Page 41 of Ablaze

I smile. “Don’t mention it.”

She turns to Dean, a smile stretched across her face and her bangs waving over her forehead with a gust of wind. “Ready to take me home, sugar?”

Dean swivels his eyes from her to me, pausing to scan my face and gauge my reaction again. I never told him about how Jessie asked me for permission to pursue him, so he has no idea that I’m not surprised by her forwardness. “Uh, yeah . . . I can drop you home.”

We wave a quick bye to each other, and I’m just about to close the door to Warren’s car after getting inside when I hear Jessie say, “Well, if you’re gonna carry me home, then I insist you come up for a slice of blueberry pie. I dare say I make the best in the whole state of California!”

Chapter Twelve

DEAN

Five Years Ago

I check my air pack and medical supplies bag before making a round around the engine, restocking and taking inventory as needed. I’m just inputting the EMS report from our last call on my tablet when Coolidge calls my name.

“Yo! Your girl’s here to see you. I told her to wait for you in the kitchen.”

I take a breath, trying not to forget my train of thought so I can finish the report. “I’ll head over in a minute.”

Coolidge heads back inside the station, and I run a hand over my face. It’s not that I don’t want to see her; it’s just that, lately, it seems like she makes it hard for me to see anyone else but her. In fact, I’ve seen her every night that I haven’t slept at the station and every day that I’m not working–she’s made sure of it.

Some nights I actually look forward to spending the night here in the bunk room rather than at my own place because it almost feels like a respite from being around her all the time.

Fuck, I sound like a dick, even in my own head.

It’s been a little less than a year since Jessie and I started dating, and while we’ve had some fun times together, there are times when it feels like we’ve been together forever.

And not in a good way.

It’s not that she’s a shitty person, nor is she a shitty girlfriend–I wouldn’t be with her if that was the case–but there are times I wish she was . . . someone else.

Christ. I’m clearly not doing a good job of highlighting anything good about her.

The fact is, there are good things about Jessie. Great things, even!

She’s thoughtful, fun, and caring. In fact, on more than one occasion, she’s come over with dinner she made at home so I’d have something to eat after a long shift. A few months ago, I went through a particularly tough bout of heat exhaustion and a bad respiratory issue, and even though I told her I’d be fine on my own, Jessie refused to leave me alone–doting on me hand and foot for an entire week. And above all else, unlike the women I’ve dated in the past, she also hasn’t ever complained about my crazy work schedule.

In general, she’s always just gone with the flow. It’s why things have worked out well for us for this long.

Sure, she can be overbearing with how much of my time she demands or the way she wants to spend every waking moment together, but in all fairness, she means well. And despite the fact that she can be chatty and spacey at times, I’ve come to find those things endearing.

But in spite of all the good things–despite me actually caring about her–there’s one thing I’ve always known.

We’re not serious.

Let me rephrase that. I’m not serious about her, and I never will be.

Since day one–a couple of weeks after we went kayaking with Mala and Douchebag–I’ve been upfront with her. I’m not the guy she’ll walk down the aisle with or the guy she’ll take home to her mom. I’m not looking to be attached, plain and simple. And if that was good with her, then we could spend time together. Despite my conditions, she still wanted to come around . . . so I let her.

I guess I hadn’t noticed how lonely I’d become . . .

I hadn’t touched another woman since the day I broke up with Nora almost four years ago. I almost did the night I found out Mala was dating Warren a year ago with that chick whose name I can never remember. Teagan? No . . .

I pinch the bridge of my nose, wracking my brain. What the fuck was her name? The chick with the long blonde hair . . .

Taylor! Yeah, that was it. Wasn’t it?

I texted her that night and had every intention of fucking her, if only to escape my own goddamn thoughts and pent-up anger. But I couldn’t go through with it. Half-way to her place, I told the Uber driver to take me home.

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