Page 15 of Befriending the Bear
“I’m thinking maybe he got heat sick, went back to the truck. But then I see him.” I had to pause, the memory still absurd after all these years. “He’s at the nearest house, unwinding their garden hose. This little green fifty-footer with a spray nozzle, like something you’d use to water petunias.”
“N-no,” Calloway breathed, apparently already seeing where this was going.
“Oh yes. He drags this thing to the fire line, turns it on full blast, and starts spraying flames that are fifteen feet high. The water’s evaporating before it even reaches the fire. And the look on his face was so serious, so determined. Like he’s gonna save the day with residential water pressure and a half-inch hose.”
I shook my head, smiling. “My captain stood there for a full minute, watching. Then he walks over, calm as anything, and says, ‘Thompson, what exactly is your plan here?’ And the kid, bless him, he says, ‘Just trying to help, sir. Every little bit counts, right?’”
Calloway actually laughed, a genuine, surprised sound that lit up his whole face. The sound hit me like a physical thing, warm and perfect, and I immediately wanted to hear it again.
“C-can I ask you something?” he said after a comfortable lull. “About f-firefighting?”
“Sure.”
“What’s it l-like? Knowing you’re g-g-going into something that could…” He paused, searching for words. “That could k-kill you?”
I considered the question, stirring my coffee to buy time. Most people asked about the adrenaline or the heroics. Leave it to Calloway to go straight to the heart of it. “Honestly? You don’t think about it that way. Not in the moment. You consider wind speed and fuel moisture and escape routes. The fear comes later, when you’re safe and your brain catches up to what could have happened.” I met his eyes. “Kind of like grief, actually. You do what needs doing in the moment, and the full weight hits when you finally stop moving.”
Something shifted in his expression. “Marcus was a museum c-curator. Ancient texts, mostly. He could read L-Latin and Greek like they were gr-grocery lists.”
The non sequitur would have thrown me if I hadn’t been learning to read Calloway’s conversational patterns. He approached difficult topics sideways, like a cat circling something unfamiliar.
“He sounds brilliant.”
“He was.” Calloway’s fingers traced patterns on the table. “We met at a f-faculty mixer. I was new to the library, t-terrified of everyone. He made this terrible j-joke, and I laughed so hard I forgot to be self-conscious.”
I could picture it easily, a younger Calloway, probably equally beautiful but less guarded, surprising himself with laughter. “How long were you in New York?”
“Twenty-three years. It was…free. Being gay there was another f-fact, like having brown eyes or preferring tea. Not like—” He gestured vaguely, encompassing Forestville, small towns, the weight of history.
“I know what you mean.” And I did. “I didn’t come out until I was thirty-five. Even then, it was only to my crew. The officialpolicy said it was fine, but policy and reality don’t always match up.”
“W-what made you finally do it?”
“My partner left me.” The old pain barely twinged anymore, like a healed fracture that only ached in bad weather. “David and I had been together for three years, and he said he was tired of being someone’s secret. He wasn’t wrong.”
Calloway studied me with those perceptive eyes. “But your crew w-was okay with it?”
“Better than okay. Turned out half of them already knew and were waiting for me to catch up.” I smiled at the memory. “My captain said the only thing he cared about was whether I could still carry a hundred pounds of hose up a hill. Everything else was my business.”
“That must have been f-freeing,” Calloway said, and there was something wistful in his voice.
“It was. But also terrifying. Once you say something aloud, you can’t take it back.” I paused, remembering those first few weeks after coming out, how I’d analyzed every interaction for signs of change. “Sometimes I wonder if I waited too long. If things might have been different with David if I’d been braver sooner.”
“M-maybe,” Calloway said carefully. “Or maybe you n-needed to be ready. B-bravery on someone else’s timeline isn’t really br-bravery at all.”
I stared at him, struck by the insight. “That’s…yeah. That’s exactly right.”
He flushed slightly under my gaze, looking down at his coffee. “I’ve had a lot of t-time to think about t-timing. About b-being ready versus being f-forced.”
The weight of those words hung between us. I wanted to ask more, to understand what had forced him to build walls aroundhimself, but I could see him starting to withdraw, that careful distance creeping back in.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I said, shifting to lighter ground. “Do you have any recommendations for local hiking trails? My physical therapist says I need to start pushing myself more. Carefully,” I added, seeing concern flicker across his face.
“Oh.” He straightened, clearly relieved by the change of subject. “There’s a trail along the r-river that’s mostly flat. Good for…for b-building stamina without too much strain. It follows the old r-railroad grade, so the incline is gentle.”
“That sounds perfect. Maybe you could show me sometime?” The invitation slipped out before I could stop it, and I watched him tense. “Or draw me a map. I know you’re busy with your writing.”
“I—” He stopped, visibly wrestling with himself. Then, to my surprise, he said, “M-maybe. If it’s a good day. For both of us, I mean. Your l-leg and my—” He gestured vaguely at his throat.
