyes bulging out of his skull. I could always count on him for cartoonish reactions. His face was adorably elastic.

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