Page 48 of Befriending the Bear
“I don’t want to go. I w-want to stay here. Maybe c-cook for people who don’t have anywhere else to go.” He looked up, vulnerable. “Is that s-selfish?”
“It’s self-preservation. There’s a difference.”
He smiled, small but genuine. “Would you want to help? With the d-dinner, I mean. If you’re not going back to M-montana.”
“I’d love to help,” I said, pushing away thoughts of January. “I wasn’t planning on going to Montana anyway.”
“No?”
I shrugged. “It’s easier for everyone if I don’t go. Maybe for Christmas, but we’ll see. The holidays have such extra meaning that everything becomes supercharged. That’s a lot of pressure to deal with.”
He patted my hand. “I’m sorry.”
We finished dinner while talking about menu possibilities and who might need a place to go for the holiday. Jamie might not have plans, so we wanted to invite them. And I’d heard about a guy who’d bought an old campground, who rarely came into town. Locals called him the hermit. Maybe he’d like to come? Itfelt good to make concrete plans for a future that included both of us.
After dinner, we settled on the couch with our books. Reading side by side, occasionally sharing passages that struck us, had become our favorite evening ritual. Tonight, though, I couldn’t focus on the words. My mind kept drifting to Morrison’s call, to the choice I’d have to make.
“Okay, that’s the third time you’ve t-turned back to the same p-p-page,” Calloway said, setting his own book aside. “What’s going on?”
I closed my book, buying time. He knew me too well already, and that was a comfort as much as an annoyance right now. “I got a call today. From my old chief.”
Calloway went very still. “Oh?”
“He wants me to teach. Four-week program for new recruits in January.” I watched his face as I spoke, saw the micro-expressions flicker across it. Surprise, worry, something that might have been pride. “It’s in Missoula.”
“That’s…” He paused. “That’s w-w-wonderful. Using your experience without the ph-physical demands.”
“Yeah. It’s a good opportunity.”
“You should d-do it.” The words came out steady, but I heard the effort behind them.
“Calloway—”
“No, really. This is p-perfect for you. A way to st-stay connected to that world.” He picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion. “When do you have to d-d-decide?”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
“What’s to th-think about? It’s only four w-w-weeks.” He rose. “I’m tired.”
And he was not inviting me to spend the night. Frustration bubbled inside me. “I’m trying to have an open and honest conversation with you about this. Why are you shutting me out?”
“It’s n-n-not my decision to m-make. You n-need to do what’s b-b-best for you.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “What about us? What about doing what’s best for us?”
Calloway turned to face me, and I saw the walls going up, brick by brick. “There is no ‘us’ in this d-decision, Fraser. This is about your c-career. Your life.”
“You’re part of my life now.” The words came out more intense than I’d intended, but I meant every one of them. “Or at least I thought you were.”
His jaw worked, the stutter fighting to get out whatever he was holding back. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. “It’s been t-two months. We’ve known each other t-two months. You c-can’t make career decisions based on?—”
“On what? On you?” I stood too, my leg protesting the sudden movement. “Why not? It’s four weeks of teaching, not a permanent move.”
“That’s how it st-starts.” His voice had gone quiet, resigned. “Four weeks turn into s-six and then m-m-more. Then they offer you s-something p-permanent. Then you realize you m-miss it too much to st-stay away.”
I wanted to argue, to promise that wouldn’t happen. But hadn’t I been thinking the same thing on my walk? That this could lead to more opportunities, more ways to stay connected to firefighting?
“Calloway—”
