Page 17 of Befriending the Bear
No, I wasn’t well. I’d fled Brianna’s like a spooked cat, leaving Fraser sitting there with his kind eyes and patient confusion. The man deserved better than my disappearing act. He’d been nothing but kind, sharing his own losses, making me laugh with stories that turned firefighting from something heroic into something human. And I’d repaid that by bolting the moment my carefully constructed walls showed a crack.
My phone sat on the coffee table like an accusation. I should reply to his texts. Apologize. Explain. But explaining meant acknowledging the photo, and acknowledging the photo meant admitting that seven years hadn’t dulled the edge of grief like everyone promised it would.
In those horrific days after Marcus died, people had assured me they’d be there for me. “You’re not alone,” they kept telling me. “I’m here if you need me.”
But soon, other clichés had replaced those. “Time will heal,” was one of them. Or, “Marcus wouldn’t want you to be sad forever.”
The message had been clear: I needed to move on.
Except I couldn’t. Time hadn’t healed anything, and my grief hadn’t lessened like everyone had assured me. Every morning when I got up on my side of our bed, it hit me all over again that he was gone. Instead of half of a whole, I would always be broken, missing a part of me I wasn’t sure I could live without. How could I move on when I couldn’t let go of what I’d lost?
And then, when I finally made an attempt at having a life without Marcus, one stupid text was all it took to remind me I hadn’t healed, hadn’t processed, hadn’t moved on.
Had it cost me the friendship with Fraser? The thought was more painful than it should’ve been, definitely more than I had expected. We barely knew each other, yet we were closer than I’dbeen with anyone since Marcus. And I’d ruined that by walking out on him.
I needed to fix this, and a text wouldn’t do. If I wanted to salvage this friendship—and I really did—I had to show up in person. Before I could talk myself out of it again, I walked over to one of my bookcases and grabbed a book. I still had some wrapping paper, a remnant of my former life. If I was going to grovel, the least I could do was come bearing gifts.
Twenty minutes later, I stood outside Fraser’s house, clutching the book like a shield. I’d managed to keep it dry in the endless drizzle dripping from the dreary skies by keeping it under my jacket.
My knock was barely audible, even to me. If he hadn’t heard it, maybe I could leave the book on the porch with a note and retreat to safety. But then footsteps approached, and the door opened.
Fraser stood there in soft sweatpants and a worn forest service T-shirt, wearing thick woolen socks. He looked painfully homey and comfortable. His expression shifted from surprise to something warmer, though concern lingered in the creases around his eyes. “Calloway.”
“I—” The words tangled immediately. I thrust the book toward him instead, hoping the gesture spoke for me.
He took it carefully, his fingers brushing mine, then unwrapped it. His face lit up. “The Art of Memoir…”
“F-for your stories,” I managed. “The ones you sh-should w-w-write.”
His smile could’ve powered the whole street, and something inside me unclenched. “Come in? I put water on for tea.”
I should’ve said no. Should’ve maintained the safety of the porch, the easy escape route. Instead, I nodded, following him into a house that smelled like something woodsy.
I took off my wet jacket, which he hung for me, and then my boots.
His living room was exactly what I’d expected. Comfortable furniture chosen for function over form, a stone fireplace with photos along the mantel, and bookshelves that looked handmade. But there were surprising touches too, like a vibrant original painting of mountains, a collection of smooth river rocks arranged on a wooden dresser, a well-used guitar propped in the corner.
“You p-play?” I asked, grateful for something to focus on besides the domesticity of being in his space.
“I know the basics.” He headed for the kitchen, gesturing for me to follow. “I learned around campfires, so my repertoire is limited.”
The kitchen was small but efficient, everything in its place. He moved around it with easy familiarity despite the slight hitch in his gait.
“How do you take your tea?” he asked, pulling down two mugs.
“L-little sugar.” I hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to sit, stand, or flee. “Fraser, I’m s-s-sorry about T-T-Tuesday. I was r-rude.”
He turned, leaning against the counter while the kettle heated. “You weren’t rude. Something upset you. There’s a difference.”
The simple acceptance in his voice made my throat tight. “M-Marcus’s friend sent a photo of M-Marcus and me. It caught me off g-guard.”
“Ah.” Like it explained everything. And maybe it did. “Those ambush memories are the worst. Like emotional landmines you forgot were buried.”
The kettle whistled, and he turned to pour water over the tea bags. I watched his hands, marred by scars but so steadyand sure despite everything they’d been through. There was something calming about the ritual, the careful attention to simple tasks.
“Let’s sit down,” he said gently, nodding toward the small kitchen table. “Unless you’d rather use the living room?”
“H-here is good.” The kitchen felt safer somehow, more contained. I pulled out a chair, noticing the way he moved, favoring his right leg more than he had before. “Your l-leg’s b-bothering you.”
