Page 12 of From Air

“Five? Why so early? Isn’t it offseason for you?” I stick my finger into the soup and lick it. It’s lukewarm.

“My body doesn’t get an offseason. PT every day.”

“Yeah, me too. I always get my ten thousand steps in.” I pop the bowl of soup back into the microwave.

“Wow, ten thousand. What is that ... four? Five miles?”

“Something like that. I have short legs.”

“Yeah, speaking of your legs. You should lift with them when you shovel. Your back’s going to hurt like a motherfucker in the morning.”

“Oh? Did you make that observation while you watched me dig out my Jeep?”

He opens the book he brought down. “I did.”

“You could have helped.” I stir my reheated soup.

“And I probably would have, but rumor has it I’m broken. Maybe you can fix that, and then I’ll have the mental and emotional capacity to recognize when a damsel is in distress.”

“Did I look like a damsel in distress?” I glare at him.

He focuses on his book. “I don’t know what you looked like. I just know it was painful to watch.”

I absentmindedly tap the spoon on the edge of my bowl.

Calvin clears his throat, scowling at me.

“Sorry.” I stop tapping.

Minutes later, he clears his throat again and shoots me another scowl.

“What?”

“The chair creaks every time you bounce your leg. Stop bouncing your leg. Can you hold still?”

“No. I’m a fidgeter. I always have been. Did you know—”

“Stop.” He holds out a flat hand in my direction. “If you don’t want to sound like a nerd wearing a ‘homeschooled’ neon sign, then don’t ever start a sentence with ‘Did you know.’”

“Fidgeting is good for your health. It increases blood flow, reduces artery disease, and calms anxiety.”

“Did you knowthat it has the opposite effect on those in the same room as the fidgeter?” Calvin eyes me with displeasure.

“That’s not true,” I scoff.

He smirks, refocusing on his book. It’s a book on theTitanic. AndI’mthe nerd?

After studying him over my soup bowl for a good five minutes while focusing on not fidgeting, I clear my throat. Fitz seems to speak that language.

His head swivels in my direction.

“Why jump out of planes?”

“To get to the fire. Any more questions?” His uncompromised grin is as fake as mine but not nearly as playful.

“Hotshots don’t jump out of planes.”

“Yes,Encyclopedia Britannica. I used to be a hotshot, so I can confirm that you are correct. But we smoke jumpersjump. It’s in our name.”

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