Page 7 of From Air

“Oh, that bag is—”

Too late.

Maren has my box of tampons on the counter next to my toothpaste and deodorant.

“That goes to my room.” I clear my throat and conceal my embarrassment with an overkill smile.

“I’ll put them in our bathroom. There’s no need to haul your toiletries in and out of the house. If you don’t like my shed, just let me know. We can swap rooms. Traditionally, the shed is for the newbie—the house rookie. But I remodeled it when I moved here, and honestly, it’s the best room in the house because it’s not in the house with these disgusting men.” Maren disappears upstairs with my toiletries.

“Told you she’s a lot.” Will lumbers to standing in his gray low-hanging sweatpants and black T-shirt and joins me in the kitchen to unpack my non-tampon bag of groceries.

I have two bonus roommates and more help than I need.

“This one’s yours.” He organizes my nonperishable items in the empty, faded oak cabinet below the beige-and-green granite counter. And I use the word “organize” lightly.

I’ll redo it later.

“Your shelf in the fridge is the empty one, and we share condiments. If you use the last of something shared, you have eight hours to replace it.”

I laugh.

“I’m not joking.” Will tips his chin toward the stairs. “Fitz will lose his shit if we run out of Dijon. He’s such a mustard snob—puts it on everything.”

“You only have to put up with us for a few months,” Maren notes, popping around the corner while tucking the front of her red-and-white flannel shirt into her black skinny jeans. “When fire season starts, Fitz and I will be nonexistent. And Will spends his days off trying to impregnate half of Montana.”

“Lies. All lies.” Will looks askance at Maren.

I giggle, folding my paper bags. “It’s fine. It sounds like I’d better not get attached to any of you, since you’re leaving me in a few months.”

Will and Maren share somber expressions.

“I said something wrong.” My gaze ping-pongs between them.

They continue to inspect each other for a few more seconds. Then Maren musters a sad smile. “We might as well give you full disclosure.” She swallows hard.

Will starts to stroll past her but stops and kisses the crown of her head before finding his spot on the sofa.

The temperature of the room drops ten degrees in five seconds.

Maren pulls in a shaky breath. “We have a room available for you because my brother, Brandon, died last summer. A firefighter—a hotshot.”

“I’m sorry.” I squeeze her hand, hoping my presence won’t be a reminder that he’s no longer here, the way that box in the shed is a reminder that my mom is gone.

She nods, blinking back the tears. “Thank you. It took me a while to feel okay about sleeping in his room. But it’s oddly comforting now. And go ahead and get attached to us.” Her sadness turns into something resembling hope. “Isn’t that the point of life?”

“Except Fitz. Don’t waste your time on him,” Will adds.

Maren smirks and releases my hand to blot the corners of her eyes. “Definitely don’t waste your time on Fitz. It’s not that he’s a pariah, but he’s not far off.”

“Poor Fitz.” I snicker, retrieving the bag of trail mix from my cabinet. “Maren, what do you do when it’s not fire season?”

She fiddles with the edges of my grocery bags. “I—”

“She transports Professor Gray Balls to his conferences.” Will cackles.

“William, should I be concerned that you seem to know his balls are gray?” Maren asks.

Will ignores her.

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