Page 14 of Befriending the Bear
Fraser and I had so much more in common than I had expected…and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
6
FRASER
The coffee shop felt different on Tuesday—busier, louder, full of tourists clutching maps and asking Jamie about the “authentic local experience.” I’d arrived five minutes early, claiming our corner table before the lunch rush could steal it. My leg was cooperating today, which meant I’d left the cane at home. Pride was a stupid reason to endure pain, but some habits die hard.
I watched Calloway through the window before he saw me. He stood outside for a full minute, hand on the door handle, visibly gathering courage. The way Calloway approached difficult situations reminded me of scouting a tricky jump spot—careful assessment, multiple escape routes planned, never rushing into something until you’d read all the conditions. I could appreciate that.
When he finally entered, his eyes found mine immediately, and the smile that flickered across his face made my stomach flutter.
“H-hi,” he managed, sliding into his chair. Today, he wore a soft blue button-down that brought out the silver threading through his dark hair. “Sorry I’m l-late.”
“You’re not.” I pushed the coffee I’d ordered for him across the table—dark roast, no cream, just how Jamie said he liked it. “Thought I’d save you the counter negotiation.” I gestured at the plate between our coffees. “I also got some spiced cake Brianna recommended. The smell reminds me of Christmas spices.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Th-thank you.”
“How have you been since Friday?”
“G-good. N-n-nothing sp-special.”
As usual, his stutter was worse as we started to talk.
“I really liked book club Friday,” I said, more than happy to carry the conversation for now. “You were right that we can discover new things, even in poems we know well. I loved your insights on Walt Whitman.”
What I had loved most of all was that he’d shown up. It had felt like a victory, like seeing him here again today.
“Th-thank you. I l-l-like his poems.”
“Same.” I took another bite of the cake. “I’m also liking this cake. It’s delicious.”
“It is. B-but it tastes m-m-more like fall?”
“You’re right. It does have a bit of a pumpkin spice vibe.”
We settled into the familiar rhythm of conversation, and I told him about my failed attempts at gardening back in Montana. “Never could get the watering right. Either drowned them or let them dry out. You’d think someone who spent thirty years reading moisture levels in forests could manage a few potted plants.”
Calloway’s lips twitched with amusement. “It’s d-different when they can’t tell you what they n-need.” He took a sip of his coffee, seeming to consider something. “Plants are honest though. They sh-show you exactly how they’re doing.”
“Unlike people,” I said, then immediately wondered if that was too heavy for a Tuesday afternoon coffee.
But Calloway nodded slowly. “Unlike p-people.”
There was a pause, comfortable despite the weight of unspoken truths between us, and then his expression shifted to something lighter.
“I t-tried to grow tomatoes,” Calloway said then, a rueful smile playing at his lips. “In N-New York. Marcus thought I was c-crazy, but I insisted on trying.” He wrapped his hands around his mug, eyes distant with memory. “Got these little p-pots, special soil, everything. Put them on our f-fire escape, even though the super said we w-weren’t supposed to. Every m-morning I’d water them, check for bugs, t-talk to them like they were p-pets. Marcus would laugh, said I was turning into one of those p-plant people.” The stutter eased slightly as he got lost in the story. “Four months of b-babying those things. Moving them to catch the tiny bit of sun that m-made it between buildings. And you know what I g-got for all that effort?”
I leaned forward, already charmed by the image of him fussing over pots on a fire escape. “What?”
“Three t-tomatoes.” He held up three fingers. “Three! And they were so small, like ch-cherry tomatoes that never quite made it. But I was so proud, you’d think I’d grown p-prize-winners.” His smile turned softer. “We ate them in a salad, and M-Marcus pretended they were the best tomatoes he’d ever had.”
The way his face lit up telling that story—the mix of self-deprecating humor and genuine joy in the memory—made clear how much Marcus had meant to him. But if I affirmed that, would it scare him off again? Cause him to close up? It was such a touchy subject…
Maybe I was better off sharing a funny story of my own. Something that might make him smile like that again. “We had this intern once, fresh out of high school. Captain wanted to see if he had what it took. The kid was so eager to prove himself, youknow? First grass fire of the season, nothing major, just a couple of acres near some houses.”
I paused, taking a sip of coffee. “So we’re setting up the perimeter, getting ready to do a controlled burn to stop the spread, real textbook stuff. And I look over, and this kid—Thompson was his name—he’s gone. Just vanished.”
Calloway’s eyes were bright with interest, leaning forward slightly.
