Page 49 of Befriending the Bear
“I know what I am, Fraser. I’m a f-forty-eight-year-old man who can b-barely order coffee without anxiety. Who p-panics in thunderstorms. Who hasn’t published anything b-b-because I’ve been st-stuck forever.” His voice cracked. “I know exactly how s-small my life is. And I know how b-big yours was. Still could be.”
I moved toward him, but he stepped back, arms wrapped around himself like armor.
“D-don’t,” he whispered. “Please. Just…go think about your d-d-decision. Without f-factoring me in.”
“That’s not possible anymore.”
“It has to be.” He met my eyes then, and the resignation there was worse than anger would have been. “Because I can’t b-be the reason you don’t t-t-take this job. P-p-please. Just go.”
The defeat in his voice nearly undid me. I stood there for a long moment, wanting to fight, to make him see that four weeks wasn’t the same as abandonment. But pushing now would only make him retreat further. I’d learned that much about Calloway—he needed time to process, to find his way through the fear to whatever lay beneath. The fear in his eyes was real, rooted in losses I couldn’t argue away with logic.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
He nodded but didn’t meet my eyes. I let myself out, each step away from his house feeling like a betrayal of everything we’d been building.
The walk home was torture. Every step sent pain shooting through my leg, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. The night had gone sideways so fast that I was still reeling. One minute, we’d been planning Thanksgiving dinner together. The next, Calloway had shut me out completely.
Back at my house, I poured myself a generous measure of whiskey and sank into the couch. Accepting the teaching job should have been a no-brainer. Good pay, a chance to stay connected to firefighting, proof that I still had value despite my injuries. Four weeks wasn’t that long. People in relationships deal with separations all the time.
But the look on Calloway’s face when I’d mentioned Missoula, that flash of panic before the walls went up, kept replaying in my mind. He’d tried to be supportive, to say the right things, but I’d seen the truth underneath. He was terrified I wouldn’t come back.
And maybe he had reason to be. I’d been thinking the same thing, hadn’t I? That four weeks could lead to more. That being back in that world might remind me of everything I’d lost.
My phone buzzed. For a moment, hope flared. Maybe Calloway had reconsidered, wanted to talk. But it was Morrison sending follow-up information about the training program. Class schedules, accommodation options, a tentative curriculum. Everything was laid out neat and professional, waiting for my yes.
I set the phone aside and closed my eyes, trying to imagine January. Four weeks of teaching eager recruits, sharing war stories in the evenings, being useful again in the way I understood best. It should have been exciting. Instead, all I could think about was Calloway eating dinner alone, nobody to share his perfectly seasoned risotto with.
You’re being ridiculous. He managed seven years without you.
But that was before. Before I’d held him through panic attacks and storm-dark nights. Before we’d learned each other’s rhythms and created routines that felt as essential as breathing. Before I’d watched him slowly unfurl, trusting me with pieces of himself he’d kept hidden for years.
The whiskey burned, but not enough to wash away the memory of his voice.I know exactly how small my life is.
Christ. Did he really think that? That his life was small because it was quiet, contained? He had no idea how extraordinary he was—the way he found beauty in ordinary moments, how he created sanctuary in a world that had wounded him, the courage it took to keep trying every day.
I thought about calling him, but what would I say? That I was considering turning down the job? That would prove his point about making decisions based on a two-month relationship. Arelationship we hadn’t even officially labeled as such, I might add.
That I was definitely taking it? That felt like confirming his worst fears.
Sleep didn’t come easily. I lay in bed replaying every conversation we’d had about the future, looking for signs I’d missed. We’d been so careful to take things day by day, but maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe we needed to have the hard conversations about what we were building, what we both wanted.
All I knew was that with Calloway, I wasn’t looking for a summer romance that burned hot and died out. I wanted the kind of fire that would burn steady for decades, the kind you built a life around.
But what did he want?
I had no fucking clue.
17
CALLOWAY
The moment the door closed behind Fraser, the protective walls I’d spent years constructing felt all too fragile. I’d thought I was safe, that I had protected myself against ever getting so deeply hurt ever again. Yet here I was.
Alone in the sudden silence, my mind replayed our conversation, dissecting every word, every pause, looking for where things had gone wrong. I had tried to be supportive, but inside, fear clenched around me like an iron fist.
His life had once been expansive, filled with adrenaline and camaraderie. A life so far removed from mine that it seemed inevitable he’d feel its pull again. And this four-week stint could be the catalyst. Sure, he seemed content here now, but he’d needed that time to recover, to accept who he had become. But he still had strong ties to the life he’d led. What if he realized he missed it too much to stay away?
It wasn’t the prospect of him leaving for four weeks that haunted me. No, it was the specter of permanence, the fear of becoming a footnote in Fraser’s life story, a brief interlude in a town he might eventually see as too small to contain his zest for life, for adventure.
